The Tale of the Body Thief (The Vampire Chronicles #4) - Page 6

FIVE

IT WAS striking midnight when I reached Talbot Manor. It was as if I had never seen the place before. I had time now to roam the maze in the snow, and to study the pattern of clipped shrubbery, and imagine what the garden would be come spring. Beautiful old place.

Then there were the close dark little rooms themselves, built to hold out the cold English winters, and the little lead-mullioned windows, many of which were full of light now, and most inviting in the snowy dark.

David had finished his supper, obviously, and the servants- an old man and woman-were at work still in the kitchen belowstairs while the lord changed his clothes in his bedroom on the second floor.

I watched him as he put on, over his pajamas, a long black dressing gown with black velvet lapels and sash that made him look very much like a cleric, though it was far too ornately patterned to be a cassock, especially with the white silk scarf tucked in at the neck.

Then he made his way down the stairs.

I entered by my favorite door at the end of the passage and came up beside him in the library as he bent to rake the fire.

Ah, you did come back, he said, trying to conceal his delight, Good Lord, but you come and go so quietly!

Yes, it's very annoying, isn't it? I looked at the Bible on the table, the copy of Faust, and the little short story by Lovecraft, still stapled, but smoothed out. There was David's decanter of Scotch also and a pretty thick-bottomed crystal glass.

I stared at the short story, the memory of the anxious young man coming back to me. So odd the way he moved. A vague tremor passed through me at the thought of his having spotted me in three distinctly different places. I'd probably never lay eyes on him again. On the other hand . . . But there was time to deal with this pest of a mortal. David was on my mind now, and the delicious awareness that we had the night to talk to each other.

Wherever did you get those handsome clothes? David asked. His eyes passed over me slowly, lingeringly, and he seemed not to notice my attention to his books.

Oh, a little shop somewhere. I never steal the garments of my victims, if that's what you mean. And besides, I'm too addicted to lowlife and they don't dress well enough for that sort of thing.

I settled in the chair opposite his, which was my chair now, I supposed. Deep, pliant leather, creaking springs, but very comfortable, with a high winged back and broad substantial arms. His own chair did not match it but was just as good, and a little more creased and worn.

He stood before the flames, still studying me. Then he sat down too. He took the glass stopper from the crystal decanter, filled his glass, and lifted it in a little salute.

He took a deep swallow and winced slightly as the liquid obviously warmed his throat.

Suddenly, vividly, I remembered that particular sensation. I remembered being in the loft of the barn on my land in France, and drinking cognac just like that, and even making that grimace, and my mortal friend and lover, Nicki, snatching the bottle greedily from my hand.

I see you are yourself again, David said with sudden warmth, lowering his voice slightly as he peered at me. He sat back, with the glass resting on the right arm of his chair. He looked very dignified, though far more at ease than I had ever seen him. His hair was thick and wavy, and had become a beautiful shade of dark gray.

Do I seem myself? I asked.

You have that mischievous look in your eye, he answered under his breath, still scanning me intently. There's a little smile on your lips. Won't leave for more than a second when you speak. And the skin-it makes a remarkable difference. I pray you're not in pain. You aren't, are you?

I made a small dismissive gesture. I could hear his heartbeat. It was ever so slightly weaker than it had been in Amsterdam. Now and then it was irregular as well.

How long will your skin stay dark like this? he asked.

Years, perhaps, seems one of the ancient ones told me so. Didn't I write about it in The Queen of the Damned? I thought of Marius and how angry he was with me in genera!. How disapproving he would be of what I'd done.

It was Maharet, your ancient red-haired one, David said. In your book, she claimed to have done the very thing merely to darken her skin.

What courage, I whispered. And you don't believe in her existence, do you Though I am sitting right here with you now.

Oh, I do believe in her. Of course I do. I believe everything you've written. But I know you! Tell me-what actually happened in the desert Did you really believe you would die?

You would ask that question, David, and right off the bat. I sighed. Well, I can't claim that I did really believe it. I was probably playing my usual games. I swear to God I don't tell lies to others. But I lie to myself. I don't think I can die now, at least not in any way that I myself could contrive.

He let out a long sigh.

So why aren't you afraid of dying, David I don't mean to torment you with the old offer. I honestly can't quite figure it out. You're really, truly not afraid to die, and that I simply do not understand. Because you can die, of course.

