The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,568

and her body convulsed as the pain caught her in a great lashing circle that she could see, shining bright, against her closed eyes.

The heat was unbearable. The pain came again, shock after shock of it, and she could feel the blood gushing out of her, and the water from her womb, gushing onto the floor.

“You’ve killed it, you damnable evil thing, you’ve killed my baby, damn you! God help me! God, take it back to hell!” Her hands knocked against the wall, struggled against the slimy wet floor. And the heat sickened her, caught her lungs now as she gasped for breath.

The house was burning. It had to be burning. She was burning. The heat was throbbing inside of her, and she thought she saw the flames rising, but it was only a great lurid blast of red light. And somehow she had managed to climb up on her hands and knees, again, and she knew her body was empty, her child was gone, and she was struggling now only to escape, reaching out once more, desperately and in her fierce relentless pain, for the knob of the door.

“Michael, Michael help me! Oh God, I tried to trick it, I tried to kill it. Michael, it’s in the child.” Another shock of pain caught her, and a fresh gush of blood poured out of her.

Sobbing, she sank down, dizzy, unable to command her arms or legs, the heat blasting her, and a great raw crying filled her ears. It was a baby’s crying. It was that same awful sound she’d heard over and over in her dream. A baby’s mewling cry. She struggled to cover her ears, unable to bear it, wailing for it to stop, the heat suffocating her.

“Let me die,” she whispered. “Let the fire burn me. Take me to hell. Let me die.”

Rowan, help me. I am in the flesh. Help me or I will die. Rowan, you cannot turn your back on me.

She tightened the grip on her ears, but she couldn’t shut out the little telepathic voice that rose and fell with the baby’s sobs. Her hand slipped in the blood and her face fell down in it, sticky and wet under her, and she rolled over on her back, seeing again the shimmer of the heat, the baby’s screams louder and louder as though it was starving or in agony.

Rowan, help me! I am your child! Michael’s child. Rowan, I need you.

She knew what she would see even before she looked. Through her tears and through the waves of heat, she saw the manikin, the monster. Not out of my body, not born from me. I didn’t .…

On its back it lay, its man-sized head turning from side to side with its cries, its thin arms elongating even as she watched it, tiny fingers splayed and groping and growing, tiny feet kicking, as a baby’s feet kick, working the air, the calves stretching, the blood and mucus sliding off it, sliding down its chubby cheeks, and off its slick dark hair. All those tiny organs like buds inside. All those millions of cells dividing, merging with his cells, like a nuclear explosion going on inside this flesh and blood thing, this mutant thing, this child that had come out of her.

Rowan, I am alive, do not let me die. Do not let me die, Rowan. Yours is the power of saving life, and I live. Help me.

She struggled towards it, her body still throbbing with sharp bursts of pain, her hand out for that tiny slippery leg, that little foot pumping the air, and then as her hand closed on that soft, slick baby flesh, the darkness came down on her, and against her closed eyelids she saw the anatomy, saw the path of the cells, saw the evolving organs, and the age-old miracle of the cells coming together, forming corpuscles and subcutaneous tissue, and bone tissue, and the fibers of the lungs and the liver and the stomach, and fused with his cells, his power, the DNA merging, and the tiny chains of chromosomes whipping and swimming as the nuclei merged, and all guided by her, all the knowledge inside her like the knowledge of the symphony inside the composer, note after note and bar after bar, and crescendo following upon crescendo.

Its flesh throbbed under her fingers, living, breathing through its pores. Its cries grew hoarser, deeper, echoing as she dropped down out of consciousness and rose up again, her other hand