The Complete Vampire Chronicles 12-Book Bundle (The Vampire Chronicles) (308 page)

An hour before dawn, I took Mojo back to his little garden, kissed him good-bye, and then I walked fast to the outskirts of the old city, and through the Faubourg Marigny, and finally into the swamplands, and then I raised my arms towards the stars, swimming so brilliant beyond the clouds, and I went up, and up, and up until I was lost in the song of the wind and tumbling on the thinnest currents, and the joy I felt in my gifts filled my entire soul.

It must have been a full week that I traveled the world. First I’d gone to snowy Georgetown and found that frail, pathetic young woman whom my mortal self had so unforgivably raped. Like an exotic bird, she looked to me now, struggling to see me well in the smelly dark of the quaint little mortal restaurant, not wanting to admit that this encounter with “my French friend” had ever happened, and then stunned as I placed an antique rosary made of emeralds and diamonds in her hand. “Sell it, if you like, chérie,” I said. “He wanted you to have it for whatever purpose you wish. But tell me one thing. Did you conceive a child?”

She shook her head and whispered the word “no.” I wanted to kiss her, she was beautiful again to me. But I dared not risk it. It wasn’t only that I would have frightened her, it was that the desire to kill her was almost overpowering. Some fierce purely male instinct in me wanted to claim her now simply because I had claimed her in another way before.

I was gone from the New World within hours, and night after night, I wandered, hunting in the seething slums of Asia—in Bangkok and Hong Kong and Singapore—and then in the dreary and frozen city of Moscow, and in the charming old cities of Vienna and Prague. I went to Paris for a short time. I did not go to London. I pushed my speed to the limits; I rose and plunged in the darkness, sometimes alighting in towns of which I did not know the name. I fed ceaselessly among the desperate and the vicious and, now and then, the lost and the mad and the purely innocent who fell under my gaze.

I tried not to kill. I tried not to. Except when the subject was damn near irresistible, an evildoer of the first rank. And then the death was slow and savage, and I was just as hungry when it was over, and off to find another before the sun rose.

I had never been so at ease with my powers. I had never risen so high into the clouds, nor traveled so fast.

I walked for hours among mortals in the narrow old streets of Heidelberg, and of Lisbon, and of Madrid. I, passed through Athens and Cairo and Marrakesh. I walked on the shores of the Persian Gulf and the Mediterranean and the Adriatic Sea.

What was I doing? What was I thinking? That the old cliché was true—
the world was mine
.

And everywhere I went I let my presence be known. I let my thoughts emanate from me as if they were notes played on a lyre.

The Vampire Lestat is here. The Vampire Lestat is passing. Best give way.

I didn’t want to see the others. I didn’t really look for them, or open my mind or my ears to them. I had nothing to say to them. I only wanted them to know that I had been there.

I did pick up the sound of nameless ones in various places, vagabonds unknown to us, random creatures of the night who had escaped the late massacre of our kind. Sometimes it was a mere mental glimpse of a powerful being who, at once, veiled his mind. Other times it was the clear sound of a monster plodding through eternity without guile or history or purpose. Maybe such things will always be there!

I had eternity now to meet such creatures, if ever the urge came over me. The only name on my lips was Louis.

Louis.

I could not for a moment forget Louis. It was as if someone else were chanting his name in my ear. What would I do if ever again I laid eyes on him? How could I curb my temper? Would I even try?

At last I was tired. My clothes were rags. I could stay away no longer. I wanted to be home.

I was sitting in the darkened cathedral. Hours ago it had been locked, and I had entered surreptitiously through one of the front doors, quieting the protective alarms. And left it open for him.

Five nights had passed since my return. Work was progressing wonderfully well on the flat in the Rue Royale, and of course he had not failed to notice it. I’d seen him standing under the porch opposite, staring up at the windows, and I’d appeared on the balcony above for only an instant—not even enough for a mortal eye to see.

I’d been playing cat and mouse with him since.

Tonight, I’d let him see me near the old French Market. And what a start it gave him, to actually lay eyes upon me, and to see Mojo with me, to realize as I gave him a little wink that it was truly Lestat whom he saw.

