Prince Lestat (45 page)

“Well, maybe whoever leads today will not have to be a wanton executioner,” said Gregory. “Maybe the old crude ways of the Children of Satan have absolutely nothing to do with this. But you don’t want to lead. You know you don’t. And Marius does not. Marius can hear us now. He’s in there listening to the music. He came in half an hour ago. He has no taste to lead. No. Lestat is the logical one to be the anointed leader.”

“Anointed?” Armand repeated the word with a slight raise of his eyebrows.

“A figure of speech, Armand,” said Gregory. “Nothing more. We’ve waked from those nightmares of the Queens Blood cult and the later Children of Satan. We are finished with such things. We are in thrall to no belief now except what we can know from the physical world around us.…”

“Lestat’s ‘Savage Garden,’ ” said Armand.

“Not so savage really,” said Gregory. “There is not a single one of us, no matter how old, that does not have a moral heart, an educated heart, a heart that learned to love while human, and a heart that should have learned ever more deeply to love as preternatural.”

Armand looked sad suddenly. “Why has it taken me so long?”

“You’re so young yet, you know that,” said Gregory. “For a thousand years I served that wretched Queen. I suffered under her mythologies. You haven’t even been alive that long in any form. That’s what you have to grasp, what all the others have to grasp. You are on the threshold of a great journey, and you must begin to think in terms of what you can do as a powerful spiritual and biological being. Stop with the self-loathing. Stop with imagery of ‘the damned’ this and ‘the damned’ that! We are not damned. We never were. Who under the sun has the right to damn any living breathing creature?”

Armand smiled. “That’s what they all love about Lestat,” he said. “He says we’re damned and then he behaves as if Hell has no dominion over him.”

“It should have no dominion over any of us ever,” said Gregory.
“Now we must all talk of these things, all of us, not just you and I, but all of us. And something must be forged here that will transcend the crisis that’s brought us together.”

A noise from the front of the house suddenly distracted them. They stood and walked swiftly together down the long hallway and towards the open front doors. The music had broken off.

Louis was greeting two blood drinkers who had just arrived, and Gregory saw with relief that these were Fareed and Seth. Louis had taken their heavy coats, coats for the wind and cold altitudes, and was passing them on now to a quiet, obedient mortal servant who slunk away as if he were invisible.

How handsome Louis looked, with his ivory-colored skin and deep green eyes, this somewhat humble and self-effacing being who had given birth to the books of the Coven of the Articulate. Lestat might be the hero of the Vampire Chronicles, but this one, Louis, was the tragic heart. Yet he seemed at long last to have achieved a kind of peace with the ghastly realities of his existence and the existence of all those around him who outranked him in power but not necessarily in insight or wisdom.

Fareed and Seth were robust and vital as ever, mussed, and even flushed from the journey, but obviously glad to be under this roof.

Armand came forward with the deliberate dignity of the receiving master of the house and embraced Fareed and then Seth in the French manner with a kiss on both cheeks. Were they distracted by that angelic face? Probably.

“Welcome to our house,” Armand said. “We are so glad you’ve come.”

“Unfortunately the plane’s been delayed,” said Fareed. He was referring to the plane carrying Rose and Viktor. “I am very unhappy. It won’t land before sunrise.”

“We have people who can meet the plane,” said Armand, “trusted people. They will take care of Rose and Viktor. Now come in and rest awhile.”

“Ah, but we have such people too,” Fareed said quickly, but not disagreeably. “And please understand, I don’t want them under this roof. We’ll keep them in our apartments in Midtown for a while.”

“This is a secret location?” asked Armand. “We have deep cellars here, inaccessible to mortals and most immortals.”

“The boy has a horror of basements and enclosed spaces,” said
Fareed. “I’ve promised he won’t be locked in a crypt. He’ll feel much safer in our Midtown rooms.”

“And the girl. How much does she know?”

“Everything really,” said Fareed. “There was no point in tormenting her with lies.”

Armand nodded.

“We’ll bring them here,” said Seth. “We will allow them to meet everyone.”

Fareed was obviously shocked. He looked helplessly and a little angrily at Seth.

“If they are to go their own way after this, better they remember us for what we were.”

Armand nodded. “We want to make all of you comfortable in any way that we can.”