Was he having doubts He didn't answer immediately. Yet he seemed powerfully stimulated, I could see that. I could all but hear his brain working, though of course I couldn't hear his thoughts.

Why the Faust play, David Am I Mephistopheles? I asked. Are you Faust?

He shook his head. I may be Faust, he said finally, taking another drink of the Scotch, but you're not the devil, that's perfectly clear. He gave a sigh.

I have wrecked things for you, though, haven't I I knew it in Amsterdam. You don't stay in the Motherhouse unless you have to. I'm not driving you mad, but I've had a very bad effect, have I not?

Again, he didn't answer right away. He was looking at me with his large prominent black eyes, and obviously considering the question from all angles. The deep lines of his face-the creases in his forehead, the lines at the corners of his eyes and around the edges of his mouth-reinforced his genial and open expression. There was not a sour note to this being, but there was unhappiness beneath the surface, and it was tangled with deep considerations, going back through a long life.

Would have happened anyway, Lestat, he said finally. There are reasons why I'm no longer so good at being the Superior General. Would have happened anyway, I'm relatively certain of that.

Explain it to me. I thought you were in the very womb of the order, that it was your life.

He shook his head. I was always an unlikely candidate for the Talamasca. I've mentioned how I spent my youth in India. I could have lived my life that way. I'm no scholar in the conventional sense, never was. Nevertheless I am like Faust in the play. I'm old, and I haven't cracked the secrets of the universe. Not at all. I thought I had when I was young. The first time I saw … a vision. The first time I knew a witch, the first time I heard the voice of a spirit, the first time I called up a spirit and made it do my bidding. I thought I had! But that was nothing. Those are earthbound things. . . earthbound mysteries. Or mysteries I'll never solve, at any rate.

He paused, as if he wanted to say something more, something in particular. But then he merely lifted the glass and drank almost absently, and this time without the grimace, for that obviously had been for the first drink of the night. He stared at the glass, and refilled it from the decanter.

I hated it that I couldn't read his thoughts, that I caught not the slightest flickering emanations behind his words.

You know why I became a member of the Talamasca? he asked. It had nothing to do with scholarship at all. Never dreamed I'd be confined to the Motherhouse, wading through papers, and typing files into the computer, and sending faxes off all over the world. Nothing like that at all. It started with another hunting expedition, a new frontier, so to speak, a trip to far-off Brazil. That's where I discovered the occult, you might say, in the little crooked streets of old Rio, and it seemed every bit as exciting and dangerous as my old tiger hunts had ever been. That's what drew me-the danger. And how I came to be so far from it, I don't know.

I didn't reply, but something came clear to me, that there was obviously a danger in his knowing me. He must have liked the danger. I had thought he was possessed of a scholar's naivete about it, but now this didn't seem to be the case.

Yes, he said at once, his eyes growing wide as he smiled. Exactly. Although I can't honestly believe you'd ever harm me.

Don't deceive yourself, I said suddenly. And you do, you know. You commit the old sin. You believe in what you see. I am not what you see.

How so?

Ah, come now. I look like an angel, but I'm not. The old rules of nature encompass many creatures like me. We're beautiful like the diamond-backed snake, or the striped tiger, yet we're merciless killers. You do let your eyes deceive you. But I don't want to quarrel with you. Tell me this story. What happened in Rio I'm eager to know.

A little sadness came over me as I spoke these words. I wanted to say, if I cannot have you as my vampire companion, then let me know you as a mortal. It thrilled me, softly and palpably, that we sat there together, as we did.

All right, he said, you've made your point and I acknowledge it. Drawing close to you years ago in the auditorium where you were singing, seeing you the very first tune you came to me-it did have the dark lure of danger. And that you tempt me with your offer-that, too, is dangerous, for I am only human, as we both know.

I sat back, a little happier, lifting my leg and digging my heel into the leather seat of the old chair. I like people to be a little afraid of me, I said with a shrug. But what happened in Rio?

I came full in the face of the religion of the spirits; he said. Candomble. You know the word?

Again I gave a little shrug. Heard it once or twice, I said. I'll go there sometime, maybe soon. I thought in a flash of the big cities of South America, of her rain forests, and of the Amazon. Yes, I had quite an appetite for such an adventure,

and the despair that had carried me down into the Gobi seemed very far away. I was glad I was still alive, and quietly I refused to be ashamed.

