By WhiteMist
kerk.lin@pacific.net.sg

-Disclaimer-

The characters featured in this piece of writing, the borrowing is not meant in any way to infringe on the rights of Anne Rice and her respective publishers, there are no commissions nor profits made- well, please go buy yourself the real novels if you are in any way in doubt or confused ;-)

-Spoiler-

This piece of writing, first created in response to Memnoch the Devil about two years ago, has been updated to include Pandora as well as The Vampire Armand. It covers all novels in Vampire Chronicles (with exception to Vittorio).

-Warning-

The author asks of your kind indulgence to read the following (least you should be totally disappointed) before proceeding further:

-Details (A)-

An ultra big "R": for "Rambling"!!

1) The only protagonists featured hereof are Louis & Lestat from the Vampire Chronicles

2) There are entirely fictitious characters who make up the supporting cast. If you expect only characters of the chronicles, perhaps you might not want to go any further.

3) There will be exposition into philosophies, political theories and such unconventional topics. The author has named all chapters, if you should dislike such topics, you might want to skip a chapter in the likes of "The Greek Theory"...

-Details (B)-

This piece of writing is as wild as "Interview with the Vampire": this warrants perhaps a "PG" rating I think...

-Comments-

This piece of writing is a personal interpretation of events and characterization, it is in no way representative of Anne Rice's works- paraphrasing, quotations were techniques used for the process of creating a certain perspective that the author envisioned.

-Dedication-

This is dedicated to the character who lived in the Vampire Chronicle, the real Louis de Pointe Du Lac; and the wonderful owner of this site, LP who has created this amazing venue of keen thought and meditation.

-Miscellaneous-

1) All conversation hereof written are supposed to be conducted in French unless otherwise stated.

2) The style of conversation and vocabulary are not entirely contemporary, please be assured that this is deliberate.

3) The author has put "*" to mark quotations, please refer to "Notes" for their respective sources.

-Postscript-

Thank you very much for taking time to read and should you have any questions, comments, please do not hesitate to drop me a line. And to anyone who thinks Lestat thinks or considers Louis de Pointe Du Lac a whimp, consider:

"Give me that man
That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee."
(Shakespeare: Hamlet, Act III Scene 2)

Quick Jumps:
Prologue: Musings of a Stranger
Chapter 1: The Night
Chapter 2: Behemoth
Chapter 3: Wind For the Sail
Chapter 4: Enter the Roman
Chapter 5: Interview With the Vampire
Chapter 6: The Vampire Lestat
Chapter 7: Dixie Gates - Fields of Thoughts, Fields of Despair
Chapter 8: The Elder
Chapter 9: The Greek Theory
Chapter 10: Reminiscence

New Orleans.

He liked it the moment he saw the photos and read a summarized introduction of its history. It was so steeped in European history, so different from the other cities in the New World. People of all over the world journeyed to this seemingly backwater City to witness its mysteries, to soak in its Old World charms. So classical and decadent at the same time, New Orleans was like the cities in Europe.

Surely it was this fascinating quality and the hope to recapture the untampered charms of a bygone age that had prompted him to come? This, which had prompted him to take on the mortal venture of an extravagant deal to renovate an ailing building and to turn it into one more hotel under the exclusive nonpareil St. Clare.

It was amusing to study the placid acquiesce of his attorneys, the board of directors and the bankers. What was another hotel to him with his immense wealth? He, the legal heir of a mammoth fortune, spreading over diverse businesses, a fortune that had come down for more then 3 centuries.

"Huh, excuse me Mr. St. Clare..."

He turned from the windows and walked back to his chair where his attorney was busy sifting through various piles of paper on the huge table.

"I will have everything ready for you tomorrow," Craig Thompson said presently.

"You do a good job Mr. Thompson," he said not looking up at the man as he folded up the laptop, disconnecting the line to his cellular phone.

All the while the mortal was observing him furtively, thinking: this, St. Clare, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, with that ready-made Parisian catwalk good looks, speaking in that smooth Continental flavored English and that unassuming, faultless European manners... This, his God given client, his most lucrative client...

The mortal brain was in frenzy to catalog each article. The modern man was the sum of his material attributes in the world of Craig Thompson, and millions of others just like him. For the apparel oft proclaims the man¹, so it seemed Master Will had read the soul of man even then.

"I presume you will be returning to New York then?"

"Yes... Yes," Thompson stuttered, cursing himself for daydreaming again. "You can be assured Mr. St. Clare, no obstacle is too great." He stacked the papers neatly, putting them into their rightful places, their appropriate files and envelopes, then held out a neat bundle to his client. "Here they are, the original deeds. Thank you so much for bringing them."

St. Clare took them with a small smile. He slipped them into various panels before slinging the satchel to his shoulder.

Thompson stared at him in envy, irrelevant thoughts of various plastic surgery operations and European spas were running through his head as he admired the tall and trim figure.

"My limousine is downstairs, you can take a tour of the city, pick up something for everyone."

"Ah...?"

"I would like for you to do that," St. Clare said. "Call me on the cellular when you are done Mr. Thompson." Nodding with a smile, St. Clare walked out of the room, leaving the man to his jubilant thoughts.

The nights had grown humid with summer, bringing along the great throngs of tourists.

New Orleans was thriving as it always had through the centuries. There were places he had been to with more grandeur or preserved beauty but yet none had captivated him as New Orleans had. His home. Their home...

Many years ago he had returned to New Orleans and it was vague as a dream then. He had peered at his maker and felt nothing in this cold and dead heart. And much later, living in anonymity, in a crowd of nameless faces, he had grown strangely agitated with the lingering feelings he had for Armand, his maker and his child. Nobody knew anything of his past, it was as if in escaping the emotional pain of loss, he had been cast into a void...

Growing frustrated yet unwilling to seek the companionship of strangers, he had given voice to a tale. It was a tale of half-truths he had given in a nightlong interview to a down and out reporter, a harassed being with ample mortal uncertainty and a seventies penchant for drink and drugs. He had entertained the notion of telling a living being, yet it was never a doubt that he would kill this mortal, that the tale would never make it to the light of day. His victims always die.

Lo and behold. The gruesome penny dreadful "Interview with the Vampire" sprung up in questionable back street stores.

It was insulting. He was indignified. What had happened?

Perhaps it was meant to be...?

For all the nonsense they had written, fictitious plays they had put up for their dearest daughter, none had been this grand. How Lestat would have found it so amusing... The tale so filled with sarcasm and spite, was like a purging of his soul, he was at peace with himself. His memories of their existence were bittersweet and he had longed to hear the wicked humor of his wayward maker again.

It was a decade later in San Francisco, on that faithful evening which he remembered so well. Walking in his usual neighborhood, he saw on display the likes of any pulp novel, only this one read "The Vampire Lestat". He had stared at it, rooted to the ground until the kindly proprietor came out to ask if he was all right. The man had let him know that this was a black market copy, which he had gotten even before the major bookstores received their inventory. The man was so certain that his usual customer would not be interested in this kind of fiction...

"The Vampire Lestat". It was insolent, and open challenge. It was preposterous!

But wasn't that an answer in kind to the frivolity of "Interview of the Vampire"? He could laugh to recall the way Lestat pronounced the titles, mockingly imitating the New World English twang and then bursting into boisterous laughter. Merciful heavens if he could only stop! But Lestat never did. Or rather, he could not. Lestat would dissolve into helpless mirth when they were engaged in an evening of rambling and silly persiflage.

Pointless to explain why he had told the tale and to explain why there were the inevitable discrepancies with Lestat's later accounts. It was just too ironic, including the fact that Daniel was now part of the night rising community. Daniel had come to him once, as had Jesse and David with their predictable Talamascan curiosity, asking about the validity of his story. He had said to them that if one lived long enough, nothing mattered. He was baffling to these newly made fledglings who found him filled with superannuated ideas. He was too feeble minded or lacking in will to them perhaps in a century when people felt elation in exposing one's own weaknesses to the masses on the various electronic media?

It was a private matter and he tolerated their intrusion only because in their modern context, they knew little to nothing about gentlemanly discretion and conduct. Well, he had not even discussed with Lestat, and therein was his obligation. Of course he knew Lestat did not and could not forgive him for the alterations, for abusing his poetic license so to say. Why seek forgiveness when he had such reservations himself? And he did not think it was at all polite to say now that he intended for Daniel to be dead; that the tale was not meant to be known? Daniel was after all Armand's child, even with his lack of affiliation to Daniel, he had enough respect and love for Armand.

But this misunderstanding had probably attributed greatly to Lestat's distinct narratives of him: appreciative and flattering, and mixed with an equal part of derision and sarcasm. Much to his consternation, Lestat and his point-of-view had unfortunately become the word of authority. Each of them had a reputation which preceded them in the world of the undead and also among the living, the mortals who followed each novel with fervor.

Notwithstanding the dramatization, nobody could actually fault Lestat for his candor. And somehow by the end of the day, a sense of honesty prevailed amongst their small circle-

Ah, his mind was wandering...

He was more at ease with New Orleans back to normal now. For four years, the vagabond vampires had streamed into the city. How miraculous that Armand's young companion, the woman child, Sybelle had woken Lestat. How appropriate.

Twice Lestat had woken their Queen. And now the enchanted music of a child had bought the Prince back to life.

Music filled their lives. It represented the magical happiness of those unnatural times. Claudia playing her Mozart and Haydn. Lestat, with his virtuosity, speeding through Bach and Scalatti, adding trills upon trills, turns upon turns and variations upon variations until it was a totally new piece of music altogether... Why, with his reach and love for challenging feats on the ivory keys (for Lestat surely would have nothing less than that, synthetic forsooth!), he would have been delighted with Liszt. Lestat would have been thrilled by Liszt, to love that all too talented musician for his audacity, his pursuit of music the consummate passion of his life. Even in their years in New Orleans, which indeed coincided with the peak of Liszt's musical career, his talent was never brought to shine here. It was such a pity...

He stared at the distant lights, hearing mortal voices intermingled with music, he walked on slowly toward the Square.

A few months ago, Marius had left with Pandora and Armand, taking with them the two young ones to seek some peace and quiet, to work some ways of existence together. And David, a constant source of support and endless hours of interesting conversation had also left with them after much persuasion from his part. With a fledgling's boundless energy, and the heart of a questing scholar that the demonic blood had made too powerful to be subdued by his mortal wisdom, it was only fair that David be released to see the world, to experience it's wonders.

Gabrielle had come and gone. She would come again no doubt. He had the most conflicting feelings for her. He could love her for her beauty, for her strength, or even simply because Lestat loved her so unconditionally. But he was confounded by her reticence, her aloofness which was akin to coldness, so unlike Lestat's garrulousness. He wondered if she approved of him... The all too human aspect of this contemplation made him laugh at his own stupidity.

If only Lestat was better...

He would recover, one must have patience.

David had been so overwrought, suggesting a dozen ways to simulate responses from Lestat beyond his present passivity, his monosyllabic replies. David, so like Lestat in ways, could not understand passivity.

"What is nature? There is no predictable nature to this at all Louis. We can try to bring him out. The fact is we have to try."

Filled with concern and love, he was nonetheless a mortal who could not grasp the true meaning of immortality, of life going on and on. David had been so impatient with him then. In his Englishman's mind, he had probably begrudged his immortal sibling then for everything, recalling every word of condemnation that Lestat had ever written. But somehow, after a day or two, David had conceded and would not pursue the matter any longer. There was complete understanding between them. Louis had never felt more grateful to have David as a friend.

It could take years for Lestat to become his old self... But certainly all would agree that his passivity was much preferred over his comatose. And how long would it take now for Lestat to return to his old spirited self?

Such is the treachery of fate he used to say... Ah, a fate that he no longer believed in nor expected anything of. But how merciful she had been through all this...

He glanced at the human crowd, breathing in the smells of the evening.

Ah, he would thank her even if only for the beauty of this evening...

The Square was teeming with mortals at this hour. He moved in the shadows of the crowd, keeping to the dark and knowing full well that there was enough distractions for any idle observer, nobody would notice him... Something distracted him. He turned, concentrating and feeling it distinctly. He felt a terrible forebodiment as he walked toward the French market.

The cafeteria was packed as usual. He could have missed it for the way it cloaked itself, if not for that signature beat of a strong preternatural heart. He stared at the utterly contemporary nature of this thing sitting amongst the patrons of the shop, it's black hair styled to conventional trends as were it's expensive clothing and the laptop on the table. It looked as if it belonged here, in this scene!

Without haste, the thing looked up directly at him now.

Thank heavens for the fashionable dark glasses over it's eyes...

Nothing emanated from this thing. No threats, no communications, it just sat there watching him until it positively unnerved him and he had to go.

Nothing this old had ever come during the four years! Why had it appeared? What were it's motives? He had to hunt quickly and head back to call the others...

No, perhaps he was too hasty to judge? It did not seem aggressive? For that, no vampire would risk striking in a crowded area. He had to hunt, the nagging hunger had to be taken care of, he needed a clear head to think this over.

The St. Louis cemetery, a perfect place for anonymous victims with its daily spread of cutthroats and derelicts. While he tried to debate with himself on what was the best option, he could not forget how the stranger had outfitted himself with the trappings of a mortal man. The clothes attracted enough attention, yet for a people who gloss over details in their eagerness to generalize, they would have only thought it looked like the made up models, the human mannequins on bundles of printed pages being hawked by vendors in every street corner.

In the distance he saw the whitewashed graves, queerly luminous in the dark, like a beacon for lost souls whose physical bodies had long disintegrated in the earth. He wondered if David had seen the likes of spirits and ghosts here in this ancient site. How uncanny this gift...

He caught the scent of blood in the moist air. Behind one of the old tombs was a petty thief; a murderer; an innocent. He did not care as he reached out for that warm body. It was a flash of color, a lurid shirt and a flushed featureless face before he sank his teeth into the succulent flesh, descending into the memories of his victim as he drew the blood slowly, crushing the body to him until finally the heart became a muffled distant sound.

He let the body drop to the ground. The warmth filled him, the roar of blood going into every vein. He closed his eyes, feeling the swoon and the heat spreading through his body. But in his haze he felt his skin tingle. A sign. It was always a sign... of danger.

He snapped open his eyes, his ears already picking up the sound of a whistling breath. And he saw a huge shadow materialize, felt it's presence... A Vampire!

He backed away instinctly, an immediate revulsion and fear for the eyes, the glass eyes staring at him with animalistic hunger. Creature of the Old World... This was not possible!

He turned, meaning to get away when he felt hard fingers sink into his shoulder. How could this thing move so fast?

He turned to kick at the thing, tearing at the fingers and finally managing to wrench his shoulder from the iron grip, his coat ripping, and he ran without a backward glance.

But again the thing moved, coming to a stop in front of him. The hands like talons were stretched out for its prey. And the face of this thing, this behemoth was a horrifying spectacle. Like a wax mask touched by flame, it was melted and drooping, as if the muscles no longer held it to the bone. The body clothed in soiled modern apparel had the smell of dirt, mold and a mysterious unnatural fragrance of decay. It was not the common fetid of decomposing carrion.

"Blood..." there was a low rumbling from the thing, its mouth moving, capable only of a single vocabulary. "Blood!"

It lunged at him with a speed that shocked him. He barely dived out of the way when the behemoth crashed into the rotting iron fences, tearing out a section as it fell, the corroded metal snapped like dry twigs.

This was not the same mindless creature he had encountered on that faithless trip, this thing had more coordination and it was truly powerful. His vampire sense told him that this thing was diseased... That smell in the air was putrid preternatural flesh.

Plague... Blood shot eyes seemed to leap into his face. The gargantuan towered above him making him stumble back in terror. He felt an explosion of pain even before he was being knocked backwards, and he saw the gleam of a pair of white fangs.

The beast shuddered staring at it's dirt crusted hands, overlaid with blood. His blood, from his flayed flesh.

He dragged himself up painfully, hooking an arm over the dilapidated marker, chalk and powdered on his hands which he ignored as he saw the thing lap at the fresh blood from its claws like a contented cat. The slit eyes moved to look at him and he felt its hunger rising... a liquid pain flowed through the creature, it doubled over moaning, the sound was so inhuman and filled with such pain that it frightened him all the more.

He could not will himself to move.

