Pandora - By Anne Rice Page 0,55

Pandora, he leaves human victims on the steps of the Temple before dawn. He writes an old name in Egyptian on his victims with their blood. Should the government discover this, our Temple might be held accountable. This is not our worship.

“Will you recount again for us—for our friend here—your dreams? We must protect the worship of Isis. We did not believe in these old legends . . . until this creature appeared and began his killing, then comes out of the sea a beautiful Roman woman who speaks of similar beings who are in her dreams.”

“What name does he write on his victims?” I asked. “This blood drinker. Is it Isis?”

“It’s meaningless, it’s forbidden, it’s old Egyptian. It is one of the names by which Isis was once called, but never by us.”

“What is it?”

None of them, including the silent one, answered me.

In the silence, I thought of Lucius and I almost wept. Then hatred came over me, deep hatred, as it had in the Forum when I spoke with him, saw his cowardly rage. Betrayed the entire family. To be weak is a dangerous thing. Antony and my Father had been such strong men.

“Lady Pandora,” said the Priest. “Tell us what you might know of this creature in Antioch. Have you dreamed of him?”

I thought of the dreams. I tried to respond in depth to what these people in this Temple were telling me.

The tall distant Roman spoke:

“Lady Pandora knows nothing about this blood drinker. She is telling you the truth. She knows only the dreams and there have been no names spoken in her dreams. In her dreams she sees an earlier time of Egypt.”

“Well, thank you, Gracious Lord!” I said furiously. “And just how have you arrived at that conclusion?”

“By reading your thoughts!” the Roman said, quite unruffled. “The same as I have regarding those who would put you in danger here. I’ll protect you from your brother.”

“Indeed. You had better leave that to me. It is I who will settle that score with him. Now, let us leave the question of my personal misfortune. And you explain to me, most clever one, why I am having these dreams! Fork up some useful magic from your mind reading. You know, a man with your gifts should post yourself at the courthouse, and determine cases for the judges if you can read minds. Why don’t you go to Rome and become the advisor to the Emperor Tiberius?”

I could feel, positively feel, the little tumult in the heart of the distant concealed Roman. Again, there came that sense of something familiar about this creature. Of course I was no stranger to necromancers, astrologists or oracles. But this man had mentioned specific names—Antony, Lucius. He was an astounder.

“Tell me, oh, mysterious one,” I said. “How dose do my dreams come to what you’ve read in the old writing? And this blood drinker, the one that’s roaming Antioch, is he a mortal man?”

Silence.

I strained to see the Roman more dearly but couldn’t. He had in fact receded somewhat into the darkness. My nerves were on the breaking point. I wanted to kill Lucius; in fact, I had no choice.

The Roman said softly, “She knows nothing of this blood drinker in Antioch. Tell her what you know of him—for it may be he, this blood drinker, who is sending her the dreams.”

I was confused. The woman’s voice had been so dear in my head earlier, It is I who summoned you.

This was causing confusion in the Roman; I could feel it like a little turbulence in the air.

“We’ve seen him,” said the Priest. “Indeed, we watch, in order to collect these poor drained corpses before anyone finds them and blames the deed on us. He is burned, burned all over his body, blackened. He cannot be a man. He is an old god, burnt black as if in an inferno.”

“Amon Ra,” I said. “But why didn’t he die? In the dreams, I die.”

“Oh, it is a horror to behold,” said the Priestess suddenly, as if she could contain herself no longer. “This thing cannot be human. Its bones show through its blackened skin. But it is weak and its victims are weak. It barely staggers, yet it can drain the blood from the poor maimed souls upon whom it feeds. It crawls away in the morning as if it hasn’t the strength to walk.”

The Priest seemed impatient.

“But he’s alive,” said the Priest. “Alive, god or demon or man, he lives. And each time he drinks