Free Merrick by Anne Rice

going to explain these visions to me. Wake up!”
    No response. She appeared to be dead drunk.
    “Merrick, wake up!” I said again, very crossly. And this time I lifted her shoulders with both hands, but her head tumbled back. The scent of the Chanel perfume rose from her. Ah, that was precisely what I so loved.
    I became painfully conscious of her breasts, quite visible in the scoop neck of her cotton blouse. Down into the pillows I let her fall.
    “Why did you do these things?” I demanded of the inert body of the beautiful woman lying on the bed. “What did you mean with all this? Do you think I’m to be frightened away?”
    But it was useless. She wasn’t pretending. She was out cold. I could divine no dreams or subterranean thoughts in her. And quickly examining the little hotel wet bar, I saw that she’d drunk a couple of little bottles of gin.
    “Typical Merrick,” I said with faint anger.
    It had always been her way to drink to excess at specific times. She’d work very hard at her studies or in the field for months on end, and then announce that she was “going to the Moon,” as she called it, at which time she would lay in liquor and drink for several nights and days. Her favorite drinks were those with sweetness and flavor—sugercane rum, apricot brandy, Grand Marnier, ad infinitum.
    She was introspective when drunk, did a lot of singing and writing and dancing about during such periods, and demanded to be left alone. If no one crossed her, she was all right. But an argument could produce hysterics, nausea, disorientation, an attempt to regain sobriety desperately, and finally, guilt. But this rarely happened. Usually, she just drank for a week, unmolested. Then she’d wake one morning, order breakfast with strong coffee, and within a matter of hours return to work, not to repeat her little vacation for perhaps another six to nine months.
    But even on social occasions if she drank, she drank to get drunk. She’d swill her rum or sweet liquor in fancy mixed drinks. She had no desire for drink in moderation. If we had a great dinner at the Motherhouse, and we did have many, she either abstained or continued drinking on her own until she passed out. Wine made her impatient.
    Well, she was passed out now. And even if I did succeed in waking her, there might be a pitched battle.
    I went again to look at St. Peter, or Papa Legba, in the makeshift Voodoo shrine. I had to eliminate my fear of this little entity or graven image or whatever I perceived to be there.
    Ah, I was stunned as I considered the statue for a second time. My pocket handkerchief was spread out beneath the statue and the candle, and beside it lay my own old-fashioned fountain pen! I hadn’t even seen them before.
    “Merrick!” I swore furiously.
    And hadn’t she wiped my forehead in the car? I glared at the handkerchief. Sure enough there were tiny smears of blood—the sweat from my forehead! And she had it for her spell.
    “Ah, not merely satisfied with an article of my clothing, my handkerchief, but you had to take the fluids from my skin.”
    Marching back into the bedroom, I made another very ungentlemanly attempt to rouse her from her torpor, ready for a brawl, but it was no good. I laid her back down tenderly, brushing her hair with my fingers, and observed, in spite of my anger, how truly pretty she was.
    Her creamy tan skin was beautifully molded over her cheekbones and her eyelashes were so long that they made distinct tiny shadows on her face. Her lips were dark, without rouge. I took off her plain leather sandals and laid them beside the bed, but this was just another excuse to touch her, not something generous.
    Then, backing away from the bed, with a glance through the door to the shrine in the parlor, I looked about for her purse, her large canvas bag.
    It had been flung on a chair and it gaped open, revealing, as I had hoped, a bulging envelope with Aaron’s unmistakable writing on the outside.
    Well, she’d stolen