A plague of their kind... A behemoth that had come to take his life... This was retribution for the innocents he had glutted on... Dear God, this thing from hell was no goat legged devil with the charisma of Mephistopheles or Memnoch but a true horror in the guise of a wretched blood drinking monster, lusting for the very elixir which would only cause it agony... Coming true...

He shut his eyes, terror like white fire running in his blood, paralyzing him.

A blood curdling scream jolted him out of his paralysis, his heels dug into the gravel and pebbles, his back pushing against the cracked marker until it crumbled and he was lying on his back in the tall wet grass. His breath was labored, he thought he must have lost consciousness but the screeching went on and on. In a daze he saw the thing clawing the air, and dark blood, only it looked pitch-black gore poured down its white face, down to its soiled clothes. The screeching was turning into a terrible howling as the same evil looking dark mess started squirting from its shirt front and then it shot out like a geyser.

The terrible racket was arrested suddenly by the ugly sound of bone breaking. The thing shuddered then slowly sunk to its knees. Standing behind it was someone... He closed his eyes, hearing only the loud gurgling breath, and a dull wet thud.

"Are you all right?" A face and a pair of the lightest golden eyes peered at him.

He startled awake, trying to get away from all this madness.

"Calm down." It was the authority in that voice, so low and mature which brought him around somewhat, and he sat there looking up at the handsome young face of the stranger whom he had seen just at the French Market.

"Yes... I mean..." he managed hoarsely in between frantic breaths.

"Take your time," the stranger switched to flawless French, probably hearing the residue of accent in his words.

He felt assured by this voice, the intimacy of the perfect intonation, the gentleness in it and the familiarity of it.

"Just sit for a while."

The vampire moped at his hands with a white handkerchief, at the black sticky substance then threw the stained cloth away as he walked with fluid grace to a dark brown satchel a distance away. It was really a hulking piece of leather, the kind that modern man carried, a business brief case. He bent to take something, his eyes never moving away from he corpse on the ground. There was something cold about the eyes, the burning intensity and the clarify of the dark pupils in the pool of pale yellow light, so like the eyes of big cats hunting in the wild, feral and ruthless.

A flash of white and the smell of matches: a book of matches.

"What... do you mean to do?" he asked unable to hold his peace.

"Has to be done."

"Wait..."

Crackle of a match, and he smelt fire. A tiny light which the stranger fed to the rotting rags. Just as the vampire was straightening up, an arm shot up grabbing him by surprise. The creature's legs shuffled weakly as it wrapped its arms about its victim with a desperate strength that no amount of pushing, kicking, bushing could make it relinquish its grip, not even when the thing snarled and screeched with inhuman pain.

The tiny light was beginning to grow into a small fire on the behemoth's back...

He had to do something! He struggled up unsteadily, holding the tombstones for support. Before his eyes the two wrestling figures toppled, the creature landing heavily on the ground and it had given forth such a ghastly scream that he had to clap his hands over his eyes.

Mon Dieu...

He willed his cramped legs to move, going to the two prone figures. The stranger was still imprisoned in the death embrace of the behemoth which was now twitching helplessly as the flames licked its clothes and arms. He plied the hard talons with all his strength, breaking the bones and ignoring a stab of fear as the thing convulsed in agony but thank the Gods that it could no longer not move... He must set his mind on getting the stranger away before the fire took him as well.

In a state of panic he pulled the dark headed vampire out from the creature's grasp, dragging him away to safety.

"Mon Dieu..."

He could not tear his eyes away from the flames which spread very quickly now, fluid by the black blood. He stared at the jerking form and the protrusions of sinister looking poles which had gone through the creature's torso; it had fallen right on the rotted ends of the damaged fencing!

He whipped around hearing a wrecking cough. The stranger's clothes were singed and smoking.

"What are you doing...?"

The vampire pushed his finger right into his left wrist puncturing the vein, and he repeated the process with the other wrist so that the blood gushed out, gathering in a growing pool around him.

"For the love of God stop that!"

"The blood..." the words were half articulate growls, with every spasm the preternatural body was draining quickly. "Put me in... in the earth..."

"You will die from losing blood," he stuttered, totally horrified to see the flesh shrinking before his eyes.

"Call... Amarna... my cell..." the last word was a silent hiss, the golden eyes rolled up and all life seemed to have left the skeletal body in his arms.

Oh, he could close his eyes and imagine this was the murky swamp where he had slipped Lestat's body into the dank waters... He was shaking so badly.

But he could not just sit here, he could not just leave this vampire, the one who had saved his life, he could not just leave him in the earth when there was still a faint shallow breath and the bloodied chest still moved.

There was only Lestat. Only Lestat...

His mind drew a blank as he got up shakily.

Return to Rue Royale this minute his mind told him... And he forced himself to start moving.

"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 Tale of the Body Thief, Chapter 30-

Rue Royale.

Soft electronic disturbance of the television.

He had never felt more relieved than he was now. He almost clambered up the steps with his burden, his preternatural limbs were aching and he hardly noticed the pains in his wounds as he trudged on.

In the hall now and only a short way more to go... He burst into the upstairs bathroom, pulling two thick plush towels and spreading them on the floor before lowering his precious load down. Ah, it was a ghastly sight! It reminded him of something he never wanted to think about again, the unforgivable deed committed under this very roof...

"Louis... put me in my coffin. Put me in my coffin!"

...look at the skeletal fingers, the black hair on the white parchment like skin stretched over the skull... things that made up his nightmares... He turned away, he wanted leave the room now... then stopped stock still, experiencing a wave of dizziness: Lestat stood at the doorway!

He was certain this could well be a condition the mortals referred to as a heart attack. He had to lean on the marble basin for a minute to catch his breath.

Lestat merely stood there staring at him all the time. Then ever so slowly, his eyes shifted to look at the body on the floor. "What happened to you?" he asked in an indifferent voice, the blue eyes were unfocused and blank as he continued to stare.

"You have to help, Lestat, something terrible has happened!" he had to push himself mentally to make a coherent statement. "Lestat!" He was not getting any response from Lestat.

Was he supposed to expect a response? What was he thinking about? He had to try any way, so thinking he had grasped the hard rock-like statue and shook Lestat with all his strength.

Lestat did not budge an inch but he blinked, and looked at him with some change of expression. "Louis..." he blinked again, his voice carrying some amount of surprise.

"Lestat, we have to help this vampire!"

The clear blue eyes blinked again. Lestat stared at the body, his eyes widening as if he was seeing it for the first time. But there was no palpable emotion in his visage even then.

He could hear the ragged breathing of the wounded vampire become more alarmingly shallow as the seconds ticked by. It was not unlikely the vampire could die; or was it conceivable under such circumstances? He did not know. There was no way to tell and his mind told him there was no time to lose, he would have to act according to his own intuition.

Without a second thought, he rolled up his sleeve, ready to give his blood.

"What're you doing?" Lestat asked, pulling him up quite suddenly. "You're hurt..."

"It's nothing. I have to help him Lestat."

"You've lost blood..."

"I can't watch him die," even as he spoke, he could not help but feel himself mesmerized by the subtle transformation in Lestat's eyes, they were becoming more cerulean, and suffusing with a living fire which he had not seen in the longest time.

"I'll do this," Lestat muttered, he bent on one knee beside the body, giving it a last look before biting his wrist and holding the wound to the lipless mouth.

With the first drop of blood the skeletal frame shuddered, coming to life as it acted by pure vampiric instincts to clamp its mouth on the fount. It drew on the blood with ferocity and after only a few draughts, the body began to fill up, the face regained its former dimensions.

Lestat growled, tearing the wounded vampire from him forcefully.

They moved back watching the young male form spasm, blood oozed from it's damaged body, the dark shirt and coat glistened, and bruises were forming on the flesh of it's face. As it drew in a quivering breath, terrible pain began to emanate, growing so strong that he pulled Louis out, he had to get them physically removed from that source.

"Louis?" he shook Louis gently.

"I... I'm fine..."

The dazed and stunned look on Louis' face woke him up like a slap to his face. The liquid incandescence of the green eyes touched him like the warmth of the sun on his face, rousing him from an eternal dark, solitary winter... He reached out to touch that seemingly white and lifeless hand. Then even without a conscious decision, his body moved of it's volition to clasp his fledgling, to hold and comfort this most fragile being.

Oh, when was the last time Louis actually needed him...?

It was a long while before Louis shifted away. The eyes were searching his. Despite the anxiety and exhaustion, Louis had collected himself and become his dignified self; there was such meditative wonderment and the expression was so poignant that he had kissed those white cheeks and guided Louis to the couch.

"Much better?" he asked softly.

Louis stared at him for another long moment, expressionless and dazed.

"Tell me what happened."

Louis continued to gaze steadily at him for so long. It was a protracted moment before he finally spoke, to begin his amazing tale, speaking in a low and deliberate voice. He did not interrupt, nodding and waiting for Louis to continue. He was savoring every word, that lyrical French, that heart warming cadence he had missed so much for it's assuring and dependable calmness.

They sat without a word when Louis finished.

"We have to find a place to bury him," Louis said, running his hand through his tangled hair, the weariness showing in his brooding eyes.

"Bury him?"

"Yes. As he has asked for specifically. We can call this Amarna after that," Louis looked away signing.

"Bury him you say?"

"Yes, as he has instructed."

"No, this cannot be. For the love of heaven do you show such gratitude for the one who has plucked you from the jaws of death?"

"We know nothing of him Lestat-"

"You can't mean this..." he was filled with disbelief.

"We don't know if he belongs to a coven nor the kind of coven he belongs to, it's too dangerous. The fact is they might not find us their ally and do us harm," Louis struggled to keep his voice reasonable. "His coven can help him, Lestat... Do you realize we are talking of the others?"

"Exactly. But what possible harm can come to us? Think of it."

"No, we don't need this-"

"Aren't you even a little curious about who the others are?" Louis was making it so irresistible for him now. Those flashing green eyes, the color coming to his gaunt and delicate cheeks. A low throb of vitality and passion was slowly filling the emptiness in him most deliciously.

"What self serving recreant would risk his life for another? Surely that would've meant something?" he said. "What about this Thing you met? What was it, and where did it come from? I've never heard the likes of such a creature from the Old Ones. What if there're more of them?"

"Ah, then maybe this is purgatory. Perhaps this is a plague, something that is finally found its way to eliminate us..."

"Then it's all the more reason to pursue this, to look for this coven and to find out what they know of this Thing, of what we are up against," he said quickly, he could feel a dull pain grow in his chest and he went on, not willing to stop there. "I will not stand for mysteries, paltry superstition any more. I don't intend to stay ignorant. Don't you see Louis? There's no way around this."

Louis was looking at him, so deeply sunk in thought. He would never have survived this long without knowing that Louis was always there ready to accept him as he was; his faults, his mistakes, his selfishness, his greedy heart which could not be satisfied.

"What is it?" he whispered, he wanted so much to touch that near mortal flesh and that fine black hair.

"You've come back..."

So simple! The succinctness his lover possessed of made him smile.

"Ah Louis..." he leant forward to brush his lips to Louis' cheek. He could say no words. And he could feel the affection cresting in Louis as they held each other, his arms wrapped loosely about his fledgling. This was like a dream of old...

"Don't do this..."

This was sublime.

"Let us enjoy this peace, this time together like we always said we would."

Yet, he felt a momentary lapse, the darkness and his suffering threatening to surface. He refused to let it touch him. "Nothing is going to happen. No harm will ever come..."

Louis moved back abruptly, his eyes searching his slowly. "You are determined to go through this..." he said in disbelief, the shock turning to anger when he saw the truth. "Have you learnt nothing Lestat?"

"This is different for the love of God Louis, I have no design on heaven nor earth..."

"Vampires do not crave the company of each other, you told me that so long ago, that they are lone predators, jealous of their secrecy and their territory," Louis stopped, he was distressed and angry obviously but he went on in a softer tone, trying to keep a check of his anger. "This cannot come to any good... And what would we do with these vampires who'll only view us with jealousy and hate as soon as they know us for who we are? You cannot deem to forget that in their realm we are regarded as outcasts."

"I spoke of these things too long ago. But there are so many things, so many things which I had held onto, believed in so deeply before, they are changing, no longer important."

"Then believe this, leave the world to it's own fate," Louis was pleading with him. "Leave the others to their endeavors, there has been enough deaths Lestat..."

Ah, the deaths of so many with the waking of their Queen, and Veronica's veil. He shuddered to remember the vivid details of the trail of dead bodies on the pristine snow peaks; the acrid smell of burning vampires at the steps of the St. Patrick's Cathedral; the pits of hell... The looming face of Memnoch...

He shook his head. He refused to be beaten. He would not give up!

"No. No, I refuse to believe it is all-bad. For all that has happened, has it not drawn our numbers closer?"

Louis did not speak.

"Would there have ever been a reason for the young, the old, the nameless, the shadows to step forth to the light? Surely there is goodness in that...?"

Louis did not refute him, he had lowered his gaze to look away with a near inaudible sigh that was the very personification of melancholy. Was it fair to say that he had made this, the very one he loved his eternal tormentor? In Louis' capacity to love and to hate, his seeming dependence and helplessness, there lived a mind as keen as his. Surely Louis was not as competitive, but he knew and sometimes even better than his maker would have acknowledged. At times he was just too stubborn to swallow the bitter remedy that was subscribed...

"Come, we really must do this."

It was the conciliatory tone, which surprised him, so soft and gentle. How could he have held out against Lestat? Perhaps Lestat read him too well... He did not like to think of the all too recent past of leaving his maker to his own devises, of refusing to give him the blood and to earn that eventual wrath...

Now he felt himself drawn into Lestat's ardor for life, his all-consuming passion and his charismatic charm. After all that had happened, he knew there was no way he could leave. He could be angry, he could leave like before. He could feign indifference, make excuses that Lestat could well live without him, but he could no longer do that.

Think! This was frivolous. This was dangerous... He should call David. David would want to know that Lestat had broken from his silence. They could reason with Lestat. Or he could call Marius and Armand... But the truth was Lestat had little care for the opinions of his friends. He could count the number of times Lestat had actually taken any of their advice. Essentially nothing could change Lestat's mind; he was forever rushing off on his own, he was forever self-deluding; he was always trapped in a state of self-denial.

He sighed. Should he stand by and let Lestat go on his own?

He recalled with clarity Maharet's warnings that Lestat could be permanently damaged; and Pandora's comments that Lestat's sanity could have been strained almost beyond repair... Consider, if Lestat was going to do something drastic, at least he would be there he reasoned. His pulse quickened to think of that.

The smile on Lestat's face was dazzling. The invitation was hard to decline.

Lestat stood up.

"Where're you going to?" he meant to follow but stopped short when he saw Lestat heading upstairs, he knew the oppressiveness of the room would have driven him out instantly.

"Stay here."

He sat waiting, wringing his hands in terrible anxiety. But it took another minute or so before Lestat appeared, blood sweat was beading on his forehead.

"It's like a slaughter house," Lestat breathed sitting down on the chair that he had pulled out for him, and Lestat took the handkerchief, which he had pressed in his hand.

"What're you thinking of doing?"

"Here, bring that case you've brought back Louis."

He did not like that but having committed himself thus far, he had gone to the back parlor to pick up the leather brief case. He saw that Lestat had already emptied the contents of the leather wallet taken obviously from the stranger. The slips of papers and bills were all soaked but no amount of washing could remove the smell of blood on them.

"You took all this?" he could not resist asking.

He felt queasy of handling any of the articles and refused to participate as Lestat took everything out from the wallet. There were receipts, half a dozen credit cards, money mostly European currencies and some green back, and a European driver's license. How delighted Lestat looked. He was enjoying his mundane process of probing the carefully constructed personality of the stranger. From the leather case, a prodigiously expensive and finely made piece which drew much approval from Lestat, he had taken out files and papers enclosed in clear plastic or leather folders, documents in envelopes. From the panels there was a piece of rectangular hard plastic, a lap top computer and he also recognized the palm size gadget, a PDA; there was also a fashionably small cellular phone. In the many pockets there were classically made European fountain pens kept in their snug leather cases; a leather business card holder and finally a small velvet pouch.

"Louis, look at the cards..." Lestat's voice was filled with irrepressible excitement.

He felt a great distaste to even look at all these things. He felt like an accomplice in a crime...