What had he thought in that first instant? That it was Raglan James in my body come to destroy him? That James was making a home for himself in the Rue Royale? No, he’d known it was Lestat all along.

Then I had walked slowly towards the church, Mojo coming along smartly at my side. Mojo, who kept me anchored to the good earth.

I wanted him to follow me. But I wouldn’t so much as turn my head to see whether or not he was coming.

It was warm this night, and it had rained earlier enough to darken the rich, rose-colored walls of the old French Quarter buildings, to deepen the brown of the bricks, and to leave the flags and the cobblestones with a fine and lovely sheen. A perfect night for walking in New Orleans. Wet and fragrant, the flowers blooming over the garden walls.

But to meet with him again, I needed the quiet and silence of the darkened church.

My hands were shaking a little, as they had been off and on since I had come back into my old form. There was no physical cause for it, only my anger coming and going, and long spells of contentment, and then a terrifying emptiness which would open around me, and then the happiness coming again, quite complete, yet fragile, as though it were but a thin fine veneer. Was it fair to say I didn’t know the full state of my soul? I thought of the unbridled rage with which I’d smashed the head of David Talbot’s body, and I shuddered. Was I still afraid?

Hmmm. Look at these dark sunburnt fingers with their gleaming nails. I felt the tremour as I pressed the tips of my right fingers to my lips.

I sat in the dark pew, several rows back from the railing before the altar, looking at the dark statues, and the paintings, and all the gilded ornament of this cold and empty place.

It was past midnight. The noise from the Rue Bourbon was as loud as ever. So much simmering mortal flesh there. I’d fed earlier. I would feed again.

But the sounds of the night were soothing. Throughout the narrow streets of the Quarter, in her small apartments, and atmospheric little taverns, in her fancy cocktail lounges, and in her restaurants, happy mortals laughed and talked, and kissed and embraced.

I slumped back comfortably in the pew, and stretched out my arms on the back of it as if it were a park bench. Mojo had already gone to sleep in the aisle near me, long nose resting on his paws.

Would that I were you, my friend. Looking like the very devil, and full of big lumbering goodness. Ah, yes, goodness. It was goodness that I felt when I locked my arms around him, and buried my face in his fur.

But now
he
had come into the church.

I sensed his presence though I could pick up no glimmer of thought or feeling from him, or even hear his step. I had not heard the outer door open or close. Somehow I knew he was there. Then I saw the shadow moving in the corner of my left eye. He came into the pew and sat beside me, a little distance away.

We sat there in silence for many long moments, and then he spoke.

“You burnt my little house, didn’t you?” he asked in a small, vibrant voice.

“Can you blame me?” I asked with a smile, eyes still on the altar. “Besides, I was a human when I did that. It was human weakness. Want to come and live with me?”

“This means you’ve forgiven me?”

“No, it means I’m playing with you. I may even destroy you for what you did to me. I haven’t made up my mind. Aren’t you afraid?”

“No. If you meant to do away with me, it would already be done.”

“Don’t be so certain. I’m not myself, and yet I am, and then I am not again.”

Long silence, with only the sounds of Mojo breathing hoarsely and deeply in his sleep.

“I’m glad to see you,” he said. “I knew you would win. But I didn’t know how.”

I didn’t answer. But I was suddenly boiling inside. Why were both my virtues and my faults used against me?

But what was the use of it—to make accusations, to grab him and shake him and demand answers from him? Maybe it was better not to know.

“Tell me what happened,” he said.

“I will not,” I replied. “Why in the world do you want to know?”

Our hushed voices echoed softly in the nave of the church. The wavering light of the candles played upon the gilt on the tops of the columns, on the faces of the distant statues. Oh, I liked it here in this silence and coolness. And in my heart of hearts I had to admit I was so very glad that he had come. Sometimes hate and love serve exactly the same purpose.

I turned and looked at him. He was facing me, one knee drawn up on the pew and his arm resting on the back of it. He was pale as always, an artful glimmer in the dark.

“You were right about the whole experiment,” I said. At least my voice was steady, I thought.

“How so?” No meanness in his tone, no challenge, only the subtle desire to know. And what a comfort it was—the sight of his face, and the faint dusty scent of his worn garments, and the breath of fresh rain still clinging to his dark hair.