They passed into the parlor. Sybelle’s greeting was a quick nod, but Antoine came up with the violin and bow in his left hand to offer his right. Every new encounter with his own kind was treasured by Antoine.

Gregory watched as Marius came forward to embrace the two doctors. Ah, so powerful, this commanding Roman who had kept the Mother and Father safe and secret for two thousand years. If Marius experienced the slightest fear of his elders gathering here he showed not the slightest sign.

His beloved Chrysanthe, in her white-and-silver gown, who had been sitting with Marius—in deep conversation with him as far as Gregory could divine—also came forward and gave her tender, most gracious greeting to the newcomers.

Far off in rooms throughout the three townhouses others were coming to awareness of the latest arrival—Daniel and Arjun and Pandora who’d been talking together somewhere. And Thorne, redheaded Thorne, who had only arrived the night before, and had been in fast conversation with David and Jesse.

Jesse was in no state to be with the entire company. Rather she was someone in deep anxiety, and she had related in a trembling voice to Gregory all that Lestat had told her about the images he had caught from Maharet about the Guatemalan volcano, Pacaya. “But my aunt would never doom the entire tribe to extinction no matter how great her pain,” she’d averred. Then she’d given way to tears. Thorne was a friend to her, an old friend, as was David, and they remained closeted away.

“I can show you to your rooms now, if you like,” said Louis to Fareed and Seth. “Rooms where you might be alone and rest.” He still spoke with a faint French accent, and looked relaxed yet formal in his black wool suit with a flash of green silk at the neck, a shade of green that exactly matched the emerald ring on his left hand.

“In time,” said Fareed gratefully with a sigh. “Let us stay here with you, if we might. I heard the music when we were approaching.”

“And you shall hear it again,” said Sybelle, and with a nod she began again that same vigorous and dark waltz, “The Carousel Waltz.” Tall, lanky Antoine had taken his place beside her again, his long black hair loose and unkempt yet not unattractive, certainly not unattractive for a fiddler, and he began to accompany Sybelle, obviously waiting for her to initiate the variations.

Flavius and Davis appeared in the doorway. At once the doctor, Fareed, greeted Flavius and began asking as to the leg, the miracle leg, and they were lost now in conversation. But Seth had taken one of the many small gold music chairs against the wall and was staring at Sybelle and Antoine as they played together. He seemed oblivious to everyone else. Davis too had been distracted and drawn by the music.

Chrysanthe suddenly asked Marius if he cared to dance, and he, quite surprised, immediately accepted.

This startled Gregory. Indeed it shocked him.

“If you don’t know how to waltz,” Chrysanthe was saying, in her naïve and innocent fashion, “I’ll teach you.”

But Marius did know how, he confessed with a playful smile, and suddenly they were dancing in wide circles across the hardwood floor in the vast empty room, two stately and charming figures—Chrysanthe with her shimmering bronze hair threaded with pearls and spilling down her back in waves, and Marius staring right into her eyes as he guided her effortlessly in time with the music. He had cut his pale-blond hair short for this evening, and wore the simplest of male attire, a dark dinner jacket and trousers with a white turtleneck sweater.

He is the most impressive immortal here, Gregory thought, and my Chrysanthe is as beautiful as any, as beautiful as Pandora who is just now coming into the room. I don’t like it, their dancing. I don’t like it at all.

When had he ever seen blood drinkers dancing? He and Chrysanthe went out into human society frequently and always had, and they had danced, yes, on many a polished dance floor, passing for
mortal, but this was wholly different. This was a gathering of immortals, and the dancing of immortals was different.

Suddenly the music was too loud for him, and he felt his pulse in his veins, and he didn’t want to watch Marius with his Blood Wife, Chrysanthe. But he didn’t want to walk away either.

From far beyond these walls there came voices in the night, the young blood drinkers out there arguing with one another in the park, and suddenly one of them was fleeing from another in terror.

The tempo of the music became ever more rapid. Pandora had begun to dance with Louis, the ancient one with the inevitable living-marble demeanor and the younger, more human Louis beaming down at her as if she were in fact an ingénue in his care. Recent infusions of ancient blood had not entirely altered Louis. He was still perhaps the most human-appearing immortal in the house.