"Look at the name," Lestat urged in a confidential tone, holding up a business card.

It was simple card printed with the all-familiar, traditional French scripts.

"Le Saint Clare
Anton Saint Clare"

His eyes went to the credit cards and the driver's license directly, they carried the same name!

"St. Clare?" he could hardly believe this. "They just opened a St. Clare here..."

"The hotel mogul," Lestat whispered. "It's been around forever. Who could have suspected? And look at this, this modern contraption." Lestat held out a small clear container, opening it for his inspection.

"Contact lenses...?"

"Color contact lenses, mind you."

What manner of a vampire could this be? Dressed completely in the skins of a modern man, assimilated into the mortal population even more comfortably and efficiently than they had ever been. He could remember how convincingly human it looked despite it's impossibly smooth skin, well made features; there was no vestige of human emotions left in it, a total blank. It's silence and powerful presence frightened him.

"I don't like this. Do you see how it deceives? No mortal could've guessed what he is and for that matter, no immortal would've known the financial power he possesses. This is disturbing. A vampire with incalculable strength like Maharet is a horror but she keeps to herself, she doesn't influence the scheme of life. This, this vampire, what evil can he wrought on life? For want of a better question, what evil has he already done?"

"We don't know that Louis, and for that matter whether he belongs to a coven-"

"That is beside the point, this vampire is beyond our comprehension Lestat. I saw him and he defies common understanding, he is not anyone we've ever known. We don't want to know him, and we surely don't want to know the coven he belongs to. They might be even more vicious than anything we've encountered, there's just no way to gauge such a thing."

Lestat did not reply. He was still as a statue, his eyes grew large and infused with a curious unreadable light. While Lestat had indeed turned into a thing carved of stone, frozen in time and expression after he received his more powerful blood from Akasha, he had read a kind of suffering silence in Lestat's demeanor. His memoir on his encounter with the Body Thief had given ample testimony to Lestat's state of mind as he struggled to regain some balance to his life...

In so many ways it was cowardice, in his blind hope that Lestat would find his own way, he had not pushed for answer. He had feared that in asking, he risked everything that had been gained. Four years of absolute solitude, what had gone through Lestat's head and for months now, he could not be induced to talk until this very moment...

An inertia from an unknown source... Would he want this? Ages ago, a different being with a different mindset had put him on the long journey to the Old World, it had cost him dearly to embark on that futile venture: his maker, and his child. His heart grew cold to even think of this.

"He needs our help Louis," Lestat whispered, a faint glimmer to his vivid blue eyes. "He is not going to live if we put him in a pauper's grave. Will you kill in such cold blood, another of our kind?"

So much pain to hurt the one you loved. He saw Louis wince. The dark eyes flickering and turning away. Would they always choose the words that could draw blood in each other's hearts?

He took up the documents, making cursory glances at everything; they were mainly bank transactions and land deeds. It went without saying that the vampire was probably rich beyond their estimation and was perhaps some kind of administrator of his coven's earthly possessions; either way this meant he must have some kind of social standing in his group.

It would also seem that M'sieur St. Clare operated almost exclusively in Europe. The land deeds were mainly processed in Europe, the financial receipts were from Swiss banks and there were proposals of some kind of transfer the deeds to an American legal advisor. Besides that, the slips of papers from the wallet were mainly commercial receipts of credit card purchases made in European boutiques, some receipts of merchandise for later collection and also a pair of opera tickets to a gala performance in Paris in two weeks time.

His mortal facade aside, what manner of vampire was this? A vampire who had survived the genocide and who was as old as Armand? What clues could he glean from these things?

From the crush of the velvet pouch he found a tiny pewter trinket case. It's intricately carved surface was marred and smoothened in places, clearly it had followed it's owner for many years, perhaps decades, even centuries from it's design. Ensconced in this tiny container was a heavy ornate silver ring caught in a breathtakingly beautiful silver chain. Both ring and chain were newly made by modern craftsmen who still wielded the ancient knowledge. Even Louis was attracted to these mysterious treasures. Inside the rim of the ring were tiny inscriptions. He had peered at them but could make out no meaning, most puzzling. The writing was totally foreign to his preternatural brain. Perhaps it was some ancient language? He did not know. He was certain of the fact that it was a precious memento to its owner.

To look at all these and to hold these tiny objects in his hand, could he see this creature as evil, as viscous? The answer could very well be yes, the same as he was he was evil, cruel and viscous.

He had never found the interest to know the others, random creatures of the night. Why the interest indeed...?

He put the ring back, inserting the pewter case into its velvet case carefully. A vampire who had escaped the massacre and now lay in it's own blood, a thing without consciousness, only pain. Can it be saved? Can his coven help him? He did not want to know ultimately. Ah, how selfish was his motive but all the same he felt the excitement course through his blood... To do this...

Louis did not speak when he picked up the cellular phone, flicking it open. It was powered on, ready to call and to receive calls. He sifted through the directory, discovering such mortal names in it; nothing in it suggested that this belonged to something inhuman.

At last with a satisfied sigh, he found "Amarna": a place in Egypt. He knew the place at the back of his head, he had probably treaded on its sandy decrepit roads before. Drawing in a deep breath, he pressed the button to dial. It did not take long for it to connect, the ring was so close.

A voice answered, "This is the private voice mail of Augustin Venidello. Please state your purpose of calling and to leave details if you wish your call returned," it was a soft Italian voice speaking in Continental English, not inhuman at all.

Lestat heard the loud intrusive beep tone. And he saw Louis look away wearily. "I'm calling on behalf of Anton St. Clare. He needs immediate attention, I will not dwell on details, if you want them, meet me tomorrow in the New World, American State of Louisiana, the city of New Orleans. Find in any city map the town square, I shall be at the cafe New Market at eight," he cut the line.

Louis frowned, then without another word left the parlor for his room.

He busied himself will putting each article systematically back then closed up the brief case.

What did he care about consequences after all this time?

Pitch darkness.

He woke as was his habit for this 200 years, a repetitive motion, a monotony if not for the fact that he could hear the sounds from the other room. The sounds of a bureau being opened, soft rustle of clothing and the lightest footfall.

He stood at the windows, closing his eyes and truly letting himself absorb each sound, dissecting them with his impeccable hearing, separating one from the other like he had tried to do so long ago. He realized with a stab of humility just how much he had missed this. He realized that even this can lighten the darkness...

Having enjoyed a hot shower, he had reviewed his closets, settling for a plain set of black velvet. He took his time about everything. And running a comb through his hair, standing before the mirror, he felt an unsurpassed sense of satisfaction and happiness. It was a long time since he took pleasure in this.

After taking enough time indulging in narcissistic admiration, he had come downstairs to the front parlor where Louis was apparently waiting for him.

"You will go through this then?"

Soft, such soft French that brought back the indelible memories of standing here amongst this same furniture. Perhaps the gas lamps had not been as bright, and Louis was dressed in his immaculate evening jacket, the fitting vest and whitest cravat, long slender fingers holding gloves and hat, waiting patiently; they would go to the cabaret or the theater... He could almost close his eyes and make himself believe for that very moment the litany of disasters, the sufferings never were, that they were back in that past when things were simple, and perfect.

Good God, what went wrong? And what was he doing again...?

"Lestat."

"Yes," he said, pushing away the crowding darkness, strengthening his resolve. "Yes, I would."

Louis looked away with such a bland expression on his gaunt face; he had to feed.

"Want to come along?"

Louis shook his head. He looked as if he would say something but made up his mind not to. He stood up from the brocade couch and was moving to go.

Lestat reached out to catch hold of the white wrist, a mere loose clasp so that Louis could choose to break away if he wanted to.

Louis turned back to look at him expectantly.

"You're not leaving, are you?" he asked softly, suddenly frozen up with uncertainty. When was it that Louis had asked him this question...?

"I need to hunt," Louis said politely, his eyes showing some degree of seriousness. "I can't stand to be here..." He paused, turning his head slightly to indicate the hallway.

There was indeed an underlying disturbance that was most unsettling in the house; he could feel it all too keenly too. "You'll be here... when I return?"

"You know I will," a small smile came to Louis' lips.

He nodded. His fingers trembled as he let Louis go. At the courtyard, Louis had turned to look at him with that same assuring smile before disappearing down the street. It gave such warmth to him, ambrosia for the heart... He felt alive!

Slowly, in a very human fashion, Lestat walked the streets to see his city again, to appreciate the details lost to him in these months; or was it years? There was little changed, there was comfort in this. He found himself standing and staring at the new St. Clare. It had taken over a crumbling nondescript hotel and had in fact completely restored and enhanced the moldering structure, brought back it's formal glory in those lawless colonial times. Entirely French, down to the imported vases and the handmade furniture; the St. Clare had resurrected the soul of a bygone era. It was astounding how much this reminded him of the past when they, the three of them, arm-in-arm had passed by this spot where he stood now.

Can the vampire who did this be a terrible being? Perhaps this was vindication of the personality of this stranger? Or was this all his own creation of mad and meaningless poetry, metaphors of a wandering mind that would not rest?

At last he made his way to the Town Square. The witching hour was close at hand.

The cafe was bursting with tourists. He managed nonetheless to negotiate a comfortable corner table with the kindly waitress who was instantly charmed by him. Such sweet innocent blood and so young... He tipped her exceedingly well for the all time mortal favorite cafe au lait.

Left on his own and ignoring the curious glances he drew, naturally enough, he tried to consider his present situation. Tried indeed, but this place was filled with his memories... It did not seem all too long ago when he had sat here in this very table with the Body Thief, that miserable villain. Ah, David. How his fledgling had helped him, all through every ordeal... His Englishman Talamascan friend was gone now, Louis probably knew where... It did not matter eventually, there was time enough to look for David...

There was something-

Lestat sat up to listen, opening his mind. It was a sensation like an interference in his psychic. No, he would not go as far to say that, it was like a gentle tap. Quite impossible to describe this abstract feeling... He turned, taking his time to scan the cafe and the surrounding.

It was a presence surely. Unobtrusive at the onset, it was working its way into his consciousness gradually. And now he felt it strongly, unmistakably. His breathing stopped when he saw what he was looking for. Standing a distance away in the square was a tall figure, flaxen hair and dark long overcoat moving with the slightest breeze. No hostility, just this presence and it seemed as if it was awaiting for him to make his move.

Perhaps he made a sign. He did not know but his heart was thudding in his chest as he watched the figure move with human slowness yet with the grace of a dancer toward the cafe. Its eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark glasses.

His breath came out in a low hiss as he stared at this apparition, this young man opening the door and coming toward him. The long feathery strands of its hair was clinging to the dark material, the fine texture of the coat.

"May I join you?"

What a mouth... The lips seemed to pout almost. And how magical the skin animating with its smile.

"No?"

It was a soft tenor voice, a young voice.

"Please, I forget my manners," he gestured quickly.

Lestat could hardly veil his excitement as he stared at the young man who doff his over coat, draping it without a care on the chair. There was a strange accent to the French. He could not tell what it was, perhaps it was Italian? It did not seem so?

The stranger sat down then removed his glasses, long curling lashes closing over the eyes for a brief second as he clipped the frames to the breast pocket of his black wool jacket- that would be too warm for this weather here?

The eyes. Lestat found himself captured by the stunning azure eyes, at once blank and expressive. There was a kind of sincerity about this vampire that was seemingly palpable. Totally enigmatic and unexplainable. Such a powerful vampire who did nothing to hide his abilities yet did not flaunt it. It was so natural in its horrific perfection. Beyond his comprehension as Louis had said... He had never met such a vampire before.

If the stranger heard his thoughts, he did not say as he sat there passively waiting. Perhaps it wanted to put him at ease?

"I will take that same thing," the resplendent reproduction of a young man said when the waitress came to take his order. It smiled charmingly with such innocence in those large eyes. When the steaming cup of cafe au lait was served, it had a taken a large bill from an expensive wallet to place in the young lady's hand- that should keep her away from their table for a while at least.

"You have called Amarna."

Lestat was stunned again by that voice, so very young and tender, and processed, losing any semblance of its mortal timber, leaving this refined and metallic tone. Yet nobody in this cafe could ever have believed that sitting here was anything other than two extraordinarily hansom blond men.

The thing was oblivious to all this attention. It was looking into the frothy mixture; it's pale fingers touching the cup. Clearly it was allowing Lestat this private moment of evaluation, or what could it mean?

Slowly the vampire looked up, it's eyes soft and a small smile on the pink lips. "I am a friend of Anton's," it said quietly, "My name is Remus."

Remus. A Roman name. But the man before him had a distinct Nordic appearance, complete with that halo of whitish bond hair. How interesting...

"I'm Lestat," he said in a bare whisper without thinking.

"You will let me know where Anton is then, Lestat?"

His name sounded foreign. The vampire had distorted it with his exotic accent.

"I did not come to seek a quarrel, surely you understand?"

"And your coven?"

"There is only me."

"You represent your coven in coming here?" Lestat pushed a little harder and saw the arched eye brow quark.

"To put it in your way, yes."

"Why?"

"To let you know we mean you no harm."

This creature simulated no breath of humanity. Reason told him this thing could be more dangerous than any of the Children of Millennia he knew, yet his vampire instincts were clearly sleeping; it was puzzling. This preternatural being did not cast an aura of horror, of alien deformity, or of evil greed. What did it do? Surely it was something conscious like Valium in his blood which had suppressed his body's natural capacity to sound its alarms that could put him on the defense.

"I came only for our friend."

What exactly had made him view this exquisite creature so suspiciously? Cynicism that had come with too many painful betrayals? "I want to know how many there are in your coven." He told himself he needed to practiced caution...

"There are many."

"You have coven houses around."

"Yes... Coven. Houses..." Remus spoke the last two words with a slight distaste.

"So you don't call them coven houses?"

"No. That is shall we say, a present day jargon."

"Where did you come from?"

"Just? From New York City. I stay in New York City."

"How about your friend, Anton?"

"Anton stays in Europe."

"Then why is he in New Orleans?"

"I heard he came to see the St. Clare hotel here, he operates St. Clare."

"You heard?" Lestat pressed studying the calm and patient face.

"I have not talked to him for a while."

"Then you are not his companion."

"We are friends, brothers in a family," Remus shrugged gesturing slightly.

The subtle motion of the white fingers, the palms did a graceful action, almost of a dance; that was a typical enough Italian behaviour Lestat decided to himself.

"So you treat each other like brothers and you have some coven leader Augustus Venidello who told you to come here to take care of this."

"Something like that," Remus smiled, his eyes dancing with silent mirth.

"How do I know that I can trust you, that a horde of your so-called brothers don't turn up here?" Lestat narrowed his eyes.

"Of course they will not, I am here for them. You have to believe me that we don't do things that way. I came for Anton and I will leave, that's all I ask," Remus said slowly, pronouncing the French with care. "You have not seen me before and you needn't have to ever see me nor Anton again."

Something this old had been living in New York, even a thing like Anton had been in Europe and he had never laid eyes on them. Perhaps there were many, which he had never cared to notice, or that their cloaking skills were so good that he had not sensed them. Remus claimed there were many in his coven... It would seem his previous estimation of a thousand or two might not have encompassed these surreptitious ones.

Lestat had a feeling that he could sit here the entire night asking questions and he had not the slightest doubt that Remus would entertain him with the most diplomatic answers. Remus was like one who had been given a duty, a mandatory assignment that had to be completed but would invest no heart in the venture. There was no way to tell and Anton needed help...

What the hell, why mull over it when his mind had been made up to help? Of course Remus was an intriguing vampire, it would be interesting to know more about his coven.

"Very well," Lestat nodded after a long while, having made up his mind. "Come, let's leave."

Remus stood up promptly picking up his coat. There was a strong vitality about him, much like the exuberance of a child, a positive goodness told Lestat that this vampire could not mean him harm.

Lestat found himself looking at the broad shoulders of Remus jacket as the long-haired vampire led the way out. At the door, Remus had held the door for people squeezing pass them to get in; everyone was staring up at him in awe. Yet no mortal found this creature grotesque or monstrous somehow. An old woman had smiled looking up at the both of them, commenting how startled she was. Remus had smiled broadly at her, looking every bit like a child with a candy.

