The Complete Vampire Chronicles 12-Book Bundle (The Vampire Chronicles) (505 page)

Forsaking forever her many rooms, she brought with her many bundles, indeed all the clothes she wished to take with her, and all her jewels, and many candles, that we might be together in our hiding place without the roar of the torch.

At last we were in the golden chamber by ourselves, and she was brimming with happiness as she gazed at me, her secretive and silent masked bridegroom.

And only a single candle gave its slender light for us both.

She had spread out a cloak of green velvet that we might sit on it, and so we did.

My legs were crossed, and she leant back on her ankles. My pain was quiet in me yet terrible. Quiet in that it did not lurch with each breath I took but remained steady and allowed me to breathe as I would.

Out of her many bundles she produced for me a polished mirror with a bone handle.

“Here, take the mask off, if you wish,” she said, her oval eyes very brave and hard. “You will not frighten me!”

I looked at her for a long moment, cherishing her beauty, studying all the subtle changes which the Blood had worked in her—how it had made her so extravagantly and richly the replica of her former self.

“You find me pleasing, do you not?” she asked.

“Always,” I said. “There was a time when I wanted so to give you the Blood that I couldn’t look at you. There was a time when I would not go to your rooms for fear that I should lure you to the Blood with all my charms, such as they ever were.”

She was amazed. “I never dreamt it,” she said.

I looked into the mirror. I saw the mask. I thought of the name of the Order: Talamasca. I thought of Raymond Gallant.

“You can read nothing of my mind now, can you?” I asked her.

“No,” she said, “nothing.” She was most puzzled.

“It’s the way,” I said. “Because I made you. You can read the minds of others, yes.…”

“… yes,” she answered. “The minds of our victims, yes, and when the blood flows, I see things.…”

“… yes. And always you will see things, but never with that tool fall for the allure of the innocent, or the blood you drink will suddenly appear on your hands.”

“I understand it,” she answered too quickly. “So Amadeo told me all that you’d taught him. Only the Evil Doer. Never the innocent, I know.”

Again, I felt a terrible anger, that these two, these blessed children, had shut me out. I wondered when and how Amadeo had told her these secrets.

But I knew that I should put such jealousy aside.

The awful, awful sadness was that Amadeo was gone from me. Gone. And I could not possibly bring him back. Amadeo was in the hands of those who meant to do unspeakable things. I could not think of it. I could not. I would go mad.

“Look into the mirror,” she said again.

I shook my head.

I removed my left glove and stared at my bony fingers. She gave an awful little cry and then she was ashamed.

“Would you still see my face?” I asked.

“No, not for both our sakes,” she said. “Not till you’ve hunted more and I have traveled with you more and am stronger, the better to be your pupil as I promised, as I will be.”

She nodded as she spoke, her voice quite determined.

“Lovely Bianca,” I said softly, “meant for such harsh and strong things.”

“Yes, and I shall do them. I will always be with you. You will come in time to love me as you loved him.”

I didn’t answer. The agony of losing him was monstrous. How could I deny it with a single syllable?

“And what is happening to him?” I asked, “or have they merely destroyed him in some hideous fashion, for you know of course that we can die by the light of the sun, or by the heat of a terrible fire.”

“No, not die, only suffer,” she said quickly, looking at me questioningly. “Are you not the living proof?”

“No, die,” I said. “With me it’s what I told you, that I have lived for over a thousand years. But with Amadeo? It could be death very easily. Pray that they do not design cruelties but only horrors, that whatever they do, they do it quickly or not at all.”

She was filled with fear, and her eyes were watching me as if there were an actual expression on the leather face mask that I wore.

“Come now, you must learn to open this coffin,” I said to her. “And before that, I must give you more of my blood. I’ve taken so many victims, I have more now to give and you must have it or you won’t be strong as Amadeo, not at all.”

“But … I’ve changed my clothes,” she said. “I don’t want to get them bloody.”

I laughed. I laughed and laughed. The whole golden chamber echoed with my laughter.

She stared at me blankly.