Davis moved out onto the dance floor, alone, his head slightly bowed, left arm raised in an arc, right hand on his waist making his own little private dance to the waltz music with exquisite feline ease. His heavy-lidded eyes were dreamy, and his dark brown skin gorgeous in the light of the chandelier.

Fareed had taken his place beside Seth and appeared to be enraptured now with these goings-on. Vampire musicians were such curiosities and had appeared so seldom in the history of the Undead. What they did with their instruments was always so difficult to analyze. But Gregory was convinced it had to do with the changelessness of the vampiric body and the ever-shifting changes all around them; they did not yield to tempo as did human musicians, but kept rebelling against it, playing with it, threatening to destroy it, yet snapping back into it with surprising suddenness, which gave the music a friable and almost tragic sound.

Armand was suddenly at Gregory’s side.

“Rather like fiddling while Rome burns, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Gregory. “But the intensity of this is undeniable. This many of us gathered here in one place. This is … I didn’t …”

“I know, but this time we mustn’t scatter like marbles rolling in all directions when it’s over.”

“No,” said Gregory, “it’s not possible anymore for us to live isolated from one another and uncooperative with one another. I’ve known that for a long time.”

“Yet it’s never worked when I’ve tried …” Armand broke off and turned to the music.

Benji came into the room.

The music stopped.

In his dark gray three-piece suit and matching fedora Benji moved through the crowd with the smiling vigor of a visiting politician, shaking this hand and that, bowing to Pandora, and to Chrysanthe, accepting the kisses of the women graciously and then taking the center of the room, eyes sweeping over all. He was perhaps five feet two inches in height, yet a perfectly proportioned man. His hat was clearly integral to his costume, and no one need bother to tell him that a gentleman takes off his hat indoors, because his hat was not coming off, it was part of him.

“I thank you all for coming,” he declared, his boyish voice ringing out clearly and distinctly with a commanding self-confidence. “I’ve broken off broadcasting to inform you of the following. The Voice has called our phone lines, and spoken to us through the vocal cords of a vampire male. The Voice says it is trying to come to us.”

“But how can you be certain this was the Voice?” asked Armand.

“It was the Voice,” said Benji with a little deferential bow to Armand. “I spoke to him myself, of course, Armand, and he referenced for me the things he had told me privately.” Benji tapped the side of his head beneath the brim of his hat. “He recalled for me the bits of poetry he’d been reciting to me telepathically. It was the Voice. And the Voice says he is struggling with all his might to come to us. Now, ladies and gentlemen of the Night, I must return to the broadcast.”

“But wait, please, Benji,” said Marius. “I’m at a disadvantage here. What poetry was it exactly that the Voice recited?”

“Yeats, Master,” said Benji with a deeper more referential bow. “Yeats, ‘The Second Coming’: ‘And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, / Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born.’ ”

And he was off without another word for his studio upstairs, tipping his hat as he passed Pandora and Chrysanthe. And the music filled the room again—the throbbing, rushing sound of “The Carousel Waltz.”

Gregory moved back, close to the wall, watching the dancers as they resumed. Then he realized that Davis was at his side. He felt the cool touch of Davis’s hand on his.

“Dance with me,” said Davis. “Come dance at my side.”

“How?”

“Oh, you know. You’ve always known. The way men have always danced. Think back. Long ago, you must have danced with other men.” Davis’s eyes were moist, searching. Davis was smiling, and he seemed utterly trusting, trusting in Gregory somehow no matter what the future held. How sweet was that trust.

Gregory did think back, yes. Back and back, he went through the memories to those long-ago human nights in ancient Kemet when he had danced, danced with other men, danced at the banquets of the court until he’d fallen down in bliss and exhaustion with the drums still pounding in his ears.

“Very well,” he said to Davis. “You lead the way.”

How marvelous it was to be drifting into the ancient patterns yet bound up in this new romantic music. How natural it suddenly seemed. And though his eyes were half closed and for a moment all his fear and apprehension was forgotten, he was conscious that other male immortals were dancing too, all around him, each in his own way. Flavius was dancing. Flavius of the miracle limb dancing with that limb. It seemed everyone was dancing; everyone was caught up in this raw and relentless music; everyone had yielded to it, and to this unprecedented and extraordinary moment that stretched on and on.