They strode at a credible pace through the heavy crowds, the busy streets giving way to deserted lanes. Their shoes hardly made any sound. Lestat checked on the vampire often, watching him from the corner of his eye. Remus' face was a blank, only his eyes moving over the panorama of quaint houses and trees, he looked as if he was scanning. Perhaps Remus was skeptical, holding to the same suspicion as he had that Lestat might have a coven hiding all around the neighborhood.

He led the way pass the carriageway, up the stairs, and Remus needed no guidance from there, he knew where to go.

"My gratitude for your trust," Remus inclined his head slightly then moved up the stairs.

Lestat stood at the hallway for the longest time after the door shut upstairs. This had all proceeded beyond his expectations... What had been his expectations? Some white faced monster coming for vengeance? A coven of paranoiac young recreants? He had never really bothered to think of such things. But it had gone on splendidly well, unbelievably well. He had to find Louis, find him and tell him everything. It would not be difficult to locate Louis; he knew all his old haunts.

The darkened church had provided a space of peace, of hours of meditation. It was also their favorite place of truce.

Tonight not even the sound of his old trusted lover, the raucous voice of her countless taverns, the familiarity of her summer warmth which he could trust always, not even the beauty of her fragrant streets could quiet his heart. The attempt on his life had left him traumatized, filled with confusion and helplessness; a feeling that had not haunted him for the longest time now since his reunion with his maker.

What lies he had told himself that he should take comfort in sameness, of believing that nothing would ever happen, nothing could ever happen. He had fallen into the grove of believing that mortality was a long journey to nowhere, that he had merely stopped trying, stopped walking. What a romantic notion it was, that he was the observer, taking the simple pleasures left to him by life, to watch the world turn. That was before yesterday... The irony was, with his depression was elation, a joy that he had experienced so few times in his life. Lestat had woken. He could see those bewitching blue eyes, hear that resonant voice again.

But he should not lose sight of what Lestat meant to do, and what could happen this night. He could not envision what would happen thereafter and that disturbed him very much. How many years had it been, he had watched Lestat rush into his adventures with high ideals and impossible dreams, only to see disappointments and hopelessness obliterate the meager chance of any possibilities. None existed.

Lestat always come back full circle. His adventures proved them so. This was fate...

Ah, but he would not believe in such an entity called fate.

He rested his chin on the heel of his palm, elbow on his knee, engrossed in his thoughts. He felt miserable and too vulnerable... The wood creaked loudly in the emptiness of the cathedral suddenly making him jump.

"Louis."

He gasped, biting down on the urge to cry out.

"Good God..."

His breathing was harsh in his own ears as he felt the pain flare then subside to an insistent throbbing all over his left shoulder. Louis covered his face with his hand for a minute fighting for control.

"I... Louis-"

"It's nothing," he muttered, taking a few deep breaths.

It was Lestat sitting in the pew beside him. His maker's face was filled with concern and the eyes were like incandescent crystals.

"That thing did hurt you badly... Oh, I was a fool..."

"And this has to do with you?" he had to suppress the urge to smile.

"This is no joking matter!" Lestat scowled although his lips were twitching.

"A scratch, nothing more."

"I'm not your damned second, Louis, for heaven's sake, you don't have to patronize me with that gentlemanly answer. If it hurts, it's bad."

"It's just a scratch," Louis frowned, making to get up.

"Louis!" Lestat's voice was very firm. "I'm deadly serious about this and I want you to have this." He offered his wrist without ceremony.

"For God's sake..." Lestat said immediately seeing the frown deepen on Louis' face.

"No," there was no softness in that voice and he knew Louis would not back down.

"Not platitudes, the same frivolous argument," Lestat shook his head, his hands bunched into fists.

"Not frivolous, it's about responsibility that you are sorely missing."

Lestat glared at his fledgling, his nerves were working into knots. Quite amazing how the anger was making Louis look more alluring, more alive than ever, the flesh of his face becoming more supple. He had wanted so much to feel that near human flesh...

Well, they could very well start hollering, destroying the sanctity of the church, and better yet, bring in a crowd of inquisitive mortals in here and investigate on what was going on.

"All right," he breathed slowly, calming himself. "No use persevering in this ridiculous fashion, what's more I did not come to talk of this. You need to feed, let's go."

"I just did."

"Then have another, if you want to recover, you will need to hunt. And I will tell you about what happened."

"What happened?" Louis stood up looking into his face worriedly.

"I'll tell you, let's go find you a rogue first."

It was a young voice speaking, coming from the landing of the second floor. It was clear to his preternatural hearing, clear as was the mature male voice at the other end of the line. He could not decipher a single word. The melodic language was totally foreign and he thought that Lestat, with his superior constitution would have no difficulty with this.

Vampires conversing over the phone. Even the stranger, Anton St. Clare used a cellular phone; this was a coven very much adapted to mortal habits.

But no amount of such thoughts could pull him away from the disturbing presence he felt, or the underlying vibrations of sensations from the wounded vampire. it was unsettling to him. He tried to flip through a novel, to read the lines, but his mind registered nothing; and he found himself stealing covert glances at Lestat who was slumped on the settee. He half expected his maker to spring up and pace the room at any moment...

Louis looked away, trying to engage his mind elsewhere, and found himself staring at a vision of a young man standing at the doorway, looking at him very attentively, as if he had been doing that for the longest time, waiting politely to make himself known to Louis.

The serenity of that face, the cascade of white gold fanned on broad shoulders of the black coat, and the overall slender built gave this thing an unearthly appearance. Impossible to believe this could be a human person! The apparent sensuality of it could very well rival Pandora and Armand... Or perhaps it was more because of the innocence of that face, and that expression?

This thing was dangerous, make no mistake about that...

"I startled you?" the vampire spoke gently in French, there was a trace of that accent Lestat had mentioned earlier. "I apologize for the intrusion."

Mortal manners? Had the vampires in the street ever have any use for that? Even so, while it might look and talk like something of some divine realm, but Louis knew this was a cursed and evil thing like them.

"I am a friend of Anton. I have to thank the both of you for helping him before I arrive."

"Ah, but you see, your friend had saved Louis here," Lestat spoke, his eyes large and thoughtful. "Please, do come sit with us."

A small smile came to that face, lighting it up to show that for all it's whiteness, it was the face of a tender young man probably not much older than Lestat nor himself when he was made.

The vampire Remus walked slowly to sit in a gilded chair facing the settee as well as the couch Louis was seated upon.

"How is your friend?" Louis asked anxiously, not able to suppress his trepidation.

"Sleeping for now."

"You do know how to treat him? He said the blood from that thing... it was tainted?"

Remus looked at him for a second longer, as if to read more meaning to those words before speaking. "There is no concoction in this world that can undo it as far as we know," the light blue eyes were sufficed with a kindly light.

Was that sympathy? Louis did not know the meaning of that.

"Do you know what that thing is, that walking corpse?" Lestat interjected.

"What horrors of nature we are and there exists such a thing..." Louis whispered more to himself, and felt Lestat's hand pressing his arm with a reassuring pressure.

Remus' eyes widened in wonder, there was a touch of amusement too. "There is, what the modern world would say, a scientific explanation to this," his tone was persuasive, like that of a man trying to solicit the support of his listeners. "This thing you have seen, we call it... a..."

Remus' brow drew together in contemplation.

"A Revenant. I think that is the closest I can think of..." Remus made an off hand gesture, his smile growing wider and a little self-derisive, as if to show apology for his language deficiency.

"A Revenant starts out like any of us Blood Drinkers, and a vile serum poisons his blood, attacks his body like a common sickness. A virus as they say today. The Blood Drinker loses everything that makes up his personality, and the body starts to deteriorate. It's suffering can be alleviated by the blood of his brothers, but the Revenant dies eventually. Essentially a Revenant is a killing and feeding parasite."

"This is appalling, a virus that can destroy a vampire..." Louis felt anguished and a dark fear welled in him. It was true that this was a plague...

"The serum, the Revenants, they existed a long time ago, there is no mystery about them my friend," the stranger said assuringly.

"Explain to us then where did this Revenant thing came from?" Lestat interrupted them; he was watching Remus keenly.

"To the best of our knowledge, Revenants will never be released in such a densely populated human area, it will be pointless."

"How so?"

"They are effective strategies of elimination. I think this Revenant you encountered had traveled from its original point of release."

"Somebody had deliberately poisoned a vampire? A strategy for killing vampires?" Lestat sounded quite awe-stricken.

"Rivalries, ancient feuds, such things are always happening," Remus shrugged indifferently. Then he grew serious, his expression more sincere. "But about Anton, the poison is not making it possible for me to move him. That is a more pressing problem."

"If there's no cure, what will you do?" Lestat asked directly. "What can we do to help?"

"Nothing really," again he shrugged. "Let the poison run its course, until such a time when Anton's condition stabilizes."

The answer seemed to be made in the way of a nonchalant physician; one who would prescribe bleeding his patient even when the man lay dying. Remus was not sympathetic to his friend's condition. Louis did not want to believe that there was nobody who would show the wounded vampire more concern and worry. But the situation seemed to be presenting the realistic truth in most large covens, the death of a single young member meant nothing! And what could he, the one who had cast the poor devil in his present predicament do to help?

"Is that all that can be done?" Lestat asked in an incredulous voice. "I don't see why a full infusion of blood will not cure him."

"That cannot be done."

"Why not?" Lestat's tone grew menacing.

Louis looked from Lestat's furious expression to Remus' calm face, this could not be allowed to go on. They had no knowledge about Remus, and with a vampire this powerful, one would be foolish to test that power. Louis squeezed the hand on his arm, trying to make Lestat aware that this was not the way; it was certainly true that Lestat was coming back to his old self, especially with regards to his habit of provoking others.

A sharp metallic ringing ripped through the tension.

Louis drew in a breath of air, discovering that he had not been breathing for a while.

It was coming from the cellular phone, the contraption of Anton St. Clare that had been left on his table. He retrieved it and came back holding the small devise to the elder vampire. Remus took it with a silent nod of thanks.

"Yes?" Remus answered the call.

"A very good evening..." it was a human voice speaking the New World, American English.

Louis retired to the settee to sit with Lestat who was still scowling away. He could hear the conversation; he could not have ignored it even if he wanted to.

"It's Craig Thompson here, can I speak with Mr. St. Clare?"

"He's not available at the moment. Can I help?"

"I'm his attorney with Ballard & Coles, it's on some important matters which Mr. St. Clare had instructed yesterday, he wanted me to call..."

"I know all this is important and I will have him call you soon, good day," Remus cut the line abruptly. All his politeness was missing and his tone was unmistakably condescending.

Glaring at the tiny console of the phone, he sifted through its directory while he took out his own from the breast pocket of his suit, and to dial a number on his phone. Remus was totally engrossed in this task and did not seem to notice Louis or Lestat in the same room.

"This is the office of Ms. Kristina Romano, can I help?" a quick business like voice with a cutting New York accent to the English, answered the call.

"Carla, I need to talk to your tyrant." Remus said in his equally accented English and while his face had not acquired any more emotion, it was the modulation of his tone and voice which now made him sound seemingly charming.

"Sweet Valentino calls," the mortal female sounded quite bowled over. "Ms. Romano canceled all her appointments and meetings today, she left word to say she'll be working at home. I thought you've got something planned... Oops, guess I've said too much already!"

"Hmmm..."

"I'm sure she's waiting for your call," the woman chuckled.

"I'll call her then."

"That means you're not coming today?" disappointment evident in the voice.

"I'm out of town."

"Really? I mean, swear to God Ms. Romano probably's waiting for your call now." There was a hint of inquisitive excitement in the mortal voice.

"I'm sure. I'll talk to you soon," Remus disengaged, muttering under his breath of what had the intonation of an expletive as he dialed another number.

Remus spoke directly when it was connected. "Your secretary thinks you have some quiet evening planned for me," it was a beautiful language with a quality that could only be described as delicate and it seemed to be an archaic form of Latin.

The female voice on the other line answered in that strange and incomprehensible language that Louis had heard Remus used earlier. And Remus' manner of speaking was slow, sober and respectful in every way, breaking only once into a sudden show of temper when he said disgustedly in his Latin: "Take care of that accursed slave of Lauren".

"I should take a lesson or two in the finer art of cussing in Latin," Lestat muttered, leaning close.

Louis had to smile on that, it allayed the nervousness he felt. "What do you think we should do?" he asked softly.

"Like I said yesterday, I'll help the poor bastard if our Roman friend here doesn't lift a finger," Lestat replied evenly.

"He has his own reasons surely." The conviction in Lestat's voice alarmed him.

"Then you are not against this thing staying in the house?"

"I don't know."

"You are almost ready to trust him!"

"I don't know!"

Lestat was going to say something when he stopped, seeing that Remus had finished his conversation and was folding up the phone, slipping the compact piece of chrome and plastic back into his tailored suit. And after an uncharacteristic snort, he had also closed up Anton's phone and put it in the pocket of his dress pants.

"I don't expect either of you to understand," Remus began, picking up the thread of their conversation, his manner friendly as before. "I know that you are uneasy with us, and you should rightfully be, the streets are never safe-"

"Who was that you just talked to?" Lestat interrupted him, sounding demanding. "I want to know."

"A friend."

"The attorney?"

"Someone who works with Anton, I haven't the faintest idea what he does."

"You don't care much for it do you?"

Louis shot Lestat a warning look. His maker was going under Remus' skin with this; it was like an interrogation.

"I don't care for what he does but it doesn't mean I am not his friend, we merely do different things."

Remus produced his wallet, and pulled out two white cards which he gave to each of them. "I'm an art dealer, I have an art gallery in New York City."

That most effectively led Lestat astray from his original questions. In fact Louis sensed that Remus was acting with a kind of deference to them. Vampires were always suspicious of others, too concerned with their own safety that casual conversations hardly existed even in a Vampire Connection. Perhaps Remus was putting up an act as he had been doing, playacting with the mortals. But why should he? Remus could easily claim himself to be the elder, he could bully them, call on his coven; or he could cast a spell; or do a fanciful display of strength and power to overwhelm them.

"Interesting," Lestat was saying agreeably.

"I can call my assistant later to have him send a portfolio," Remus smiled.

Louis looked down at the business card. 'Tito Palladio' was the name printed there.

"Remus."

"Yes?" Remus looked up at him.

"What is Anton's condition?"

Remus cocked his head slightly. "I don't know the answer," he replied simply.

"What?" Lestat exclaimed sharply, his face turning dark instantaneously. "How can you talk of a thousand irrelevant things and say this?"

"Lestat..." Louis tightened his hold on Lestat hand.

"Give him the blood!"

"You know what will happen don't you?" Remus looked at Lestat with no loss of calm, and he crossed his arms. "Power does not equate knowledge and equilibrium; that is the age old saying my friend, I am no wiser than you but I do believe in it."

That gave pause to Lestat's anger.

It surprised Louis. But it was only logical. An infusion of such powerful blood would indeed make Anton as eminently powerful as Lestat or Remus.

How many times have they argued about responsibility with Lestat?

"All that you say is meaningful, we are touched by your concern and help," Remus continued in a softer, more personal voice. "You ask me how this ailment can be treated and I tell you in all honesty that nobody knows, at least for anybody who is willing to help. You ask me if Anton will die; I fear to answer but of the fact that he is strong, and he will fight, that I am confident. You do understand that everybody who is his friend will want to help in our limitations."

There was silence. Louis had to believe by now that Remus had a way of diffusing the most perilous situation; again he had made Lestat step back to think.

Remus went on very softly. "I speak for everyone, I ask you only for a little flexibility. I ask only for your kindness to help a Blood Drinker."

"So you will not have anyone intervene with you and your coven in handling this," Lestat said finally.

"It is the only way," Remus shrugged, his face was placid.

"You will need to stay here, for a while..."

"Yes."

"Well," Lestat broke into a wide smile. "Let's see which room will be most suitable then."

He walked to the door motioning for Remus to follow him. Lestat had that usual ebullience when he was expecting something to happen, or when he was on the verge of some adventure...

So what was this coven Remus had come from made up of? Vampires as old as Anton and Remus? Remus was clearly a Child of the Millennia. An entire coven of such ancient beings living in various places without the knowledge of anyone... For a group of vampires, individuals who crave such independence as Remus did, there was most likely a very powerful master vampire who ruled over them. This August Venidello had clearly ordered Remus to come.

