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I could hear the minds of all the city； a din that was unsupportable。 I shut myself off from it； fearing the vagrant immortal who'd home in on me if he caught but one spark from my telepathic mind。 I couldn't endure the thought of some attempted rescue by immortal strangers。 I couldn't endure the thought of their faces； their questions； their possible concern or merciless indifference。 I hid myself from them； coiled up in my cracked and tightened flesh。 Yet I heard them； as I heard the mortal voices around them； speaking of miracles and redemption and the love of Christ。
Besides； I had enough to think about to figure my present predicament and how it had e to be。
I was lying on a roof。 That is where my fall had left me； but not under the open sky； as I might have hoped or supposed。 On the contrary； my body had tumbled down a slope of metal sheeting； to lodge beneath a torn and rusted overhang； where it had been repeatedly buried in the wind…stirred snow。
How had I gotten here？ I could only suppose。
By my own will； and with the first explosion of my blood in the light of the morning sun； I had been driven upwards； as high perhaps as I could go。 For centuries I'd known how to climb to airy heights and how to move there； but I'd never pushed it to a conceivable limit； but with my zeal for death； I had strained with all my available strength to move Heavenward。 My fall had been from the greatest height。
The building beneath me was empty； abandoned； dangerous； without heat or light。
Not a sound issued from its hollow metal stairwells or its battered； crumbling rooms。 Indeed the wind played the structure now and then as if it were a great pipe organ； and when Sybelle was not at her piano it was to this music I listened； shutting out the rich cacophony of the city above； beyond and below。
Now and then mortals crept inside the lower floors of the building。 I felt a sudden wrenching hope。 Would one be fool enough to wander to this rooftop where I might lay hands on him and drink the blood I needed merely to crawl free of the overhang which protected me and thereby give myself unsheltered to the sun？ As I lay now； the sun could scarce reach me。 Only a dull white light scorched me through the snowy shroud in which I was wound； and with the lengthening of each night this newly inflicted pain would mellow into the rest。
But nobody ever came up here。
Death would be slow； very slow。 It might have to wait until the warm weather came and the snow melted。
And so each morning； as I longed for death； I came to accept that I would wake； more burnt perhaps then ever； but all the more concealed by the winter blizzard； as I had been concealed all along； from the hundreds of lighted windows that looked down upon this roof from above。
When it was deadly quiet； when Sybelle slept and Benji had ceased praying to me and talking to me at the window； the worst happened。 I thought； in a cold listless broken way； of those strange things that had befallen me when I'd been tumbling through space； because I could think of nothing else。
How utterly real it had been； the altar of Santa Sofia and the bread I'd broken in my hands。 I'd known things； so many things； things which I couldn't recall any longer or put into words； things which I could not articulate here in this narrative even as I sought to relive the tale。
Real。 Tangible。 I had felt the altar cloth and seen the wine spill； and before that the bird rise out of the egg。 I could hear the sound of the cracking of the shell。 I could hear my Mother's voice。 And all the rest。
But my mind didn't want these things anymore。 It didn't want them。 The zeal had proved fragile。 It was gone； gone like the nights with my Master in Venice； gone like the years of wandering with Louis； gone like the festive months on The Night Island； gone like those long shameful centuries with the Children of Darkness when I had been a fool； such a pure fool。
I could think of the Veil； I could think of Heaven； I could think of my standing at the Altar and working the miracle with the Body of Christ in my hands。 Yes； I could think of all of it。 But the totality had been too terrible； and I was not dead； and there was no Memnoch pleading with me to bee his helper； and no Christ with arms outstretched against the backdrop of God's unending light。
It was sweeter by far to think of Sybelle； to remember that her room of rich red and blue Turkey carpets and darkly varnished overblown paintings had been every bit as real as Santa Sofia of Kiev； to think of her oval white face when she'd turned to glance at me； to think of the sudden brightness of her moist； quick eyes。
One evening； as my eyes actually opened； as the lids truly drew back over the orbs of my eyes so that I could see through the white cake of ice above me； I realized I was healing。
I tried to flex my arms。 I could raise them ever so slightly； and the encasing ice shattered； what an extraordinary electric sound。
The sun simply couldn't reach me here； or not enough to work against the preternatural fury of the powerful blood my body contained。 Ah； God； to think of it； five hundred years of growing ever stronger and stronger； and born from the blood of Marius in the first place； a monster from the start who never knew his own strength。
It seemed for a moment that my rage and despair could grow no greater。 It seemed the fiery pain in all my body could be no worse。
Then Sybelle started to play。 She began to play the Appassionata； and nothing else mattered。
It wouldn't matter again until her music had stopped。 The night was warmer than usual； the snow had melted slightly。 There seemed no immortals anywhere near。 I knew that the Veil had been spirited away to the Vatican in Rome。 No cause now； was there； for immortals to e here？
Poor Dora。 The nightly news said that her prize had been taken from her。 Rome must examine this Veil。 Her tales of strange blond…haired angels were the stuff of tabloids； and she herself was no longer here。
In a moment of daring； I fastened my heart upon Sybelle's music； and with an aching straining head； sent out my telepathic vision as if it were a fleshly part of me； a tongue requiring stamina； to see through Benjamin's eyes； the room where they were both lodged。
In a lovely golden haze； I saw it； saw the walls covered with the heavy framed paintings； saw my beautiful one herself； in a fleecy white gown with worn slippers； her fingers hard at work。 How grand the sweep of the music。 And Benjamin； the little worrier； frowning； puffing on a black cigarette； with hands folded behind his back； pacing in his bare feet and shaking his head as he mumbled to himself。
〃Angel； I have told you to e back！〃
I smiled。 The creases in my cheeks hurt as if someone had made them with the point of a sharp knife。 I shut my telepathic eye。 I let myself slumber in the rushing crescendos of the piano。 Besides； Benjamin had sensed something； his mind； unwarped by Western sophistication； had picked up some glimmer of my prying。 Enough。
Then another vision came to me； very sharp； very special a