Oh, if I could see Rio again, he said softly, more to himself than to me. Of course, she isn't what she was in those days. She's a world of skyscrapers now and big luxury hotels. But I would love to see that curving shoreline again, to see Sugar Loaf Mountain, and the statue of Christ atop Corcovado. I don't believe there is a more dazzling piece of geography on earth. Why did I let so many years go by without returning to Rio?

Why can't you go anytime that you wish? I asked. I felt a strong protectiveness for him suddenly. Surely that bunch of monks in London can't keep you from going. Besides, you're the boss.

He laughed in the most gentlemanly manner. No, they wouldn't stop me, he said. It's whether or not I have the stamina, both mental and physical. But that's quite beside the point here, I wanted to tell you what happened. Or perhaps it is the point, I don't know.

You have the means to go to Brazil if you want to?

Oh, yes, that has never been an issue. My father was a clever man when it came to money. As a consequence I've never had to give it much thought.

I'd put the money in your hands if you didn't have it.

He gave me one of his warmest, most tolerant smiles. I'm old, he said, I'm lonely, and something of a fool, as any man must be if he has any wisdom at all. But I'm not poor, thank heaven.

So what happened to you in Brazil How did it begin?

He started to speak, then fell silent.

You really mean to remain here To listen to what I have to say?

Yes, I said immediately. Please. I realized I wanted nothing more in all the world. I had not a single plan or ambition in my heart, not a thought for anything else but being here with him. The simplicity of it stunned me somewhat.

Still he seemed reluctant to confide in me. Then a subtle change came over him, a sort of relaxation, a yielding perhaps.

Finally he began.

It was after the Second World War, he said. The India of my boyhood was gone, simply gone. And besides, I was hungry for new places. I got up a hunting expedition with my friends for the Amazon jungles. I was obsessed with the prospect of the Amazon jungles. We were after the great South American jaguar- He gestured to the spotted skin of a cat I had not noticed before, mounted upon a stand in a corner of the room. How I wanted to track that cat.

Seems that you did.

Not immediately, he said with a short ironic laugh. We decided to preface our expedition with a nice luxurious holiday in Rio, a couple of weeks to roam Copacabana Beach, and all the old colonial sites-the monasteries, churches, and so forth. And understand, the center of the city was different in that time, a warren of little narrow streets, and wonderful old architecture! I was so eager for it, for the sheer alien quality of it! That's what sends us Englishmen into the tropics. We have to get away from all this propriety, this tradition-and immerse ourselves in some seemingly savage culture which we can never tame or really understand.

His whole manner was changing as he spoke; he was becoming even more vigorous and energetic, eyes brightening and words flowing more quickly in that crisp British accent, which I so loved.

Well, the city itself surpassed all expectations, of course. Yet it was nothing as entrancing as the people. The people in Brazil are like no people I've ever seen. For one thing, they're exceptionally beautiful, and though everyone agrees on this point, no one knows why. No, I'm quite serious, he said, when he saw me smile, Perhaps it's the blending of Portuguese and African, and then toss in the Indian blood. I honestly can't say. The fact is, they are extraordinarily attractive and they have extremely sensuous voices. Why, you could fall in love with their voices, you could end up kissing their voices; and the music, the bossa nova, that's their language all right.

You should have stayed there.

Oh, no! he said, taking another quick sip of the Scotch. Well, to continue. I developed a passion, shall we say, for this boy, Carlos, the very first week. I was absolutely swept away; all we did was drink and make love for days and nights on end in my suite in the Palace Hotel. Quite truly obscene.

Your friends waited?

No, laid down the law. Come with us now, or we leave you. But it was perfectly fine with them if Carlos came along. He

made a little gesture with his right hand. Ah, these were all sophisticated gentlemen, of course.

Of course.

But the decision to take Carlos proved to be a dreadful mistake. His mother was a Candomble priestess, though I hadn't the slightest idea of it, She didn't want her boy going off into the Amazon jungles. She wanted him going to school. She sent the spirits after me.

He paused, looking at me, perhaps trying to gauge my reaction.

That must have been wonderful fun, I said.

