The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,404

I learned to call up the very lowly spirits whom they commanded. I learned to fight him in all his glory, with spirits bound to me, whom I could then dismiss with the snap of my fingers. In sum, I used their very weapons against them.”

She looked sullen, remote, studying Rowan’s reactions yet seemingly indifferent to them.

“I told Julien I would bear no incestuous child by him. To show me no fantasies of the future. To play no tricks on me, changing himself to a young man in my arms, when I could feel his withered flesh, and knew it was there all along. ‘Do you think I care if you are the most beautiful man in the world? You or your evil familiar? Do you think I measure my choices by such vanity and self-indulgence?’ That’s what I said to him. If he touched me again, I promised I would use the power I had in me to drive him back. I would need no human hands to help me. And I saw fear in his eyes, fear even though I myself hadn’t learned yet how to keep my threats, fear of a power in me which he knew was there even when I was uncertain of it. But maybe it was only fear of one he couldn’t seduce, couldn’t confuse, couldn’t win over.” She smiled, her thin lips revealing a shining row of even false teeth. “That is a terrible thing, you know, to one who lives solely by seduction.”

She lapsed into silence, caught perhaps in remembering.

Rowan took a deep long breath, ignoring the sweat that clung to her face and the warmth of the lamp. Misery was what she felt, misery and waste and long lonely years, as she looked at the woman. Empty years, years of dreary routine, and bitterness and fierce belief, belief that can kill …

“Yes, kill,” sighed the woman. “I have done that. To protect the living from him who was never living, and would possess them if he could.”

“Why us?” Rowan demanded. “Why are we the playthings of this spirit you are talking about, why us in all the world? We aren’t the only ones who can see spirits.”

The old woman gave a long sigh.

“Did you ever speak to him?” Rowan asked. “You said he came to you when you were a child, he spoke in your ears words that no one could hear. Did you ever ask who he was and what he really wanted?”

“Do you think he would have told me the truth? He won’t tell you the truth, mark my words. You feed him when you question him. You give him oil as if he were the flame in that lamp.”

The old woman drew closer to her suddenly.

“He’ll take from your mind the answer best suited to lead you on, to enthrall you. He’ll weave a web of deceits so thick you won’t see the world through it. He wants your strength and he’ll say what he must say to get it. Break the chain, child! You’re the strongest of them all! Break the chain and he’ll go back to hell for he has no other place to go in all the wide world to find strength like yours. Don’t you see? He’s created it. Bred sister to brother, and uncle to niece, and son to mother, yes, that too, when he had to do it, to make an ever more powerful witch, only faltering now and then, and gaining what he lost in one generation by even greater strength in the next. What was the cost of Antha and Deirdre if he could have a Rowan!”

“Witch? You spoke the word witch?” Rowan asked.

“They were witches, every one, don’t you see?” The old woman’s eyes searched Rowan’s face. “Your mother, her mother, and her mother before her, and Julien, that evil despicable Julien, the father of Cortland who was your father. I was marked for it myself until I rebelled.”

Rowan clenched her left hand, cutting her palm with her nails, staring into the old woman’s eyes, repelled by her yet unable to draw away from her.

“Incest, my dear, was the least of their sins, but the greatest of their schemes, incest to strengthen the line, to double up the powers, to purify the blood, to birth a cunning and terrible witch in each generation, going so far back it’s lost in European history. Let the Englishman tell you about that, the Englishman who came with you to the church,