Ah, but how he deceived himself, and how very vain. In thinking of all these, he had neglected the guilt he felt. He would have felt better if Remus had come cursing him for the entire accident and not shown such humanity, had not come asking for their help. The two of them, mere new born fledglings in the coven where Remus came from evidently...

And what would he do if Remus had blamed him indeed?

Beg for forgiveness from a dying man, a dying vampire? He was no longer a mortal man, Anton was not a mortal man either; what honor could exist between monsters? And once damned into this eternal purgatory, could he ask to be absolved of this single crime when he committed nightly atrocities against so many innocents? It would be a mockery. What arrogance this would be.

At such a moment of dark thoughts, he could not imagine what would happen if Anton St. Clare ceased to exist; would his coven descent upon Lestat and him exact their vengeance?

Louis shuddered to think on this...

A special note: Dedicated especially to you, DarkAngel.

-Day 2-

'He deals the cards as a meditation
And those he plays never suspects
He doesn't play for the money he wins
He doesn't play for respect
He deals the cards to find the answer
The sacred geometry of chance
The hidden law of a probable outcome
The numbers lead a dance

'I know that the Spades are swords of a soldier
I know that the Clubs are weapons of war
I know that Diamonds mean money for this art
But that's not the shape of my heart

'He may lay the Jack of Diamonds
He may lay the Queen of Spades
He may conceal a King in his hand
While the memory of it fades

'I know that the Spades are swords of a soldier
I know that the Clubs are weapons of war
I know that Diamonds mean money for this art
But that's not the shape of my heart

'And if I told you that I love you
You'd maybe think there's something wrong
I'm not a man of too many faces
The mask I wear is one

Those who speak know nothing
and find out to their cost
like those who curse their luck in too many places
And those who fear are lost

-The Shape of My Heart -
Sting, The Ten Summoner's Tale (1993)

There was an uneasy tranquility about the flat when he woke and he wanted to be away from it. He wanted the night air and a dark secluded corner where he could think over all the events of the previous day.

It gave him relief when he left the house to see his maker at the courtyard. Lestat was gazing listlessly at the fountain, at the play of light on the water. He smiled in greeting, so glad to see the iridescent eyes locking on his and the answering smile on those generous lips.

Lestat had hurried over his words, saying that they needed a place to talk. Most disconcerting to see a jittery glitter come to the vivid blue when Lestat told him to go to the orphanage...

He felt his heart constrict. Why would Lestat want to return to the prison where the imprints of his suffering were etched on the very walls?

But as he knew Lestat, with that indomitable will he would never give up. Lestat would never have stood for fear nor cowardice, he would fight them to the end. He would put his very trust and faith in Lestat.

He could go on only because he knew that there was a dark sun in the endless black horizon; he could no longer exist without Lestat. But how very frustrating it was that Lestat refused to come to terms with the limitations of this world, it was beyond any immortal's comprehension why Lestat would be so reckless, that he should have not the slightest compunction for the many things he did.

How furious he had been with Lestat when his maker came to him sprouting the miracle that the Body Thief has offered him. Hubristic and irresponsible, Lestat had not even the decency to tell his closest friends, his companions, that he had meant to end his own existence. In his self-conceitedness, Lestat had believed he owed no obligation to the ones who loved him and therefore he had the liberty to do what he wanted without a care for the results of his actions. Lestat had such a way of censuring what he would, and would not listen to; self delusional, proud, Lestat would choose the words of strangers over his friends.

But how would Lestat go on now without inspiration. That was the crux of matter. Surely a monster must be allowed his dreams? And what was Louis de Pointe du Lac but the very personification of his original Sin, of painful lessons, and failed experiments?

David Talbot the mortal, as had Dora, had unwittingly become the lifelines, the source which nurtured Lestat's impossible dreams. On David, Louis had seen it so clearly when he set eyes on the elderly Secretary General in the Talamascan house in London. Louis had known in the crevices of his despairing heart that David's making was eminent. He had no doubt that his words spoken in confused anger and fear for Lestat's near brush with death in the Gobi desert, and the mad ideas of switching bodies, that he had in fact goaded Lestat on even more in his impulsive adventures.

Such self-deception to think that Lestat would come to terms with the limitations of their damned world and keep at the sidelines. But when would Lestat learn the lesson of inevitability? Perhaps he would never; and Louis prayed that he would never...

But what would Lestat do now? All his illusions crushed so mercilessly one after the other could Lestat go on? Exhausted of his dreams, without hunger, without the breeze for his sail, how would Lestat go on?

This troubled him exceedingly. And would everything happen all over again, the same thing; their vicious cycle?

'As in their birth, wherein they are guilty,
Since nature cannot choose his origin-
By o'ergrowth of some complexion
Oft breaking down the pales and facts of reason
Or by some habit that too much o'er-leavens
The form of plausive manners- that these men
Carrying, I say, the stamp of defeat,
Being nature's livery or fortune's star,
His virtues else be they as pure as grace.
As infinite as may undergo,
Shall in general censure take corruption
From that particular fault'²

He entered the orphanage, his steps echoing in the emptiness. As Lestat would like it always, he would light the candles.

Let the light fill the darkness.

Could he, the helpless witness, the mindless accomplice ever move to help? Or would he be the green-eyed monster that would chart it's own disappointments and shrink forever from leaving it's realm of horror, residing eternally in a molding castle, dreaming always about the blue skies and the bountiful fields of gold?
-Stabat Mater-
Pergolese³

Cool dampness seemed to hang in the air, clinging to the aged trees and the wild grass and vines, there was life blooming every where. He breathed in the river air as he walked, his feet taking him down the path he knew so well, into Napoleon Avenue.

There was a stinging sadness and an impotent anger as he came up to the old building, his building; his legacy of demons, spirits and pain.

He went in quietly, drawn only to that familiar presence. He sensed now as he came down the long corridor the numerous unknowns who had passed by this same way-

'for he was a scholar, once admir'd,
For wonderous knowledge in our German schools,
We'll give his mangled limbs due burial;
and all our students, cloth'd in mourning black,
shall wait upon his heavy funeral.'⁴

They had come to view and mourn in their dark and drab numbers; for even the cursed Faustus who sold his soul was admired, so why not he? It gladdened his savage and vicious heart immensely, it gave comfort even if it could not take away the pain.

Ah, who would have thought the devil would come; true to the hooves of each foot, and the black feathers of each wing? But still what was the significance? The significance of a hapless mortal with his glass eye, and his divine sight that Maharet had returned, placed in his hand with a note from Memnoch... He could rave to think again on that!

What manner of a demon would leave his victim, and not tear him asunder, limb to limb!

But there was clearly his answer... The blood of his dark brothers and sisters on his hands, for what had he done but to help these celestial institutions to massacre his own kind? Perhaps therein lie the motive; that it was not only to revive His great work!

Yet art thou still Lestat, and a cursed demon amongst men...⁵

He would go mad thinking of this! And he was past thinking, past suffering, past reasoning!

He saw nothing, walking blindly ahead, letting his preternatural instincts instruct. And he realized he was already at the doorway of the chapel. It was still beautiful, decorated with the fineries that Louis had thoughtfully arranged. And Louis sat there now, meditative as he watched the glow of the candles.

Like a man thirsting for relief, he walked on doggedly until he came to the pew where Louis sat, and he had slumped down sitting heavily. How to describe the journey here? That he felt bereft of any comfort, enervated by misery; he felt defeated.

"I was waiting for you," Louis said, his voice was subdued. "I was afraid you would not come... not to this place..."

Louis' hand closed on his shoulder, light and alien. Lestat could not speak and he kept his eyes on the tall stained glass windows, taking in the colors, the shapes, the way the lights shone through them making the colors so vibrant and alive...

"Why are we here Lestat?" Louis' voice was like a gentle comforting kiss on his skin, that persuasive, that intimate.

When he turned to Louis at last to meet those searing eyes, he had almost flinched but Louis pressed his shoulder harder, waking him, giving him courage.

"I am so tired..." he said in a low voice.

"Will you tell me."

Such earnest sincerity in those green eyes, such trust always. Had the apostles showed the same faith and unwavering loyalty to Him?

"What is the meaning of this all, Louis? The paltry happenings, the deaths of so many... Was I in seeking, granted a glimpse of truth, or was it punishment for a willful beast who would not rest with simple answers?"

Louis studied his face with rapt attention and sadness in his eyes. Then ever so slowly Louis moved to kiss him on his brow, to put those soft hands on this hard gleaming flesh, to pull him close.

"Does it matter all this?" Louis asked so gently, so softly.

Yes, it mattered, he wanted to say. His vicious heart hungered still like he would hunger for the blood all the time, only this was hurtful and it was killing him. He let Louis guide him down, to rest his tired and aching head, his ear so close to the beat of this familiar heart.

Hmmm, at least the coat was new... Lestat wanted to laugh, so trivial! But he liked the comfort, the solace of being in a lover's embrace, to be this close without hurting each other. This feeling of peace over him was almost too much. This silent understanding and acceptance of the evil in him, the evil that he had passed on to this innocent soul, and to make Louis forever the witness.

It did not matter eventually that no mortal recognized him nor cared for what he was, for here was the one who saw and understood everything; who knew how to fear and appreciate everything that was him, the Vampire Lestat.

-Chapter 7 / Dixie Gates - Fields of Thoughts, Fields of Despair-

-Day 3-

Their guest had made himself comfortable in the back parlor. A bulky leather case quite similar to the vampire Anton's satchel sat on the floor. And amongst the rococo furniture was a spread of modern technological wonders; the requisite toys: laptop; the small, palm size curiosity, like what he took from Anton's case; two black brackets for the thin, waffle-like cellular phone batteries. There were also papers and files stacked together neatly.

It was pleasant to let Louis pull him away from these. Oh, to see the look of indignity on Louis' face when he chanced to even breathe about touching the unattended laptop. It would be easy to tap into its wealth of data banks but of course he would not engage in such a dreary task! Lestat was feeling gleeful to see the familiar disapproval in those brilliant green eyes.

They were to go down to his downtown penthouse apartment, to the dear old woman's place where his dog companion was lodged.

"Positively rude to neglect the dog like that," Louis had told him so very politely, reminding him as if his reputation indeed depended on it.

It was always so amusing to argue over nothing with Louis. And he had also teased his fledgling about the paper carrier he had brought along; it was a conventional paper bag with beautiful color separation, accurate machinery printings of such fine execution.

Imagine, would Mojo even remember him?

But there was one thing he could always count on, and he knew that. Mojo had perked up, his pointed ears flattening the moment he heard his name. Lestat wondered again, it must be the tone of voice more than anything else that triggered recognition from Mojo... There was certainly no lessening of affection as Mojo leapt into his arms, a blur of pure energy as he went into a whole vocabulary of dog expressions.

So sublime. Had anyone been able to abandon himself to such feelings, to show it more freely than this divine creature?

"Yes. Yes, Mojo, and I would that I can say as much," he laughed, kissing Mojo and finding himself promptly overwhelmed by a great pink tongue.

Laughter.

Lestat stood up. It was Louis leaning so casually, so relaxed against the flaking old wall, his arms folded at his chest.

He could not describe this moment. He never felt more completely cherished and loved, by his faithful beast, and his beloved Louis. He wanted to say something, to make some proclamation... To kiss that smile on those irresistible lips, to drink the laughter from that mouth...

Mojo pawed his coat insistently, his great big head pushing at his master's hand, and making those lovely high pitch whistling sounds, seeking attention and expressing such love.

"Ah, forgive me," he kneeled on the clean flag to look into the large intelligent eyes which held such calm. And when he hugged Mojo close, this great heavy body, he felt such warmth and happiness come over him.

It was easy to get reacquainted, they wrestled about like always. Mojo was bounding and leaping about exuberantly, not giving him the opportunity to greet and thank the old woman who had come out on hearing all the noise.

There was no mistake that the old woman knew Louis very well, in fact she was asking about M'sieur de Lioncourt's cousin. With such conviction Louis was telling her that David was away in England, that he was an academic, busy with some research. Then Louis had pressed the paper carrier into the wrinkled hands. How quaint to hear the woman protest that it was one too many gifts, and that she wanted to return the money he had been putting in her hands.

Trust Louis to be all prepared when he went social visiting; indeed he was wearing a very proper suit.

"Here, why don't you get Louis to come, or we would surely spend the entire evening here," Lestat whispered into Mojo's ear.

The dog got up and went to Louis directly, he had seated himself in front of Louis until he caught the attention of the old woman. How she had laughed, nodding her head and waving them off as the two young gentlemen set off to walk their dog.

They would go to his favorite river, what joy it was the three of them. Their perambulation taking them through the deserted factories and warehouses, boarded up and wasted like a ghost town in the deep of the night. Louis was walking steadily on as Lestat fell back to visit these wondrously seclusive remnants of the modern century.

He came at last to where Louis sat, stealing along to try to catch the quiet French Louis was speaking to Mojo as he stroke the dog's head.

Without fail Mojo had sensed him and was already getting up to settle on his haunches. Possessed of a large dog's maturity and dignity, Mojo would not scamper about; he kept his eyes trained on Lestat, waiting patiently.

Oh, how he loved Mojo...

"Aren't you a perfect gentleman Mojo, keeping company with Louis?" he kissed Mojo, then went to sit beside Louis. He could feel Louis' eyes following him and that gave him a secret satisfaction. "You have been looking after Mojo," he looked at Louis, it was a statement and the words conveyed his thanks.

"And David as well," Louis answered, so humble and kind. "David has gone with Marius, with Pandora, Armand and the two children."

Lestat nodded. So they were all together. He would see them in time when he had enjoyed this precious measure of peace with his fledgling, to gather his thoughts, and answer to himself what he would do henceforth. Why, even Armand had found his happiness. He would have wanted to talk to Armand, to see his children; to hear Sybelle's playing...

Those rippling notes of the Appassionata. The third movement, the right hand singing with such beautiful clarity as the left hand flowed; the running scales which would have been a tremendous challenge for anyone with less virtuosity. One could be moved to tears to hear the true power of the pianoforte. And to him in those years, Beethoven made it clear that they needed to have one in the Rue Royale flat; how displeased Louis had been initially, to introduce an "untraditional, tasteless piece of furniture" into the house...

'...and shipped directly from Italy, a useless fashion statement, an extravagance, an infatuation. You will tire of it soon enough-'

'The harpsichord is not the only kind music Louis for heaven's sake, we will have that instrument and you can tell me.'

'There is nothing to add, we have seen it at the recital-'

'Oh, pray show a tad of aristocratic grace and generosity M'sieur de Pointe du Lac if you should ever have any at all!'

Lestat roused himself to the present, smiling slightly; the battle for change indeed, but Louis was certainly far from the fledgling, Louis de Pointe du Lac of those times...

Mojo was following Louis about, to the edge of the murky waters. The simple, natural way Mojo's ears moved; flattening in that loving way when he wanted to be patted on his head, showed such affection. And Louis had smiled, bending to kiss the dog on his furry nose.

What had happened in the past few years had not changed what was between them, he wanted to believe this. But he knew the demonic blood in him was keeping them apart, dividing them physically. Ah, but if he pulled out his memories, he could hear Louis' voice reasoning and begging Maharet.

And he knew Louis had been there, been there keeping vigil over him these years.

A shadow fell over him. He looked up to see Louis' face, that pale and gaunt handsome face. Louis reached out with his slim long white fingers to frame his face, to trace his eyebrow with his thumb.

When he was about to step back, Lestat had caught his hand. "Do you still love me after all..." he asked quietly, without expectation.

"You know always," soft beguiling smile.

"I don't," Lestat shook his head. "I don't even know myself..."

"Perhaps it is simple."

Louis tugged his hand so that he stood up and they were facing each other.

"It is there, that you needn't look." Louis held Lestat's hand loosely in his. "And you needn't use all this power that you have been bequeathed."

Such kindness and trust in that voice. Lestat moved to take this, his beautiful fledgling in his arms slowly, tentatively almost. His heart rejoiced to feel Louis move into his embrace. He kissed Louis' cheek, marveling anew at the feeling of this flesh against him, such pliant flesh...

Good God, had this same body not felt so cold and unyielding to him!