They pummeled me in the darkness. They picked up the bed off the floor and dumped me out! They turned the taps in the shower so that I was nearly scalded. They filled my teacups with urine. After a full seven days, I thought I was going out of my mind. I'd gone from annoyance and incredulity to sheer terror. Dishes flew off the table in front of me. Bells rang in my ears. Bottles went crashing from the shelves. Wherever I went, I saw dark-faced individuals watching roe.

You knew it was this woman?

Not at first. But Carlos finally broke down and confessed everything. His mother didn't intend to remove the curse until I left. Well, I left that very night.

I came back to London, exhausted and half mad. But it didn't do any good. They came with me. Same things started to happen right here in Taibot Manor. Doors slamming, furniture moving, the bells ringing all the time in the servants' pantry belowstairs. Everyone was going mad. And my mother-my mother had been more or less of a spiritualist, always running . to various mediums all over London. She brought in the Talamasca. I told them the whole story, and they started explaining Candomble and spiritism to me.

They exorcised the demons?

No. But after about a week's intense study in the library of the Motherhouse and extensive interviews with the few members who had been to Rio, I was able to get the demons under control myself. Everyone was quite surprised. Then when I decided to go back to Brazil, I astonished them. They warned me this priestess was plenty powerful enough to kill me.

That's exactly it I said to them. 'I want that sort of power myself. I'm going to become her pupil. She's going to teach me.' They begged me not to go. I told them I'd give them a written report on my return. You can understand how I felt. I'd seen the work of these invisible entities. I'd felt them touch me. I'd seen objects hurtling through the air. I thought the great world of the invisible was opening up to me. I had to go there. Why, nothing could have discouraged me from it. Nothing at all.

Yes, I see, I said. It was as exciting as hunting big game.

Precisely. He shook his head. Those were the days. I suppose I thought if the war hadn't killed me, nothing could kill me. He drifted off suddenly, into his memories, locking me out.

You confronted the woman?

He nodded.

Confronted her and impressed her, and then bribed her beyond her wildest dreams. I told her I wanted to become her apprentice. I swore on my knees to her that I wanted to learn, that I wouldn't leave until I'd penetrated the mystery, and learned all that I could. He gave a little laugh. I'm not sure this woman had ever encountered an anthropologist, even an amateur, and I suppose that is what I might have been called. Whatever, I stayed a year in Rio. And believe you me, that was the most remarkable year of my life. I only left Rio finally, because I knew if I didn't, I never would. David Talbot the Englishman would have been no more.

You learned how to summon the spirits?

He nodded. Again, he was remembering, seeing images I couldn't see. He was troubled, faintly sad. I wrote it all down, he said finally. It's in the files at the Motherhouse. Many, many have read the story over the years.

Never tempted to publish it?

Can't do it. It's part of being in the Talamasca. We never publish outside.

You're afraid you've wasted your life, aren't you?

No. I'm not, really . . . Though what I said earlier is true. I haven't cracked the secrets of the universe. I've never even passed the point I reached in Brazil. Oh, there were shocking revelations afterwards. I remember the first night I read the files on the vampires, how incredulous I was, and then those strange moments when I went down into the vaults and picked through the evidence. But in the end it was like Candomble. I only penetrated so far.

Believe me, I know. David, the world is meant to remain a mystery. If there is any explanation, we are not meant to hit upon it, of that much I'm sure.

I think you're right, he said sadly.

And I think you're more afraid of death than you will admit. You've taken a stubborn tack with me, a moral one, and I don't blame you. Maybe you're old enough and wise enough to really know you don't want to be one of us. But don't go talking about death as if it's going to give you answers. I suspect death is awful. You just stop and there's no more life, and no more chance to know anything at all.

No. I can't agree with you there, Lestat, he said. I simply can't. He was gazing at the tiger again, and then he said, Somebody formed the fearful symmetry, Lestat. Somebody had to. The tiger and the lamb … it couldn't have happened all by itself.

I shook my head. More intelligence went into the creation of that old poem, David, than ever went into the creation of the world. You sound like an Episcopalian. But I know what you're saying. I've thought it from tune to time myself. Stupidly simple. There has to be something to all this. There has to be! So many missing pieces. The more you consider it, the more atheists begin to sound like religious fanatics. But I think it's a delusion. It is all process and nothing more.

