the happiness coming again, quite complete, yet fragile, as though it were but a thin fine veneer. Was it fair to say I didn’t know the full state of my soul? I thought of the unbridled rage with which I’d smashed the head of David Talbot’s body, and I shuddered. Was I still afraid?
Hmmm. Look at these dark sunburnt fingers with their gleaming nails. I felt the tremour as I pressed the tips of my right fingers to my lips.
I sat in the dark pew, several rows back from the railing before the altar, looking at the dark statues, and the paintings, and all the gilded ornament of this cold and empty place.
It was past midnight. The noise from the Rue Bourbon was as loud as ever. So much simmering mortal flesh there. I’d fed earlier. I would feed again.
But the sounds of the night were soothing. Throughout the narrow streets of the Quarter, in her small apartments, and atmospheric little taverns, in her fancy cocktail lounges, and in her restaurants, happy mortals laughed and talked, and kissed and embraced.
I slumped back comfortably in the pew, and stretched out my arms on the back of it as if it were a park bench. Mojo had already gone to sleep in the aisle near me, long nose resting on his paws.
Would that I were you, my friend. Looking like the very devil, and full of big lumbering goodness. Ah, yes, goodness. It was goodness that I felt when I locked my arms around him, and buried my face in his fur.
But now he had come into the church.
I sensed his presence though I could pick up no glimmer of thought or feeling from him, or even hear his step. I had not heard the outer door open or close. Somehow I knew he was there. Then I saw the shadow moving in the corner of my left eye. He came into the pew and sat beside me, a little distance away.
We sat there in silence for many long moments, and then he spoke.
“You burnt my little house, didn’t you?” he asked in a small, vibrant voice.
“Can you blame me?” I asked with a smile, eyes still on the altar. “Besides, I was a human when I did that. It was human weakness. Want to come and live with me?”
“This means you’ve forgiven me?”
“No, it means I’m playing with you. I may even destroy you for what you did to me. I haven’t made up my mind. Aren’t you afraid?”
“No. If you meant to do away with me, it would already be done.”
“Don’t be so certain. I’m not myself, and yet I am, and then I am not again.”
Long silence, with only the sounds of Mojo breathing hoarsely and deeply in his sleep.
“I’m glad to see you,” he said. “I knew you would win. But I didn’t know how.”
I didn’t answer. But I was suddenly boiling inside. Why were both my virtues and my faults used against me?
But what was the use of it—to make accusations, to grab him and shake him and demand answers from him? Maybe it was better not to know.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
“I will not,” I replied. “Why in the world do you want to know?”
Our hushed voices echoed softly in the nave of the church. The wavering light of the candles played upon the gilt on the tops of the columns, on the faces of the distant statues. Oh, I liked it here in this silence and coolness. And in my heart of hearts I had to admit I was so very glad that he had come. Sometimes hate and love serve exactly the same purpose.
I turned and looked at him. He was facing me, one knee drawn up on the pew and his arm resting on the back of it. He was pale as always, an artful glimmer in the dark.
“You were right about the whole experiment,” I said. At least my voice was steady, I thought.
“How so?” No meanness in his tone, no challenge, only the subtle desire to know. And what a comfort it was—the sight of his face, and the faint dusty scent of his worn garments, and the breath of fresh rain still clinging to his dark hair.
“What you told me, my dear old friend and lover,” I said. “That I didn’t really want to be human. That it was a dream, and a dream built upon falsehood and fatuous illusion and pride.”
“I can’t claim that I understood it,” he