“Bianca,” I said gently. “I promise you, I won’t spill a drop.”

26

When I awoke, I lay quiet for an hour, weak and keenly in pain. So bad was the pain, in fact, that sleep seem preferable to wakefulness, and I dreamt of things long ago, times when Pandora and I had been together and when it had not seemed possible that we would ever part.

What finally jarred me from my uneasy slumber was the sound of Bianca screaming.

Over and over in terror she screamed.

I rose, somewhat stronger than the night before, and then once I was certain that I had my gloves and mask in place, I crouched beside her coffin and called out to her.

At first she couldn’t hear me, so loud were her frantic screams. But at last, she grew quiet in her desperation.

“You have the strength to open the coffin,” I said. “I revealed this to you last night. Put your hands against the lid and move it.”

“Let me out of it, Marius,” she pleaded, sobbing.

“No, you must do it for yourself.”

Softer sobs came from her, but she followed my instructions. There came a grinding noise from the marble and the lid moved to one side, and then she rose, pushing the lid out of her way, and she freed herself from the box altogether.

“Come here to me,” I said.

She obeyed me, shivering with sobs, and with my gloved hands I stroked her mussed hair.

“You knew you had the strength,” I said. “I showed you that even with your mind you could move it.”

“Please light the candle,” she begged. “I need the light.”

I did as she asked me to do. “You must try to quiet your soul,” I said. I took a long deep breath. “You’re strong now, and after we hunt tonight you’ll be even stronger. And as I grow ever more strong, I will give you more of my blood.”

“Forgive me for my fear,” she whispered.

I had little strength myself to comfort her, but I knew that she needed what little strength I had. It was hitting me again like so many violent blows that my world was dashed, that my house was ruined, that Amadeo was stolen from me.

And then in a half swoon I saw Pandora of long ago, smiling at me, not recriminating me or tormenting me, but only speaking with me, as though we were in the garden together, at the stone table, and talking as we used to do of so many things.

But that was gone. All was gone. Amadeo was gone. My paintings were gone.

And there came again the desperation, the bitterness, the humiliation. I had not thought that such things could be done to me. I had not thought that I could be so miserable. I had believed myself so powerful, so very clever, so very beyond this abject grief.

“Come now, Bianca,” I said. “We must go out, we must seek the blood. Come.” I consoled her as I consoled myself. “Here, where is your mirror? Where is your comb? Let me comb your pretty hair for you. Look at yourself in the mirror. Did Botticelli ever paint a woman more beautiful?”

She wiped at her red tears.

“Are you happy again?” I asked. “Reach into the depths of your soul. Tell yourself that you are immortal. Tell yourself that death has no power over you. A glorious thing has befallen you here in the darkness, Bianca. You have become forever young, forever beautiful.”

I wanted so to kiss her, but I couldn’t do this, and so I labored to make my words so many kisses.

She nodded, and as she looked at me a lovely smile broke over her face, and for one moment she fell into a dreaminess which brought back all my memories of Botticelli’s genius, and even of the man himself so safely away from all these horrors, living out his life in Florence beyond what I might ever do.

I took the comb from her bundle. I ran it through her hair. I watched her stare at the mask that was my face.

“What is it?” I asked of her gently.

“I want to see how badly—”

“No you don’t,” I said.

She began to cry again. “But how will you ever be healed? How many nights will it take?”

All her happiness of last night was shattered.

“Come,” I said. “We go to hunt. Now put on your cape, and follow me up the steps. We do as we’ve done before. And don’t for a moment doubt your strength, and do always as I tell you.”

She would not do as I asked her. She hovered near the coffin, her elbow on the lid, her face stricken.

At last I settled near to her, and I began to speak words I never thought I would hear myself utter.

“You must be the strong one, Bianca,” I said, “you must lead us. I haven’t the strength for two just now and that is what you are demanding of me. I am ruined inside. I am ruined. No, wait, don’t interrupt what I mean to say. And don’t shed tears. Listen to me. You must give to me your small reserve of strength for I require it. I have powers quite beyond your imagining. But those powers I cannot reach just now. And until I can reach them, you must lead us forward. Lead us with your thirst and lead us with your wonder, for surely in this state you do see things as never before and you are filled with that wonder.”

