Free Lasher by Anne Rice Page A

went on and on, and slowly she took a deep breath, getting her pulse under control again and then coming near to him, thinking that if she had ever seen anything truly scary in her life, it was the sight of him sitting there in this room, staring at her, as if he were about to go out of his mind.
    He wasn’t trembling. He was like her. He feared nothing. He was just all anxious and upset and horrified by the vision, and he was seeing it, he had to be, and he was hearing the music, and as she drew closer, and sank down on the sofa beside him, he turned, looking at her, eyes wide with gentle amazement, and then she locked her mouth on his, pulled him down to her, and slam, bang, it connected, the chain reaction snapping through her. She had him. He was hers.
    He pulled back for one instant as if to look at her again, as if to make sure that she was there. His eyes were still cloudy from the drugs. Maybe they were helping now—putting his sublime Catholic conscience to sleep. She kissed him again hurriedly and a little sloppily and then reached between his legs. Ah, he was ready!
    His arms locked around her, and he gave some soft complaining sound that was very like him, like it’s just too late now, or something, or God forgive me. She could all but hear the words.
    She pulled him down on top of her, sinking deep into the sofa, smelling dust, as the waltz surged and the soprano sang on. She stretched out beneath him as he rose up, protectively, and then she felt his hand, trembling slightly in a beguiling fashion, as it ripped up the flannel and felt her naked belly and then her naked thigh.
    “You know what else is there,” she whispered, and she pulled him down hard again. But his hand went before him, pushing gently into her, awakening her, rather like setting off a burglar alarm, and she felt her own juices slipping between her legs.
    “Come on, I can’t hold back,” she said, feeling the heat flood her face. “Give it to me.” It probably sounded savage, but she couldn’t play little girl a moment more. He went into her, hurting her deliriously, and then began the piston motion that made her throw back her head and almost scream. “Yes, yes, yes.”
    “OK, Molly Bloom!” he cried out in a hoarse whisper, and then she came and came and came—gritting her teeth, scarce able to stand it, moaning, and then screaming with her lips shut—and so did he.
    She lay to one side, out of breath, wet all over as if she were Ophelia and they had just found her in the flower-strewn stream. Her hand was caught in his hair, pulling it too hard maybe. And then a shrieking sound shocked her and she opened her eyes.
    Someone had torn the needle from the Victrola record. She turned, just as he did, and she stared at the bent little figure of Eugenia, the black maid, standing grimly beside the table, her arms folded, her chin jutting.
    And quite suddenly there was no Victrola. The sofa was damask. The dim lights were electric.
    And Eugenia was standing by nothing, having merely taken a righteous position, dead opposite to them, as they lay tangled on the sofa, and she said:
    “Mr. Mike, what do you think you are doing with that child!”
    He was baffled, distressed, ashamed, confused, probably ready to commit suicide. He climbed up off her, tightening the string of his cotton pajamas, and staring at Eugenia and then at her.
    It was time to be a Mayfair. Time to be Julien’s great-great-granddaughter. She stood up and went towards the old woman.
    “You want to keep your job in this house, Eugenia? Then go back up to your room now and shut the door.”
    The old woman’s dark wrinkled face froze for an instant in conscious outrage, and then softened as Mona looked right into her eyes. “Do as I tell you. There’s nothing here to worry about. Mona is doing what Mona wants. And Mona is good for Uncle Michael and you know it! Now go!”
    Was she spellbound, or merely overwhelmed? It didn’t matter. Witch power was witch power.