The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,555

you?”

“They are nightmares. They’re full of images I don’t understand. I don’t know where the body on the table comes from. I don’t know why Lemle is there. I don’t understand what they want of me, and I don’t want to see Jan van Abel struck down again. The place is meaningless to me.”

“Calm yourself, Rowan. Let me calm you. The dreams tell you. But more truly, you will tell yourself finally. Out of the caldron of your own mind will come the truth.”

“No, back away from me. Just talk to me. That’s what I want of you now.”

Silence.

“You are the doorway, my beloved. I hunger for the flesh. I am weary of my loneliness. Don’t you know the time is almost at hand? My mother, my beautiful one … This is the season for me to be reborn.”

She closed her eyes, feeling his lips on the back of her neck, feeling his fingers tracing the length of her spine. There came the pressure of a warm hand clasping her sex, fingers slipping inside her, lips against her lips. Fingers pinched her nipples hurtfully and deliciously.

“Let me wrap my arms around you,” he whispered. “Others will come. And you will belong to them for hours, and I must hover hungrily at a distance, watching you, catching the words that fall from your lips as though they were drops of water to slake my thirst. Let me enfold you now. Give me these hours, my beautiful Rowan … ”

She felt herself being lifted, her feet no longer touching the floor; the darkness was swirling around her, strong hands turning her, and stroking her all over. There was no gravity any longer; she felt his strength increasing, the heat of it increasing.

The cold wind rattled the panes of the window. The great empty house seemed full of whispers. She was floating in the air. She turned over, groping in the shadowy tangle of arms supporting her, feeling her legs forced apart and her mouth opened. Yes, do it.

“How can the time be nearly at hand?” she whispered.

“Soon, my darling.”

“I can’t do it.”

“Oh, yes you will be able to, my beauty. You know. You shall see … ”

Forty-eight

THE DAY WAS darkening and the wind was bitter as he got out of the car, but the plantation house looked cheerful and inviting, with all its windows filled with a warm yellow light.

Aaron was waiting at the door for him, layered with wool under his gray cardigan, neck wrapped in a cashmere scarf.

“Here, this is for you,” Michael said. “Merry Christmas, my friend.” He placed a small bottle, wrapped in green Christmas paper, in Aaron’s hands. “It’s not a very big surprise, I’m afraid. But it is the best brandy I could find.”

“That was very thoughtful of you,” Aaron said with a little smile. “I’m going to enjoy it immensely. Every drop of it. Come in out of the cold. I have a little something for you, too. I’ll show you later. Come on, inside.”

The warm air was delicious. And there was quite a large and full tree set up in the living room, and very splendidly decorated with gold and silver ornaments, all of which surprised Michael because he hadn’t known how the Talamasca would celebrate such a feast, if they celebrated such things at all. Even the mantels were decorated with holly. And a good fire was blazing on the large living room hearth.

“It’s an old old feast, Michael,” said Aaron, anticipating his question with a little smile. He set the gift on the table. “Goes back long before Christ. The winter solstice—a time when all the forces of the earth are at their strongest. That’s probably why the Son of God chose it as a time to be born.”

“Yeah, well, I could use a little belief in the Son of God right now,” said Michael. “A little belief in the forces of the earth.”

It did feel good in here. It had the nice cozy feel of a country place after First Street—with its lower ceilings and simpler crown moldings, and the large deep fireplace, built not for coal but for a real raging log fire.

Michael took off his leather coat and his gloves, gave them over to Aaron gratefully, and stretched out his hands to warm them over the fire. There was no one else in the main rooms as far as he could tell, though he could hear faint sounds coming from the back kitchen. The wind beat against the French