Could he say that Louis had betrayed him, knowing Louis as he did? With his infallible weakness, his gentleman's honor and Claudia's persuasive eloquence; the very fact that she was their intrepid daughter, all of which led Louis into committing to the idea of leaving for Europe... And Louis believed he was doing his maker a great service by not giving the Dark Blood...

Was he not the greater fool for having put the idea into Louis' mind that he had so wanted to go through with the experiment? Ah, he wanted to weep for all that stupidity... How fate had made them all fools...

'Lay my head on the surgeon's table
Take my fingerprints if you are able
Pick my brain, pick my pockets
Steal my eyeballs and come back for the sockets
Run every kind of test from A to Z
And you'll still know nothing 'bout me

Run my name through your computer
Mention me in passing to your college tutor
Check my records. Check my facts
Check if I paid my income tax
Pore over everything in my C.V.
But you'll still know nothing 'bout me
You'll still know nothing 'bout me

You don't need to read no books on my history
I'm a single man, it's no big mystery
In the cold weather, a hand needs a glove
At times like this, a lonely man like me needs love

Search my house with a fine tooth comb
Turn over everything 'cause I won't be at home
Setup your microscope and tell me what you see
You'll still know nothing 'bout me

Epilogue / Nothing 'Bout me
Sting, The Ten Summoner's Tale (1993)

The flat was not empty when they shut the door to pass the back parlor. At the long hallway, they saw Remus coming down the stairs.

His dark charcoal grey suit suggested mastery tailoring, as were his gleaming new square-toe leather shoes. Remus was lifting his long damp hair from the collar of his jacket, pushing the fine straight strands back carelessly. Today he looked so starkly white; it showed his preternatural age so clearly.

"My apologizes for leaving those bothersome objects in your lovely parlor. Dreadful. I should have asked but I had left much earlier, there were things to be attended to."

"You went back to New York for these things you mean?" Lestat asked.

"Oh no, that would have been most inconvenient. My luggage has been sent down to my room at St. Clare yesterday."

"Superb arrangement," Lestat commented aloud. Indeed, the vampires in Remus' coven could move around so easily, the St. Clare provided them easy cover, a base to work from, and with the added privacy they need.

"And now, may I so boldly ask about what happened? Can you tell me?" Remus asked, he looked strangely uneasy.

Dutifully Louis repeated the tale to Remus. Lestat had joined in to fill in the details at the end on calling Amarna, leaving out any part about Louis' intention to abandon Anton.

When the tale was complete, Remus was so still and silent although his eyes had turned gradually into the most alluring shade of violet. For the longest moment Lestat was at a loss as to what went on behind that pretty mask.

"I see..." Remus whispered in his archaic Latin, there was a sudden flash of emotion akin to rage on his face. "Innocence, the lamb that could not be sacrificed..." He closed his eyes looking away. And when he turned back, he had become calm as before.

Remus clasped his hand before him, as if he was deciding on what he would say. "I take comfort that he has given you life," his French was more heavily accented than before but it carried the nuances clearly; a kind of conviction and persuasion. "Do not feel remorseful, or sad, for this. Anton would not have allowed it."

"Are you then close to him to be able to speak this for him?" Lestat asked.

"Everyone is close to Anton. Everyone loves him," Remus answered after a moment of pause, as if he was considering what to say. "He gives all of us strength and will... It is difficult to explain, you will know when you talk to him, when this is over."

"Then he is better," Louis asked uncertainly.

"It will take a while," Remus frowned showing his weariness for a second before his became a mask again.

"We would really want to help," Lestat said, he was none too happy with Remus' answer somehow, that it was seemingly incomplete. "Or would you like to call on someone else in your coven to help?"

"Ach-"

"You don't like that word?"

"Coven is such a modern jargon... it has a, shall we say, negative connotation."

"So just what do you call it?"

"It's a family," Remus said carefully. "A Brotherhood, that is close enough."

"And what language is it that you use? What is it that you speak that I don't understand? Can any language elude us so completely? Surely not this preternatural brain?"

"It is the language of the Blood Drinker."

"A language, a special language?" Louis interjected, clearly in shock. "How has it evolved? And if so, has it been lost to us, is it so complex that it cannot be deciphered even by us?"

"Wait..." Remus held up his hands asking for calm. "Please, I am not one for the job of revelation, I will only confuse you, lead you astray... This is something for the elders, they are better candidates to answer to any of those questions..." He pursed his lips frowning slightly, "I do have a notorious reputation, to add another will make no difference really, but dispensing nonsense in the form of sagacious advice would be a real crime."

"A notorious reputation indeed!" Lestat's eyebrow quaked. "So why were you sent to help Anton, why not someone else?"

Louis flashed him a warning look. But this was getting interesting!

"I am more of a diplomat," Remus smiled. Then in a more serious voice he had gone on. "Of course I flatter myself. It's a test from my beleaguered elders."

"So, if something happens, I have no doubt your elder will exact some punishment on you?" Lestat could not miss the chance to take a jibe at the placid vampire, after all he had been the brunt of too many accusations of rule breaking.

"Certainly that is conceivable," Remus said agreeably.

"Should we be worried that we know nothing about your reputation? That we can be deceived."

"Do you really think you can be deceived? Not a Blood Drinker surely?"

He felt a sudden bout of dizziness. For a split second he saw so clearly that face; black hair, black clothing of indistinguishable make: The Ordinary Man. He saw it swell and change, it's transformation unhurried but definite, he saw the black shadow of wings take gradual shape, the legs elongating and the cloven feet, the bestial deformity.

The goat-legged Beast deceived him. Lies, lies, a panorama of lies!

He felt the earth open below him, the illusionary brightness, the deafening din of howl and chat and song swallowing him whole!

And then suddenly, pure silence...

He saw here, the Blood Drinker Remus, the hardness of the fingers on his neck and the distinct smoothness of those lips on his brow.

The room returned to him in its complete clarity. His confusion had disappeared like a wisp of smoke, thoroughly dispersed even if he still felt the bitterness and pain deep in his heart. The sudden madness had been utterly subdued; or removed; amputated. He had no words to describe.

Remus withdrew. He looked uneasy, as if in guilt or embarrassment.

Fascinating... Lestat widened his eyes in shock. A terribly delayed response. Then he smiled a small smile of wonderment. "You dispensed comfort with a charity..." he whispered, "Are you then a saint among demons?"

"Not a saint," Remus laughed under his breath, sounding faintly relieved. "Just your friend. Your brother."

"Tell me then, what is this Brotherhood?" Lestat asked finally in a low voice, he felt a new respect for this stranger now even if he still did not believe Remus would do much to help his wounded friend. "Is it a sainthood for the damned?"

"It is a family. That is all. There are no saints, no demons," Remus' lips pursed slightly, pouting almost. "Well... I will not talk of that. The Brotherhood consists of members, Blood Drinkers who gather for mundane reasons; for companionship, love, for help. It's a sanctuary for everyone."

"That is a beautiful image," Lestat muttered, the pain was molten in him. "How can it be done? Such was attempted but it never worked, it fell apart without much test of time."

"I have to agree," Louis added solemnly. "What sanctuary can contain the greed and selfishness of creatures like us?"

"My friends, I am no philosopher nor thinker. What I believe in, what I have felt in this sanctuary is what you see of me," Remus answered helplessly, he was hard pressed for an answer evidently. "If you need answers perhaps I can call on a friend, someone whose studied academic senses will be more to your liking."

"That will be interesting,"

"Lestat!" Louis exclaimed involuntarily in alarm.

"All this electronic equipment, modern technologies galore, that is your means of communications?" Lestat went on, not allowing Remus time to answer, nor listening to Louis, or taking heed of his anger.

"Yes."

"Why the need to do this? Why, do you even walk the streets like the rest of us do?"

"The youngsters of the day, the elders called them Street Rats, they don't need to see things like us. We would only worry them excessively. And we have you worried needlessly, that is wrong."

"That is intriguing. I would like to know more about your Brotherhood-"

"It would mean nothing. The Brotherhood as it is, is an antithesis of your life," Remus sat back looking troubled.

"Tell your friend to come."

Lestat could not continue as Louis had stood up abruptly, murmuring an excuse and striding out of the door. Lestat stared after him numbly, he could not allow anything to interrupt his plans...

"Go talk to him."

"What?" Lestat's eyes widened.

"Lestat," Remus lifted his eyebrow questioningly, urging him to go.

Who was this stranger to tell him what to do about his fledgling? What arrogance, and in his house...

"It doesn't matter, what I say about the Brotherhood Lestat," the tone was infinitely gentle, so very sincere and persuasive that it would be like a sin to ignore his word...

Lestat went to the front parlor where Louis had set a piece of familiar music to play, the haunting strain of cello so majestically beautiful and articulate over the shrill violins, the mute moaning of an organ...⁶ They had a wealth of music compact disks in the bureau from Purcell's harpsichord, to the flowing piano pieces of Debussy; he knew Louis had a particular liking for Debussy...

His lover sat there now on the velvet seat of the armchair brooding, his chin resting on the white knuckles of his folded fingers. He studied Louis' profile, the pluckering of his brow, the green eyes filled with a troubled light. That had been how Louis looked when Akasha turned her glare across the room.

A chord of fear had struck his heart now as he realized that he could not have been able to bear losing Louis. In 36 hours, the excitement of the discovery, the reviving passion was wearing thin. He felt at this moment, the full impact of the terror that he could have lost Louis that very night to the Revanant. Just like that... Like so many hapless mortals who left their homes, their families and never returned.

Predictable. Yes, and inevitable but Louis was an anchor, and a testimony to being alive. That was Louis to him. Eventually, the only vindication for the writings and the records he had done, it was only for one.

He put his hand on Louis' back, felt him startle and look up at him in astonishment, incomprehension apparent in this exquisite face.

"Why walk out of there like that? You don't agree?"

Louis stared at him dumbly, anger smoldering in his eyes; the set of his mouth was stern. Then he had turned away, not speaking a word.

Lestat was tempted to make a surly remark, a stinging one that would set Louis in a belligerent mood instantly. And why was he here in the first place? Why was he standing here, knowing full well that no amount of persuasion would convince Louis; he would only resort to coersion and bullying when all failed... They knew each other so well, they knew what to say always to each other, to ignite that dormant anger; to destroy what fragile peace they always strived so hard to sustain.

So why do they continue this innate practice? Why indeed?

"Is it better today?" he asked finally and saw Louis turned to look at him.

Louis was totally baffled.

"Do you want to hunt?"

Louis winced just a little when Lestat let his hand pass Louis' left shoulder.

"No."

Louis obviously did not want to carry on the conversation, he wanted to leave. He was evidently upset and he always would leave, for if they continued to talk, they would end up in a brawl.

But Lestat was not letting that happen. He dropped to his knees in front of the chair, putting his hand on Louis' wrists, making it impossible for Louis to leave.

"Do you have such reservations about Remus? Do you, after having heard him speak?"

"Yes I do, and you are acting rashly. How can you make yourself believe?"

"Believe that he is honest, that he tells the truth? How can you believe otherwise?"

"Lestat he is not like us, you cannot recognize the thing that he is by simply comparing him to any of us, or any mortal."

"You don't feel that all he said deserves more attention?" Lestat said, studying Louis for his every reaction. "I don't say his obtrusive lack of concern for Anton. Should I interfere, do you think?"

"No!"

"Certainly."

"You will not do this Lestat." Louis said furiously, his face coloring.

"All right. So what is it that you think?" Lestat made an effort to speak reasonably. "Louis."

The green eyes narrowed, there was such passion, such intensity in them. "The sanctuary he described, his Brotherhood, they have a mythical quality. I can't accept without questions."

"What if he speaks the truth?"

"Then perhaps I suspect him for nothing. But the fact remains that he's strong, his friends in he brotherhood must be just as powerful. We can't even begin to understand the scope of the matter..." Louis' voice was low and stained with anger, he drew in a breathe and controlled himself. "His perception of the world, the value of everything, to him and his friends, all these must mean differently from what we believe in."

"Don't you want to know at least if this family exist? Don't you want to see it and learn the truth, the meaning of it?" Lestat countered, knowing all too well these were questions that had driven that young vampire of ages ago.

"Coven wars have been happening all the time, not only in the secluded regions. Less than a decade ago there were wars in the cities, I have seen enough of young ones being led to their deaths because of petty rivalries..." Louis glared at him, trying to keep his voice down, to be polite even if he was so angry. "I question the motives of a coven like what Remus has mentioned."

Lestat knew he had not mingled with the degenerate creatures infesting the cities enough to know when he first woke to the new world. Street Rats indeed, an appropriate term of usage. He never knew them before Akasha massacred them... Louis' word carried an underlining pain as much as anger. Would he ever understand his fledgling's pain to lose his new acquaintances to their Queen? And how many times Louis had admonished him, trying to dissuade him from rashness; trying to dissuade him from accepting the Body Thief's offer.

Why risk everything, rush headlong into everything blindly, disregarding the advice of his closest friends, his confidantes, even his own judgement.

Because this is more exciting, it's more fun!

He was tempted to say this, to throw up his arms in an ostentatious display of disgust with Louis' lack of courage, and leave him to his ever-ominous thoughts. On the other hand, he was tempted to kiss those lips, to silence all those warnings, such negativity. He wanted to coax

Louis out of his disconsolation, to have him drop all that emotional baggage, to truly look at the experience as an adventure. Why must Louis take everything like a trek through hell? Grab him by the shoulders to shake him? What good was that?

Lestat nodded. He backed away, finding the couch behind him and sitting into the soft cushions. He hardly noticed Louis leaving the room, immersed as he was then in the mournful voices, the articulate strings carrying their voices, making him forget his exhaustion...

Such a broad spectrum of feelings. What a miracle of sound and lyric.

It was magical. It was beyond grief.

-Day 4-

Boccherini was a virtuoso cello player in his days; he had written scores to show the adoring world of his talent and skills. Was this vanity? A sin to be totally engulfed by the process of creating music; and to celebrate in the adulation of the crowd? In creating, all the great composers were Gods in their own rights. Surely Lestat had that same overriding passion, that same passion when he stood on the stage?

He sat back, wanting the music to overwhelm him with its alluring beauty, yet their argument of the night before was clear in his mind. Would Lestat ever listen to advice? Lestat always let simple habits and irrelevant thoughts grow to encompass him, to graft themselves into what was his life, to define the way he should go.

He heard footsteps. He looked up to see Remus poke his head into the front parlor.

For a moment, Louis thought how this vampire actually looked like Lestat. Remus was not like Marius, all smoothened out by time; instead he was more seemingly bleached, one could still see the crinkling at the tender skin under his eyes when that easy smile came on those full lips. Perhaps Remus had taken the blood of some ancient vampire, and he now refused to pass this onto Anton.

"I hear it's Boccherini," Remus began. "I've not heard this piece for some time."⁷

"Please, will you join me then?" Louis stood up, more from habit than common courtesy.

Remus came into the parlor, taking the chair near the other end of the couch. The way he sat, the way he composed his limbs; such long limbs which were accentuated by the V-neck cashmere shirt, and the dark plaited Italian dress pants; draping his arms on the armrests of the chair, crossing his legs at the ankles, he looked like a marionette with all it's strings cut; so without a care for the world. Such insouciance.

It was profoundly inspirational music. Louis hummed the theme of the harpsichord playing in the background of the cello, and the accompanying strings. The recording was superb, one could believe the player was within the same room; he could even hear the clink of the harpsichord keys, such a heart warming sound...

Remus sighed softly.

"I'm sorry, it's very nice," Remus spoke in an unobtrusive whisper.

"Yes, it truly is."

"This is Baroque music?"

"Indeed. And in this recording, the instruments are originals, or at least the period-instrument ensemble tried their best to reproduce the same performance as it was once done," Louis said, even before he decided whether Remus might want to hear this.

"And how is it different from what musicians are using now?" Remus asked, showing a genuine interest.

Louis gave a short summary on the difference in the playing styles. Then he had gone on to some detail of the art of producing musical instruments; the differences in the strings; and he explained about the imperfections of the Baroque instruments unlike their modern counterparts. Without a conscious thought, he had told Remus about the Baroque restoration that had been initiated by Mendelssohn in the 19th century.

He had been in the very midst of the greatest musical experiences in Europe then when nothing mattered any more... Nothing until so recently...