She nodded her head. Her eyes grew colder and more beautifully calm.

“Don’t you see?” I asked. “If you can only come with me through these few nights, you do indeed have immortality?”

She closed her eyes and moaned. “Oh, I love the very sound of your voice,” she said, “but I am afraid. In the coffin in the dark when I awoke, it all seemed a poisoned dream, and I fear what they may do to us if they discover what we are, if we fall into their hands, and if … if …”

“Yes, if?”

“If you cannot protect me.”

“Ah, yes, if I cannot protect you.”

I fell into a silence, sitting there.

Again, it did not seem possible that this had happened to me. My soul was burnt. My spirit was burnt. My will was scarred and my happiness ruined.

I remembered the very first ball, the ball which Bianca had given at our house, and I remembered the dancing and the tables with their golden platters of fruit and spiced meats, the smell of the wine, and the sound of the music, and the many rooms so filled with contented souls, and the paintings looming over all, and it did not seem possible that anyone could bring me down from that when I was so firmly placed in the realm of unsuspecting mortals.

Oh, Santino, I thought, how I do hate you. How I do despise you.

I pictured him again as he had come to me in Rome. I pictured him in his black robes smelling of the earth, his black hair rather vainly clean and long, and his face so very expressive with its large dark eyes, and I hated him.

Would I ever, I thought, have the chance to destroy him? Oh, surely there would come a time when he was not surrounded by so many numbers, when I might have him firmly in my hands and with the Fire Gift make him pay for what he’d done to me.

And Amadeo, where was my Amadeo, and where were my boys who had been so brutally yet carefully taken? I saw again my poor Vincenzo murdered on the floor.

“Marius, my Marius,” Bianca said suddenly. “Please, don’t sit in such quiet with me.” She reached out, her hand pale and fluttering, not daring to touch me. “I am sorry for being so weak. Believe me, I am. What is it that makes you so silent?”

“Nothing, my darling, only the thoughts of my enemy, the one who brought those brandishing the fire, those who destroyed me.”

“But you’re not destroyed,” she said, “and I will somehow get the strength.”

“No, stay here for now,” I said. “You have done enough. And your poor gondolier, he gave his life for me last night. You stay here now until I return.”

She shuddered and reached out as if to take hold of me.

I forced her to remain at a distance.

“You cannot embrace what I am just yet. But I will go out and I will hunt until I am strong enough to take you from this place and to one that is safe and one where I will be healed completely.”

I closed my eyes, though of course she could not see it on account of the mask, and I thought of Those Who Must Be Kept.

My Queen, I pray to you, and I am coming and when I do you will give me the Blood, I thought, but could you not have given me one small vision of warning?

Oh, I had not even thought of this before and now it exploded in my mind. Yes, from her distant throne she could have done it, she could have warned me, could she not?

But how could I ask such a thing from one who for a thousand years had not moved or spoken? Would I never learn?

But what of Bianca who was trembling and begging me to pay attention to her now? I waked from my sleep.

“No, we’ll do it as you wanted, I’ll go with you,” she said piteously. “I’m sorry I was weak. I promised you I would be as strong as Amadeo. I want to be. I’m ready now to go with you.”

“No, you aren’t,” I responded. “You’re only more afraid of being left here alone than you are of going. You’re afraid that if you stay behind I’ll never come back to you.”

She nodded her head as if I had forced her to admit it when I had not.

“I’m thirsting,” she said softly. She said it with an elegance. And then in wonder. “I’m thirsting for blood. I must go with you.”

“Very well then,” I answered. “My lovely sweet companion. Strength will come to you. Strength will take up its abode in your heart. Don’t fear. I have so much to teach, and as these nights pass, when you and I are comforted, I’ll tell you of the others I’ve known, of their strength and of their beauty.”

She nodded again, her eyes widening.

