The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,566

that Christmas Eve when Lemle took me through door after door into his darkened and secret laboratory. What have such horrors to do with you, my darling?

All her life, if her life was long or short, or almost over—all her life—she’d remember Michael’s face when she slapped him; she’d remember the sound of his voice when he pleaded with her; she’d remember the look of shock when she’d jabbed the needle into his arm.

So why was there no emotion? Why only this emptiness and this shriveling stillness inside her? Her feet were bare, and the soft flannel nightgown hung loose around her, and the silky Chinese rug beneath her feet was warm. Yet she felt naked and isolated, as if nothing of warmth or comfort could ever touch her.

Something moved in the center of the room. All the limbs of the tree shivered, and the tiny silver bells gave off a faint barely perceptible music in the stillness. The tiny angels with their gilded wings danced on their long threads of gold.

A darkness was gathering and thickening.

“We are close to the hour, my beloved. To the time of my choosing.”

“Ah, but you have a poet’s soul,” she said, listening to the faint echo of her own voice in this big room.

“My poetry I have learned from humans, beloved. From those who, for thousands of years, have loved this night of all nights.”

“And now you mean to teach me science, for I don’t know how to bring you across.”

“Don’t you? Haven’t you always understood?”

She didn’t answer. It seemed the film of her dreams thickened about her, images catching hold and then letting go, so that her coldness and her aloneness grew harder and more nearly unbearable.

The darkness grew denser. It collected itself into a shape, and in the swirling density, she thought she saw the outline of human bones. The bones appeared to be dancing, gathering themselves together, and then came the flesh over them, like the light from the tree pouring down over the skeleton, and the brilliant green eyes were suddenly peering at her from his face.

“The time is almost at hand, Rowan,” he said.

In amazement she watched the lips moving. She saw the glimmer of his teeth. She realized she’d risen to her feet and she was standing very close to him, and the sheer beauty of his face stunned her. He looked down at her, his eyes darkening slightly, and the blond eyelashes golden in the light.

“It’s nearly perfect,” she whispered.

She touched his face, slowly, running her finger down the skin and stopping on the firmness of the jawbone. She placed her left hand very gently against his chest. She closed her eyes, listening to the heart beat. She could see the organ inside, or was it the replica of an organ? Shutting her eyes tighter she envisioned it, its arteries and valves, and the blood rushing through it, and coursing through the limbs.

“All you need to do is surrender!” She stood, staring at him, seeing his lips spread in a smile. “Let go,” she said. “Don’t you see, you’ve done it!”

“Have I?” he asked, the face working perfectly, the fine muscles flexing and releasing, the eyes growing narrow as the eyes of any human in their concentration. “You think this is a body? This is a replica! It’s a sculpture, a statue. It’s nothing, and you know it. You think you can lure me into this shell of minuscule lifeless particles so you can have me at your command? A robot? So that you can destroy me?”

“What are you saying?” She stepped backwards. “I can’t help you. I don’t know what you want of me.”

“Where are you going, my darling?” he asked, eyebrows lifting ever so slightly. “You think you can flee from me? Look at the face of the clock, my beautiful Rowan. You know what I want. It is Christmas Eve, my darling. The witching hour is at hand, Rowan, when Christ was born into this world, when the Word was finally made flesh, and I would be born, too, my beautiful witch, I am done with waiting.”

He lunged forward, his right hand locking on her shoulder, the other on her belly, a searing shimmer of warmth penetrating her, sickening her, even as he held her.

“Get away from me!” she whispered. “I can’t do it.” She called upon her anger and her will, eyes boring into those of the thing in front of her. “You can’t make me do what I won’t do!” she