The naivete in those large, thoughtful eyes was a wonder, such appreciation. Louis could scarcely believe he was speaking so freely to this vampire whom he could hardly bring himself to trust! Had he not argued so vehemently with Lestat only the night before?

"So the music is richer, more mellow, filled with a warm human soul," Remus said thoughtfully. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, growing sad looking. "I never cared for it before, it was so much noise and clutter, as ridiculous as those physical exertions they called dancing in those times...

"I insulted a friend saying this," Remus muttered, making a slow turn of his white wrist, the fingers made an eloquent gesture to show his self-derision.

"But you have explained it? You have told that friend it is not so?" Louis asked.

"Even if I still find those dances unacceptable? There would not be conviction," Remus smiled, he looked tired as he drew up his legs, crossing them, and to rest his right hand on his knee.

Louis noticed in passing that Remus had a silver ring on one of his fingers, the only accessory he wore.

"Your friend is an exacting person."

"That is a good word, certainly more proper than what I learnt. I like that, the sound of it. Exacting," Remus repeated the word in his accented French, and he laughed easily, the dullness was gone from his eyes.

"Exacting, and proper, and responsible. Magnificently clever in the head. Everyone hopes I am like that," as if as an after thought, Remus muttered to himself, "Of course, they hope for everyone to be Lauren..."

Louis did not speak. He did not know how he should react to this.

"I am different, I am my heart," Remus said soberly, going on. "And it says, look at the beauty of this world, listen to the magic of a laughter, see it on a face. I would that I can make the flowers bloom, and to make everyone lose their thoughts of misery, so they can smile, and laugh. Felicity, joy, happiness; to experience them even for a moment."

Remus' simplicity was as fascinating as his account of his Brotherhood. It made Louis smile to see the enthusiasm suffuse the face and the young vibrant voice. One could forget for a second to trust this illusion of innocence; that this tender young being was not a blood-sucking monster, to accept it... And to believe there was goodness, and it was not all-evil.

"Is this friend, is she the one whom you would have us meet with?" Louis roused himself to ask quietly.

"This friend...?" Remus asked, seemingly not understanding for a moment but then he nodded. "Oh yes... I mean, well, this is a different friend, different from the one I spoke of."

"I see."

"Different persons," Remus smiled slightly, repeating himself as if he was afraid he had confused Louis.

"Won't you ask your friend to come, to help you then?"

Remus looked surprised. "If you think differently, it doesn't matter."

"Not so."

"You needn't tell me now."

"It's quite all right."

"Then, do you want to see her first?"

"To see her?"

"Yes, see her now," Remus said getting up.

"Now?" Louis was confused.

"Yes now. She is in St. Clare now, some mortal matters about St. Clare that she had to take are of with Lauren," Remus frowned suddenly, he looked as if he would say something, then he said, "I can call her and you can meet her first."

One could believe this was not the modern century, perhaps another era in New Orleans when the lackeys lay their miserable coats on the mud streets for their white-wig masters to walk on... The transformation was complete with plush carpet, rose wood paneling on the walls, gilded frames of mirrors, and the winking myriad of lights dancing from the chandelier of monumental proportions at the grand reception.

The St. Clare spared nothing when it came to ensuring the authenticity of it's legacy of France's past glory, one of the young, Paris-sent managers explained in the most polite French as he led them down the various hallways, on a grand tour of the entire hotel.

Lestat had slipped in a question on the present owner of the St. Clare. He was amused that the mortal's thought of giving a brilliant performance for his management was promptly displaced by the overwhelming wish to please his most honored guests, charmed as he was, most exceedingly by the quaintness of his guests' French. The man informed him that the ownership of St. Clare had always been within the family although the current owner, Antonio St. Clare, was more Italian than French. Nonetheless one should not worry the integrity of the hotel would ever be bridged in any way, the St. Clare was run by a board of directors, the majority of whom were French. He had also told them about the famous tale of how Antoine St. Clare had started the St. Clare in the 17th century with money won from the gaming table. The man was beaming, his pride for a compatriot was palpable.

Presently the man led them down the wide stairway to one of the exclusive lounges, the Jazz Club where he explained, M'sieur Paladio was waiting.

While he enjoyed the grandeur and the sweet sense of nostalgia, Lestat could not stop wondering about Louis' change of mind. Why had Louis come to him saying they should meet Remus' friend when he was totally against the idea? Louis never made such abrupt changes to his decisions, it was difficult to believe...

This was very private, very cozy. Another tastefully decorated, cavernous room, this time of seasoned wood and leather. They walked deeper in, down a hallway to one of the private rooms. The man had shown them into the room with a respectful bow.

Remus smiled to see them. For all his slender form that could have been mistaken as lankiness, he certainly was not; the material of the V-neck shirt showed all his taut athletic muscles to advantage.

"I hope the tour was not tedious?" Remus asked with a wide smile.

"Oh no, it is most impressive, a work of art," Louis said, his eyes scanning the room with apparent interest.

There was a set of modern, soft leather sofa and recliners, the lights were dim and comfortable. There was an abstract art piece of whirling colors occupying one entire wall, it was delightfully intriguing, each stroke of oil color was executed with the fineness of a machine. This was nothing like what Lestat had ever seen before.

"Interesting painting," he said peering at it for another minute before settling down. The leather was so pliant that it was good enough to lull one to sleep even with this music; a host of modern flamenco guitars, very energetic was charging on with a synthesizer's controlled tempo.⁸

"It is a coincidence that your friend is here in New Orleans," Lestat said, pulling himself from all the distractions.

"Ah- Her name is Myandar," Remus explained. "She has to take control of things that are left standing."

"Because Anton attends to them before this?" Louis asked quietly.

"Yes, and Myandar does that too."

They all sat up simultaneously.

Someone was coming, down the same hallway they walked, and it was a powerful vampire, moving toward them. He looked at Louis, to see him all tensed up, and tried to assure him with a light touch to Louis' elbow.

"It's only Myandar," Remus told them, his eyes filled with a kindly light.

The door opened, letting in a riff of jazz music playing in the lounge. And they saw her, this Blood Drinker, the vampire Remus called Myandar. She was dressed in a power suit, and dark stocking; her long, dark brown hair was conventionally styled, as were her clothes; and her Asiatic countenance was carefully painted to the perfection of a modern clothier mannequin.

Lestat would have wanted to continue his assessment if Remus had not gone to greet his newly arrived friend. One would have thought they had not seen each other for the longest time, his greeting was nothing short of an ardent admirer. He spoke to her in that lyrical language. When she replied, Lestat had recognized it immediately for the voice of one Ms. Kristina Romano, whom Remus had called on that first night.

She touched Remus' face with light, dainty gestures. Although Remus' height was obscuring the female vampire, he could see her arm moving, and he had seen this a thousand times in the ballrooms, a gentleman paying court to a ravishing creature and having his compliments returned.

Her voice was low, filled with an authority. Lestat could imagine she was one of the "elders" in the Brotherhood who had instructed, nay, commanded Remus on this dreary duty.

"I hope I have not kept you waiting," Myandar came up to them now.

Remus was passing a white handkerchief over his face, standing rather politely and submissively behind Myandar.

Lestat wanted to say something to the effects that they need not act with such civility, but Louis had already stood up like any gracious gentleman, to give her due respect. If she had not looked so formidable, Louis would probably have given her a perfect leg, and kissed her hand!⁹ He suddenly felt no patience for this vampire, another ancient thing with that same sanctimonious manner. He refused to stand, and he sat there staring at her expressionless dark eyes.

"You are the elder of the coven, the coven you call Brotherhood?" he asked in an insolent tone.

"Yes, indeed I am. I am Myandar," she answered in perfect French with all the modern nuances, but it was polished of all feelings like her very smooth face. "You are Lestat, and Louis, as Remus has so told me." She looked from one to the other, openly appraising them.

There was something even more disturbing about her than he could say of Remus. At least Remus had a kind of sincerity, and in the past two days, he could say Remus could be expressive, with ready smiles and eyes that showed a calm kindness. But Myandar was like a statue, the only thing he read from her was a commanding presence, an air of authority which made Louis very nervous.

"I want to express our gratitude to you-"

"Yes, all right. But what I want to know is how you can help," Lestat said testily, interrupting her rudely.

"It is essential that I help Remus with this."

That was the most outrageous answer he had ever heard! What did she mean by that? Lestat glared at her, hating her placidity. He had thought they would have a congenital elder, a vampire of great wisdom, to talk about the magnanimous Brotherhood.

"Myandar," Remus said, making her turn to talk to him. From the inflection of his voice, he was presumably asking her several questions, and she had answered to them in an indifferent way. Remus looked distressed, folding his arms, talking quietly. There was a preternatural exhaustion in his face, perhaps he was asking Myandar for help, because he could not handle the situation any more; as he said this was a test and he was to perform in some ways.

"Louis," Lestat said in Louis' ear.

"Myandar is probably very influential in the coven," Louis muttered.

"So what do you think?"

"He needs help-"

"Gentlemen, I would have wanted to stay but the attorneys await, and I do have to settle them tonight," Myandar announced.

He could see a dark light in Remus' brilliant eyes, a deep frown marring the perfect brow.

"That's a shame," Lestat said with biting sarcasm. "So we shall be seeing you at our flat then."

"Indeed?" Myandar turned to Remus with a smile, she was not surprised.

Remus was clearly astounded. "Are you sure?" Remus said in a voice filled with doubt.

"We will see you then," Lestat did not bother to look at them, he had grabbed Louis' arm, and was guiding him along, getting pass the two vampires to leave.

They came down to a dark back lane, a few blocks away from the St. Clare. Louis was not in a good mood at all.

"Why did you agree to let that thing into our home? How could you?"

"Because our Roman friend doesn't seem to be able to help himself, maybe he's in some kind of trouble," Lestat stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pants, he made a turn about the lane, thinking to himself. "You know, I think he's been put into this as a punishment, and he probably isn't going to redeem himself because Anton might just not make it."

Louis listened to all this. He was actually not refuting. That was most unheard of, Lestat was expecting arguments.

"So you agreed to this so that Remus might not take the blame?" Louis said at last, green eyes never leaving his face.

"Something like that, I think he deserves some kindness."

"But what of this Myandar?"

"You don't have to fear her."

"Tell me she doesn't make you feel uneasy," Louis stared at him.

"Of course she is dubious, unfeeling and I don't like her but we shouldn't be too concerned with her."

"Lestat, of all the-"

"Please Louis, you have way too many speculations and quires," Lestat leant forward to kiss his brow. "Let's walk for a while."

"No, I can't believe you can simply put this aside, this is of utmost importance," Louis said, incredulous and angry.

"Anything could be of utmost important, but the night is too mesmerizing to be spent arguing for heaven's sake." He threw his arms about Louis' shoulders to pull him close, and to get them walking. "Indulge me, what did you get the dear old lady yesterday?"

"I can't believe we're having this conversation."

"What manners is that? Come, I'm tired, indulge me."

"Lestat, this is insipid!"

"Put that tedium aside for just a moment my friend, tell me if you don't find the moon just a little rounder..."

"A veritable jewel in the sky."

"Ah, beautiful..."

"And the moon is full, the tide is raising. I just don't understand how your brain works-"

"Mon Dieu! Louis what is this modern prosaic nonsense!"

"It's called French today, for heaven's sake-"

"I'm a good student, when do we start?" he chuckled as Louis pushed him aside lightly. "What?"

"I'm just your old-fashioned, ignorant plantation lord, whyever should I know anything?" a smile came to the sensuous lips.

"Very true," he laughed heartily, loving the way his fledgling's eyes sparkle with humor. " Very true."

"Let's walk back," Louis shook his head a little still smiling away, his face becoming soft and he slipped his arms firmly about Lestat. "You need rest, I can see that."

Just like old times. He wanted to say, but the words would not come. Lestat pressed a light affectionate kiss on Louis' cheek. He vowed to himself he would savor this peace and silence, to let it fill and warm his heart.

'"Are we all that is left?" Marius asked. "Other than the Queen and the brat prince and-" He paused. A ripple of silent confusion passed through the others. The mute twin, where was she? What was the mystery?
"Yes," Maheret answered soberly. "Other than the Queen, and the brat prince, and my sister. Yes, we are the only ones left. Or the only ones left who count."
She paused as if to let her words have their full effect. Her eyes gently took in the complete assembly.
"Far off," she said, "There may be others- old ones who choose to remain apart. Or those she hunts still who are doomed. But we are what remain in terms of destiny or decision. Or intent."'
-Queen of the Damn, Part III - Chapter 2 / Marius : Coming Together-

Note from the Author:
The novel which started it all in 1989. Concept building for "The Others", as can be seen especially in this chapter, is based on the scaffolding of The Vampire Lestat, Queen of the Damn and Ramses the Damned. Other details included are, Egyptian and asianic history, and the creative process (a.k.a. "gum tape+ing") of WhiteMist. Please be warned it can be confusing.

Key question for guide: Are there just a handful of vampires who cared about the entire immortal race? If not, were the others doing nothing during the lapse of time when Akasha massacred so many?

-Day 5-

The house was in an upheaval when they returned. Preternatural voices raised and talking in unison. There was a veritable war up in that room. They could hear what sounded like an argument going on intermittently for over half an hour. By then, Lestat could no longer bear it.

"What is happening up there, do you hear that Louis?"

"It's not our-"

"I'm going up there this moment, I will not stand around here. What if she does something? Burn the house down-"

"Don't go to extremes Lestat, it's not our place to interfere with them," Louis' pushed his fingers through tousled hair, he looked harassed. "You invited that thing into the house in the first place, have you forgotten that already?"

"Of course we can interfere, throw out an unwanted guest!"

A nasty expletive was at the tip of his tongue; he clenched his jaw tight, reining back his rising temper with effort. It was made all the more difficult by the antagonistic and stubborn light in the dark green eyes. They could very well end up in a fight of which Louis was certainly no match for. Lestat had abandoned the idea with an exasperated snarl. In any case, the noise had levered down, and they could hear a soft muffled sound almost like a hymn. It was disconcerting.

He paced the parlor impatiently.

What was happening up there?

He felt the anger twist in his heart when he saw Myandar come down the steps into the back parlor. She was so composed, sitting down in one of the chairs.

"What's happening up there?" he was about to add more but her blank face reminded him suddenly of Maharet...

"If you sit down we can talk," she motioned, indicating he should sit.

He glared at her, sullen and agitated. How dare she give him a command like that!

"You have acquired your gifts after you were made," she said suddenly.

He was caught totally off guard. "So why ask when you knew already? And how do you know? You've read my books?"

"Your books?" the modulation of her voice showed surprise, but her face was like a mask. "That I do no know. Your fledgling doesn't have your gifts."

Lestat made a dismissive, scornful sound. "All right, that is not what I want. Tell me something that I don't know."

"The nature of the poison?"

"And what of it?"

"It kills instantly any weak Blood Drinker. And those it doesn't, it will often times drive to madness."

"Then, how about Anton?" Louis asked, he had come into the back parlor, his voice was very tense and the anxiety he felt was palpable.

Lestat laid his hand on Louis' shoulder protectively, ready to defend his fledgling against anything.

"So that is that then, what reassurances. I can see you are both quite determined to leave Anton in this predicament."

"No amount of blood can help him really," the vampire elder pronounced. "There are no instant remedies, the poison is created to do extensive damage to all Blood Drinkers. Nobody knows for sure how the poison works, and there are few survivors."

"That was why Remus refused our help to give blood then, so what of now? Dig him a hole and leave it to God, or the Devil for that matter?" Lestat spat, his tone acid.

"Anton has passed the first stage, we will wait and see," Myandar's demeanor remained unchanged.

"What first stage? I thought you said nothing was known about the poison?"

"Of the damage it makes, yes, we do know. The poison robs its victims of reason and personality, fills them with aggression. Those who are strong will survive this initial attack and progress to the next stage, a state not unlike the death sleep. We will wait for the paralysis to wear off."

"Then you would want to take him back to your Brotherhood."

"To take him somewhere peaceful, he doesn't need a crowd, he needs only the ones he love."

"The ones he love indeed, and why not bring them here?" Lestat demanded, he did not care for Louis' disbelieving glare. "Why send a hapless fool who hardly knows what he is doing?"

Myandar stared at him without a scintillating sign of understanding in her reflective eyes. Then ever so slowly she stood up.