Missing pieces, Lestat. Of course! Imagine for a moment that I made a robot, a perfect replica of myself. Imagine I gave him all the encyclopedias of information that I could-you know, programmed it into his computer brain. Well, it would only be a matter of time before he'd come to me, and say, David, where's the rest of it The explanation! How did it all start Why did you leave out the explanation for why there was ever a big bang in the first place, or what precisely happened when the minerals and other inert compounds suddenly evolved into organic cells What about the great gap in the fossil record'

I laughed delightedly.

And I'd have to break it to the poor chap, he said, that there was no explanation. That I didn't have the missing pieces.

David, nobody has the missing pieces. Nobody ever will.

Don't be so sure.

That's your hope, then That's why you're reading the Bible You couldn't crack the occult secrets of the universe, and now you've gone back to God?

God is the occult secret of the universe, David said, thoughtfully, almost as if brooding upon it, face very relaxed and almost young. He was staring at the glass in his hand, maybe liking the way the light collected in the crystal. I didn't know. I had to wait for him to speak.

I think the answer might be in Genesis, he said finally, I really do.

David, you amaze me. Talk about missing pieces. Genesis is a bunch of fragments.

Yes, but telling fragments remain to us, Lestat. God created man in His own image and likeness. I suspect that that is the key. Nobody knows what it really means, you know. The Hebrews didn't think God was a man.

And how can it be the key?

God is a creative force, Lestat. And so are we. He told Adam, 'Increase and multiply.' That's what the first organic cells did, Lestat, increased and multiplied. Not merely changed shape but replicated themselves. God is a creative force. He made the whole universe out of Himself through cell division. That's why the devils are so full of envy-the bad angels, I mean. They are not creative creatures; they have no bodies, no cells, they're spirit. And I suspect it wasn't envy so much as a form of suspicion-that God was making a mistake in making another engine of creativity in Adam, so like Himself. I mean the angels probably felt the physical universe was bad enough, with all the replicating cells, but thinking, talking beings who could increase and multiply They were probably outraged by the whole experiment. That was their sin.

So you're saying God isn't pure spirit.

That's right. God has a body. Always did. The secret of cell-dividing life lies within God. And all living cells have a tiny part of God's spirit in them, Lestat, that's the missing piece as to what makes life happen in the first place, what separates it from nonlife. It's exactly like your vampiric genesis. You told us that the spirit of Amel-one evil entity-infused the bodies of all the vampires .. . Well, men share in the spirit of God in the same way.

Good Lord, David, you're going out of your mind. We're a mutation.

Ah, yes, but you exist in our universe, and your mutation mirrors the mutation that we are. Besides, others have struck upon the same theory. God is the fire, and we are all tiny flames; and when we die, those tiny flames go back into the fire of God. But the important thing is to realize that God Himself is Body and Soul! Absolutely.

Western civilization has been founded upon an inversion. But it is my honest belief that in our daily deeds we know and honor the truth. It is only when we talk religion that we say God is pure spirit and always was and always will be, and that the flesh is evil. The truth is in Genesis, it's there. I'll tell you what the big bang was, Lestat. It was when the cells of God began to divide.

This really is a lovely theory, David. Was God surprised?

No, but the angels were. I'm quite serious. I'll tell you the superstitious part-the religious belief that God is perfect. He's obviously not.

What a relief, I said. It explains so much.

You're laughing at me now. I don't blame you. But you're absolutely right. It explains everything. God has made many mistakes. Many, many mistakes. As surely God Himself knows! And I suspect the angels tried to warn Hun. The Devil became the Devil because he tried to warn God. God is love. But I'm not sure God is absolutely brilliant.

I was trying to suppress my laughter, but I couldn't do it entirely. David, if you keep this up, you'll be struck by lightning.

Nonsense. God does want us to figure it out.

No. That I can't accept,

You mean you accept the rest? he said with another little laugh. No, but I'm quite serious. Religion is primitive in its illogical conclusions. Imagine a perfect God allowing for the Devil to come into existence. No, that's simply never made sense.

The entire flaw in the Bible is the notion that God is perfect. It represents a failure of imagination on the part of the early scholars. It's responsible for every impossible theological question as to good and evil with which we've been wrestling through the centuries. God is good, however, wondrously good. Yes, God is love. But no creative force is perfect. That's clear.

