The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,506

elder men, who exchanged glances. Fielding’s left hand fluttered, as if he wanted to gesture, speak, but he didn’t.

“He’s real,” said Peter gravely. “He’s as real as lightning; as real as wind is real.” He turned and glared at young Pierce and then back at Rowan, as if demanding their undivided attention and belief in him. Then his eyes settled on Michael. “I’ve seen him. I saw him that night when Stella brought us together. I’ve seen him since. Lily’s seen him. So has Lauren. You, too, Felice, I know you have. And ask Carmen. Why don’t you speak up, Felice? And you, Fielding. You saw him the night Mary Beth died at First Street. You know you did. Who here hasn’t seen him? Only the younger ones.” He looked at Rowan. “Ask, they’ll all tell you.”

A loud murmuring ran through the outer edges of the gathering because many of the younger ones—Polly and Clancy and Tim and others Rowan did not know—hadn’t seen the ghost, and didn’t know whether to believe what they were hearing. Little Mona with the ribbon in her hair suddenly pushed to the front of the circle, with the taller Jennifer right behind her.

“Tell me what you saw,” said Rowan, looking directly at Peter. “You’re not saying that he came through the door the night that Stella gathered you together.”

Peter took his time. He looked around him, eyes lingering on Margaret Ann, and then for a moment on Michael, and then on Rowan. He lifted his drink. He drained the glass, and then spoke:

“He was there—a blazing shimmering presence, and for those few moments, I could have sworn he was as solid as any man of flesh and blood I’ve ever seen. I saw him materialize. I felt the heat when he did it. And I heard his steps. Yes, I heard his feet strike the floor of that front hallway as he walked towards us. He stood there, just as real as you or me, and he looked at each and every one of us.” Again, he lifted his glass, took a swallow and lowered, it, his eyes running over the little assembly. He sighed. “And then he vanished, just as he always had. The heat again. The smell of smoke, and the breeze rushing through the house, tearing the very curtains off the windows. But he was gone. He couldn’t hold it. And we weren’t strong enough to help him hold it. Thirteen of us, yes, the thirteen witches, as Stella called us. And Lauren four years old! Little Lauren. But we weren’t of the ilk of Julien or Mary Beth, or old Grandmère Marguerite at Riverbend. And we couldn’t do it. And Carlotta, Carlotta who was stronger than Stella—and you mark my words, it was true—Carlotta wouldn’t help. She lay on her bed upstairs, staring at the ceiling, and she was saying her rosary aloud, and after every Hail Mary, she said, Send him back to hell, send him back to hell!—and then went on to the next Hail Mary.”

He pursed his lips and scowled down into the empty glass, shaking it soundlessly so that the ice cubes revolved. Then again, his eyes ran over the circle, taking in everyone, even little red-haired Mona.

“For the record, Peter Mayfair saw him,” Peter declared, pulling himself up, eyebrow raised again. “Lauren and Lily can speak for themselves. So can Randall. But for the record, I saw him, and that you may tell to your grandchildren.”

A pause again. The darkness was growing dense; and from far away came the grinding cry of the cicadas. No breeze touched the yard. The house was now full of yellow light, in all its many small neat windows.

“Yes,” said Lily with a sigh. “You might as well know it, my dear.” Her eyes fixed on Rowan as she smiled. “He is there. And we’ve all seen him many a time since, though not perhaps the way we saw him that night, or for so long, or so clearly.”

“You were there, too?” Rowan asked.

“I was,” said Lily. “But it wasn’t only then, Rowan. We’ve seen him on that old screen porch with Deirdre.” She looked up at Lauren. “We’ve seen him when we’ve passed the house. We’ve seen him sometimes when we didn’t want to.”

“Don’t be frightened of him, Rowan,” said Lauren contemptuously.

“Oh, now you tell her that,” declared Beatrice. “You superstitious monsters!”

“Don’t let them drive you out of the house,” said Magdalene quickly.

“No, don’t let us do that,” said