“Do you love me the most,” she asked, “that is all I want to know for now and you may lie to me.” She smiled, even as the tears stained her cheeks.

“Of course I do,” I said. “I love you more than anyone. You’re here, are you not? And finding me crushed, you gave your strength to save me.”

It was a cold answer, lacking in flattery or kindness, yet it seemed quite enough for her, and it struck me how very different she was from those I had loved before, from Pandora in her wisdom, or Amadeo in his cunning. She seemed endowed with sweetness and intellect in equal measure.

I brought her up the steps with me. We left the small candle behind as if it would be a beacon for our return.

Before I opened the door I listened carefully for the sound of any of Santino’s brood. I heard nothing.

We made our way silently through the narrowest canals of the most dangerous portions of the city. And there we found our victims again, struggling little, drinking much. Into the dirty water we released them afterwards.

Long after she was fragrant and warm from her many kills, a sharp observer of the dark and shining walls, I was still parched and burning. Oh, how dreadful was the pain. How soothing the blood as it flooded my arms and legs.

Near dawn we returned. We had encountered no danger. I was much healed but my limbs were still like sticks, and when I reached beneath my mask, I felt a face which seemed irreparably scarred.

How long would this take? I could not tell Bianca. I could not tell myself.

I knew that in Venice we could not reckon upon too many such nights. We would become known. Thieves and killers would begin to watch for us—the white-faced beauty, the man with the black leather mask.

I had to test the Cloud Gift. Could I carry Bianca with me towards the shrine? Could I make the full journey in one night or would I blunder and leave us scrambling desperately before dawn for some hiding place?

She went to her sleep quietly, with no fear of the coffin. It seemed she would show me her strength to comfort me, and though she could not kiss my face, she put a kiss on her slender fingers and gave it to me with her breath.

I had an hour then until the sunrise, and slipping out of the golden room, I went up and out over the rooftop and lifted my arms. Within moments I was high above the city, moving effortlessly, as though the Cloud Gift had never been harmed in me, and then I was beyond Venice, far beyond it, looking back at it with its many golden lights, and at the satin glimmer of the sea.

My return was swift and accurate, and I came down silently to the golden room with ample time to go to my rest.

The wind had hurt my burnt skin. But it was no matter. I was overjoyed with this discovery, that I could take to the air as well as I had ever done. I knew now that I could soon attempt the journey to Those Who Must Be Kept.

On the next night, my beauty did not wake screaming as she had before.

She was far more clever and ready for the hunt and full of questions.

As we made our way through the canals, I told her the old story of the Druid grove and how I’d been taken there. And how the magic had been given me in the oak. I told her of Mael and how I despised him still and how he had come once to visit me in Venice, and how very strange it had all seemed.

“But I saw this one,” she said in a hushed voice, her whisper nevertheless echoing up the walls. “I remember the night that he came to you here. It was the night that I came back from Florence.”

I could not think clearly of these things. And it was soothing to me to hear her talk of them.

“I had brought you a painting by Botticelli,” she said. “It was small and very pretty and you later thanked me for it. This tall blond one was waiting upon you when I came, and he was ragged and dirty.”

These things came clear to me as she spoke. The memories enlivened me.

And then came the hunt, the gush of blood, the death, the body dropped into the canal, and once more the pain rising sharp above the sweetness of the cure, and I fell back into the gondola, weak from the pleasure of it.

“Once more, I have to do it,” I told her. She was satisfied, but on we went. And out of another house I drew yet another victim into my arms, breaking his neck in my clumsiness. I took another victim and another, and finally it was only exhaustion which stopped me, for the hurt in me would have no end of blood.

At last when the gondola was tethered, I took her in my arms and wrapping her close to my chest as I had so often done with Amadeo, I rose above the city with her, and flew out and high until I could not even see Venice at all.

I heard her small desperate cries against me, but I told her in a low whisper to be still and trust in me, and then bringing her back, I set her down on the stone stairs above the quais.

“We were with the clouds, my little princess,” I said to her. “We were with the winds, and the purest things of the skies.”