And the Devil Is there any new intelligence about him?

He regarded me for a moment with just a touch of impatience. You are such a cynical being, he whispered.

No, I'm not, I said. I honestly want to know. I have a particular interest in the Devil, obviously. I speak of him much more often than I speak of God. I can't figure out really why mortals love him so much, I mean, why they love the idea of him. But they do.

Because they don't believe in him, David said. Because a perfectly evil Devil makes even less sense than a perfect God. Imagine, the Devil never learning anything during all this time, never changing his mind about being the Devil. It's an insult to our intellect, such an idea.

So what's your truth behind the lie?

He's not purely unredeemable. He's merely part of God's plan. He's a spirit allowed to tempt and try humans. He disapproves of humans, of the entire experiment. See, that was the nature of the Devil's Fall, as I see it. The Devil didn't think the idea would work. But the key, Lestat, is understanding that God is matter! God is physical, God is the Lord of Cell Division, and the Devil abhors the excess of letting all this cell division run wild.

Again, he went into one of his maddening pauses, eyes widening again with wonder, and then he said:

I have another theory about the Devil.

Tell me.

There's more than one of them. And nobody appointed much likes the job. This he said almost in a murmur. He was distracted, as if he wanted to say more, but didn't.

I laughed outright.

Now that I can understand, I said. Who would like the job of being the Devil And to think that one can't possibly win. And especially considering that the Devil was an angel at the start of it all, and supposed to be very smart.

Exactly. He pointed his finger at me. Your little story about Rembrandt. The Devil, if he had a brain, should have acknowledged the genius of Rembrandt.

And the goodness of Faust.

Ah, yes, you saw me reading Faust in Amsterdam, didn't you And you purchased your own copy as a consequence.

How did you know that?

The proprietor of the bookstore told me the next afternoon. A strange blond-haired young Frenchman came in moments

after I'd left, bought the very same book, and stood in the street reading it for half an hour without moving. Whitest skin the man had ever seen. Had to be you, of course.

I shook my head and smiled. I do these clumsy things. It's a wonder some scientist hasn't scooped me up in a net.

That's no joke, my friend. You were very careless in Miami several nights ago. Two victims drained entirely of blood.

This created such instant confusion in me that at first I said nothing, then only that it was a wonder the news had reached him on this side of the sea. I felt the old despair touch me with its black wing.

Bizarre killings make international headlines, he answered. Besides, the Talamasca receives reports of all sorts of things. We have people who clip for us in cities everywhere, sending in items on all aspects of the paranormal for our files. 'Vampire Killer Strikes Twice in Miami.' Several sources sent it along.

But they don't really believe it was a vampire, you know they don't.

No, but you keep it up and they might come to believe it. That's what you wanted to happen before with your little rock music career. You wanted them to catch on. It's not inconceivable. And this sport of yours with the serial killers! You're leaving quite a trail of those.

This truly astonished me. My hunting of the killers had taken me back and forth across continents. I had never thought anyone would connect these widely scattered deaths, except Marius, of course.

How did you come to figure it out?

I told you. Such stories always come into our hands. Satanism, vampirism, voodoo, witchcraft, sightings of werewolves; it all comes across my desk. Most of it goes into the trash, obviously. But I know the grain of truth when I see it. And your killings are very easy to spot.

You've been going after these mass murderers for some time now. You leave their bodies in the open. You left this last one in a hotel, where he was found only an hour after his death. As for the old woman, you were equally careless! Her son found her the following day. No wounds for the coroner to find on either victim. You're a nameless celebrity hi Miami, quite overshadowing the notoriety of the poor dead man in the hotel.

I don't give a damn, I said angrily. But I did, of course. I deplored my own carelessness, yet I did nothing to correct it. Well, this must surely change. Tonight, had I done any better It seemed cowardly to plead excuses for such things.

David was watching me carefully. If there was one dominant characteristic to David, it was his alertness. It's not inconceivable, he said, that you could be caught.

I gave a scornful, dismissive laugh.

They could lock you up in a laboratory, study you in a cage of space-age glass.

That's impossible. But what an interesting thought.

I knew it! You want it to happen.

I shrugged. Might be fun for a little while. Look, it's a sheer impossibility. The night of my one appearance as a roc