“What you told me, my dear old friend and lover,” I said. “That I didn’t really want to be human. That it was a dream, and a dream built upon falsehood and fatuous illusion and pride.”

“I can’t claim that I understood it,” he said. “I don’t understand it now.”

“Oh, yes, you did. You understand very well. You always have. Maybe you lived long enough; maybe you have always been the stronger one. But you knew. I didn’t want the weakness; I didn’t want the limitations; I didn’t want the revolting needs and the endless vulnerability; I didn’t want the drenching sweat or the searing cold. I didn’t want the blinding darkness, or the noises that walled up my hearing, or the quick, frantic culmination of erotic passion; I didn’t want the trivia; I didn’t want the ugliness. I didn’t want the isolation; I didn’t want the constant fatigue.”

“You explained this to me before. There must have been something … however small … that was good!”

“What do you think?”

“The light of the sun.”

“Precisely. The light of the sun on snow; the light of the sun on water; the light of the sun … on one’s hands and one’s face, and opening up all the secret folds of the entire world as if it were a flower,
as if we were all part of one great sighing organism. The light of the sun … on snow.”

I stopped. I really didn’t want to tell him. I felt I had betrayed myself.

“There were other things,” I said. “Oh, there were many things. Only a fool would not have seen them. Some night, perhaps, when we’re warm and comfortable together again as if this never happened, I’ll tell you.”

“But they were not enough.”

“Not for me. Not now.”

Silence.

“Maybe that was the best part,” I said, “the discovery. And that I no longer entertain a deception. That I know now I truly love being the little devil that I am.”

I turned and gave him my prettiest, most malignant smile.

He was far too wise to fall for it. He gave a long near-silent sigh, his lids lowered for a moment, and then he looked at me again.

“Only you could have gone there,” he said. “And come back.”

I wanted to say this wasn’t true. But who else would have been fool enough to trust the Body Thief? Who else would have plunged into the venture with such sheer recklessness? And as I thought this over, I realized what ought to have been plain to me already. That I’d known the risk I was taking. I’d seen it as the price. The fiend told me he was a liar; he told me he was a cheat. But I had done it because there was simply no other way.

Of course this wasn’t really what Louis meant by his words; but in a way it was. It was the deeper truth.

“Have you suffered in my absence?” I asked, looking back at the altar.

Very soberly he answered, “It was pure hell.” I didn’t reply.

“Each risk you take hurts me,” he said. “But that is my concern and my fault.”

“Why do you love me?” I asked.

“You know, you’ve always known. I wish I could be you. I wish I could know the joy you know all the time.”

“And the pain, you want that as well?”

“Your pain?” He smiled. “Certainly. I’ll take your brand of pain anytime, as they say.”

“You smug, cynical lying bastard,” I whispered, the anger cresting in me suddenly, the blood even rushing into my face. “I needed you and you turned me away! Out in the mortal night you locked me. You refused me. You turned your back!”

The heat in my voice startled him. It startled me. But it was there and I couldn’t deny it, and once again my hands were trembling, these hands that had leapt out and away from me at the false David, even when all the other lethal power in me was kept in check.

He didn’t utter a word. His face registered those small changes which shock produces—the slight quiver of an eyelid, the mouth lengthening and then softening, a subtle clabbering look, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. He held my accusing glance all through it, and then slowly looked away.

“It was David Talbot, your mortal friend, who helped you, wasn’t it?” he asked.

I nodded.

But at the mere mention of the name, it was as if all my nerves had been touched by the tip of a heated bit of wire. There was enough suffering here as it was. I couldn’t speak anymore of David. I wouldn’t speak of Gretchen. And I suddenly realized that what I wanted to do most in the world was to turn to him and put my arms around him and weep on his shoulder as I’d never done.

How shameful. How predictable! How insipid. And how sweet.

I didn’t do it.

We sat there in silence. The soft cacophony of the city rose and fell beyond the stained-glass windows, which caught the faint glow from the street lamps outside. The rain had come again, the gentle warm rain of New Orleans, in which one can walk so easily as if it were nothing but the gentlest mist.