"Remus and I, we have impressed upon you that we do not care," she said in a voice that was not as hard and emotionless but it was too calm and inhuman. "In the way that we act? Our words? Surely if you open your heart, you will see that is not so."

And with that she had turned and left, she did not even wait to hear a reply, and she certainly did not deem necessary to practice some form of common courtesy.

Lestat was surprise, then baffled and then angry. In an unexplainable way he felt exceedingly insulted.

-Day 6-

A loud clattering sound filled the back parlor.

It was Myandar on the laptop that Remus had left on the table.

"I have sent Remus to New York today," she announced.

"And so you say. I presume you have hard-and-fast rules which controls everyone," Lestat almost snapped.

"We offer advice, and counsel in most part," Myandar said in the same calm voice.

She seemed more at ease today without the modern paint, and was now dressed in a soft loose shirt and casual chinos of earthern tone. It gave a surprising air of difference about her person. She was seemingly less severe and intimidating. Perhaps it was the feminine quality, Louis was not sure.

"May I ask a question?" he began.

"Please do," Myandar actually smiled, it was a small turning up at the corners of her mouth.

"All this technology, your knowledge of the mortal world, what is the true aim of the Brotherhood?" Louis asked, he was troubled and he could no longer keep the questions to himself. "Having ingrained yourselves into the very mechanics of mortal life, do you seek to manipulate it?"

Myandar considered the question, or she made it known that she was thinking of it, and was not giving them that characteristic blank face.

"And this is a mortal's world," she said finally.

"A world that belongs to mortals, and we have no right to snatch them of their rightful places."

"Our collective numbers, the vampires, Blood Drinkers, are killers then? An evil to the world?" Myandar nodded to herself, she seemed to contemplate on the words.

"The Brotherhood will never seek to dominate the world, it is pointless and futile. It would have been a re-enactment of mistakes committed by too many of our kind. We seek only survival for the Brotherhood, and the remaining tribes."

"So you are saying there are many groups like you out there?" Lestat asked, too curious to be left out.

"Yes, there are," Myandar did not hesitate to answer, it sounded sincere. "The Brotherhood is a tiny star in the world."

"Then all of you have survived the massacre. What did you do?" Lestat asked.

Perhaps Lestat would have wanted to ask why the Brotherhood and the others had not come to stop her. Why was there only a small group of them gathered to make the crucial decision, to defend themselves? Louis bit his lower lip, he dreaded to hear the answer and yet he wanted so much to know...

"Those were times of crisis for us all too. The Revenants and the assassin Auxiliaries loose amongst our numbers."

"You speak of things that I have never heard of before," Lestat was suspicious and his words were filled with undisguised sarcasm.

"There were many who would have aided Her, renegades who would carry forward the impossible directives of old, to create a new immortal empire. But in their greed and ambition, they had contested among themselves and they had resurrected an even more terrible enemy than the Queen, an Ancient who had brought upon their destruction."

"And this was happening while the Queen was actively pursuing her mass slaughter of mortals and immortals?"

"The renegades were in the midst of their plans even before the turn of the century, sporadic eruptions of violence, killings happening across the mortal cities which accelerated with the Queen's appearance. The renegades never suspected their plan would turn so completely against them."

"Revenants. And Auxiliaries? What are they?"

"Abominations like the Revenants, mindless killers created amongst our numbers."

"This Ancient, he did not appear before the Queen..."

"The Ancient seeks satisfaction of his revenge against those who wronged him, he is not interested in grand aspirations and plans. He is obsessed only with vengeance, of vendettas that Blood Drinkers existing in this present age would not have known, they are merely myths and lore; all that is left are moldering relics and scrolls."

"A sad man..." Louis half whispered to himself.

"A mad man," Myandar corrected him. "He is an indiscriminate killer for he no longer recalls even the names of his most hated enemies, those who had betrayed him in another time, those who are mostly gone with the dust of the eternal winds.

"As for the Queen, the renegades would have used her as a rallying point, a symbol for the new empire, that was all that she would have been," she paused, her eyes were unchanging, the colors just as vibrant and alluring. "Notwithstanding, in fulfilling her own plans, she had indeed helped cull the bursting population of city vampires, street rats which by this age, was becoming a menace. That, by itself is a good thing."

Her merciless honesty was cutting and Louis felt the sting, a pain that was buried deep in him. He hardly felt the assuring hand on his back... Could he indeed make an argument against the validity of these words...?

"So you are saying all the Brotherhood was concerned of during that time was this and the Ancient one?" Lestat asked, his tone was filled with incredulousness and caustic undertones. "Did it not occur to anyone at all about the enormity of situation if it had not been for the twins?"

"Ah, you do know much of what happened," Myandar said as if she was surprised that Lestat knew of the passing events.

"We were at the very heart!" Lestat exclaimed, he was in shock that Myandar knew nothing. "What universe do you live in that you are so much segregated from the other vampires?"

"In one where silence means safety," Myandar looked them in the eye. "We cloak ourselves, we shield our minds."

"And you use these modern devises to communicate?" Lestat narrowed his eyes, glaring at her.

"Yes. To open one mind, to connect the path of others is to expose oneself, and that will send a signature signal to the killer, the Ancient who will not hesitate to destroy us."

"Then won't he destroy every one, vampires like us?" Louis asked in numbed horror, his mind throwing up images of more carnage and death, he shuddered to think of that.

"No. He is after us, the ones with the ancient thread, we who speak the ancient tongue of the Blood Drinkers even though we were never part of the feud."

"Then the twins, Maharet and Mekare, you do know them?" Louis asked, he thought all this had a surrealistic feeling, like the time when they gathered listening to Maharet's tale...

"No. Some of the elders do, and allies we align ourselves with."

"What of the Ancient Wars you talked about? History of the vampires, the Drinkers of Blood?" Lestat said, he wanted to change the topic, to get away from all the darkness and horrors of the unshakable nightmare. "The history of our Queen..."

It was dull pain in his chest to talk of Her again, the one who had given him such powers... Ah, but to hear more of what he had already known through Marius' account. It would perhaps be a verification of truth; he wanted to hear more of what Myandar knew.

"The history of so many Blood Drinkers who sought to dominate the world, to rule over mortals. That is what you would want to hear?" Myandar looked at them calmly.

"Yes, that would be something of importance..." Louis whispered.

She took a moment to gather her thoughts before speaking in that perfectly pronounced French. "It need not be said that the first the Blood Drinkers who existed thought themselves a race of divine beings, who claimed the right to rule over mortals as Gods. And this the Blood Drinkers had done with a vengeance and an ambition which surpassed even his immortal brother, the Bloodless."

"Bloodless?" Louis asked, stunned.

"You mean the Bloodless as in creatures who walk the sun? Those who are immortal, who needed no blood?" Lestat was powerfully excited to hear this, his belligerence quickly forgotten. He recalled that Marius had mentioned them before but he had until this day never laid eyes on them, nor heard another word about them from others.

"Yes, they are such. The Bloodless. The Stealer of the Eternal Flame; the Children of Amon Ra; there are many names by which they go by, and they have always aided mortals to eliminate the Blood Drinkers. A vendetta between two immortal tribes which existed from those forgotten times."

"How did they come to being then? Were they vampires once? Are there written in your records answers to this?"

"Eastern alchemy. The primitive mortal tribes before Egypt, the tribes in the Orient, the mortals who seek the world for the elixir of eternal life. And somehow, some of them had found it. Nobody would know their secret, they guard it well."

"And they ruled with vampires, the Blood Drinkers before this vendetta?"

It was difficult to believe there were such beings which existed, and this history would have been almost completely lost by now, or perhaps Marius had not given him every detail after all, Lestat mused.

"The Bloodless were idols to mortals even before the first Blood Drinkers came to this earth. No written record existed of this now although our new historians have tried their utmost to compile the lost history into volumes. Perhaps the Bloodless would have records on how the vendetta started but no mortal record exist, it would not have given the time when written records had barely existed. The most ancient archives of writings kept for so very long in the Orient were destroyed with the forming of the Middle Kingdom, when so much was put to the flames like fodder by their despotic emperor." Myandar spoke this slowly and with respect.

"What might had been left were writings of the first elders, the gathering of Blood Drinkers in an institution which had sheltered us since the beginning. But we have left, we had to leave before it crumbled, unable to withstand the passing time."

"An institution?" Louis asked in awe.

"An institution formed after the Ancient Wars. It was a supreme effort made to gather the scattered numbers of the Blood Drinkers, to nurture the culture and the history of our people."

"The language that you use..."

"And that, the language that has been refined through time. The institution had been our home before we left it to create the Brotherhood."

"What happened? Why have you left?" Lestat made an off hand gesture.

"I think you know. You would know," Myandar smiled gently. "Greed, and ambition. The old institution was not free from rivalry; the young who despised the old ones, those who yearned to rule. The ignorant ones, the renegades had set off on an expedition to find and to resurrect the Ancient, the scriptures referred to as the Black Priest."

"That killer...?" Louis muttered, it had a demonic intonation.

"The Black Priest was a seer of his people in a time even before the first corner stone of the pyramids were laid. He was a genius, one who used to be a charismatic and great leader of the Blood Drinkers until he was betrayed, tortured, and driven to madness by the very ones he had called friends and loyal supporters. His paramount was coerced to join the new regime, and she was forever banished and persecuted when she refused to bow to those who had committed such heinous crimes against the one she loved."

"Such a tragedy..." Louis' eyes had grown large and sad. "What has happened to her since?"

"As far as the records showed, she was said to have joined the Bloodless. The laws of the institution branded her a traitor. The persecution order stands even till today."

"She had joined the Bloodless in defiance to what was done," Lestat said sympathetically.

"Nobody would know her motive nor of why the Bloodless would even accept her," Myandar said it with finality, as if it was a long held truth where questioning would not draw out a different answer. "This, as nobody would need to know the truth. And this, as nobody would ever know the truth about the pyramids, or the arcane mysteries. Modern man has consigned all the unexplainable to the works of their newfound wonder, some inhuman tribe from unknown distant stars," there was a slow smile on her lips when she said this, but it disappeared when she continued.

"The rift between the Blood Drinker and his mortal brother has never been wider. It is not only with the mortal's changing philosophy, the elders of the institution who have been isolated for so long that the last Millennia has seen the gradual demise of the institution."

She paused before going on. "The elders believed themselves the center of the mortal world, and they have found themselves ostracized, they have grown skeptical, afraid of the changes, and unable to accept the world as it is now. The modern world is a prison to the Blood Drinkers who used to roam over it as masters."

"It wouldn't have taken an ancient to see that..." Lestat commented, sounding more bitter than he would have thought. "The world is beautiful as it will always be, heartlessly cold. We walk only with death as our eternal companions."

"Your perspective and outlook grew from negativity. You feel we are irrelevant creatures, outsiders in the natural world-"

"And you? You feel justified to rule over mortals, like they are no more than dumb beasts who do your bidding? And you would in that same way, kill them?" Lestat was furious suddenly, the outburst surprised him and he would not have been able to take back what he said. It was the way she looked, her calmness which piqued him somehow.

"This you believe in, and I cannot say I understand you. I cannot understand the God, the devil, the evil which you so abhorred," Myandar put her hands on the table, her nails dulled with an artificial layer of paint. "We kill mortals, we live amongst them; we do what we can to be able to survive in this world that is becoming ever more populated with mortals even as we speak."

"The children have their own thoughts, their own visions," Myandar went on in a gentler voice. "Anton always believed the Brotherhood should eventually provide shelter by its name, or as a benefactor. To shelter the orphans of the early century, to create for them a haven which can take away distrust and hate, where the young ones can have each other."

"Prodigiously ambitious," Lestat sniffed, and found Louis staring at him with disapproval. "There already exist the vampire connections, I see nothing more spectacular than that can ever happen."

"There are many shelters that come to being since the early 1900, nobody knows their ownership since they are not run in association with the covens..." Louis began, he was looking at Myandar intently.

"Some of them certainly," Myandar nodded. "I do not intend to extol the goodness of the Brotherhood, nor justify what we do. You would not have believed, understood or accepted it. It is not my place to change your perception, I share with you only the facts of how things are with us in the Brotherhood, the history of the Blood Drinkers which perhaps you have not yet heard of."

"And you speak so freely with us, unknowns to your Brotherhood, aren't you afraid that I would give away this knowledge?" Lestat asked, he smiled with the reminiscence of what he had asked Marius so many years ago, and to see the outrage in Louis' face, he felt like laughing. "Don't you have rules, some iron clad regulations which disallowed such knowledge to be disseminated?"

"Yes, we have rules," Myandar smiled, she was not the slightest ruffled. "This information, this small part of our history that I have told you, it's not what the modern child want, it doesn't interest any more than the myriad of images, and ostentatious exhibitions on the television. We move within our circle, we do not disturb the peace."

So grossly self-serving and self-righteous!

The Brotherhood took what it needed for survival from the mortal world. It would even safe guard itself against vampires not within their exclusive circle; it was like an elite caste.

He did not favor the Brotherhood at all.

On the other hand, there certainly were logical merits; the knowledge they held, the history which they shared within their circle. And Myandar and Remus were obvious products of this where they could behave with such seeming detachment, and they had a very clear definition of their circle of allies, of the direction for their exclusive group.

And with the present situation, circumstances had aligned them, two unknown vampires, with the elusive Brotherhood. But he had no doubt that the moment Myandar and Remus leave, they would perhaps never see these vampires of the Brotherhood again.

Day 7

He fitted the key into the lock, turning it to hear the click.

He let himself in swinging the gate closed, locking it after him, not that he actually needed to but it was more proper. The plants were flourishing in the rooftop garden, he took a minute to inspect them then moved to the apartment.

This place had become somewhat neglected since the flat at Rue Royale was renovated. He came to it on his way to visit Mojo once two years ago and thought to reroute to this place. The entire flat was covered with copious amount of dust. Since then he had gotten contractors to re-carpet the ground, sent the paintings to be refitted, and also changed the contemporary couches to a warm wood and brocade upholstery French provincial style furniture, creating a more relaxed mood from Rue Royale.

He could not explain why he had done this when he had not even bothered to do anything about the Victorian House he inhabited before this. Perhaps it was to defy Lestat's wishes; that the more Lestat complained, the less he felt anything should be done. He could not say he did not enjoy Lestat's oratorical outbursts, it was the way it should be, they expected that of each other. Jesse had probably been much taken aback, commenting that she never knew Frenchmen were capable of such eloquence when they complained so vehemently of each other.

Did it still mean something, that he was French? Had time diluted that?

It definitely meant something. They were linked by right of their time and place of birth, even if he was brought up for most of his adult life in New Orleans. He could think it was precisely due to New Orleans he had been cast even more into the mould of a Frenchman. Like so many societies which had been transplanted to a new home, the offshoots become in their isolation, removed from all changes of time, become even more like their original parents. New Orleans had enjoyed such peace and prosperity, protected from the revolution, the bloody changes which desecrated the history of their beloved France in those short years.

The familiarity of their background had been further enhanced by the 65 years of living together under the same roof, they were the only family to each other. Nothing could supplant that, the complex love and hate relationship which cemented their lives together. The others had expressed concern for him with David's addition to their preternatural family. In all this fuss, he was surprised to have found a trusted friend in Pandora. He was deeply touched by her concern and understanding, many a time she had lend her presence to control the vagabonds who came to the chapel in a steady stream. In fact she had given leave for him to read her very private account of her past in the volume of diaries which she had written for David. Once she had said candidly that David would never consent to relinquishing his position as a friend to Lestat.

Could he in faith say he felt insecure? Ah, but he had too much of an 18th century Frenchman's pride and manners, a laissez-faire attitude to care: they kept out of each other's private affairs. Lestat tolerated his friends in San Francisco and New York even if he had to tease and complain endlessly about them. Armand was about the most sensitive topic between them he should think. And for David, he had all the Englishman's decorum to play by the rules as well. It defined the household quite simply, as things had defined themselves when the two of them had Claudia...

Things were so simple then. He wished that it was so, he wished that Lestat had not resurrected their Queen and brought upon himself such pain. The blood from the damned which had brought down a curse upon them. And for a long time when Lestat carried on his antics, taking more risks than he could have before this, he had tried to ignore all of Lestat's advances. He realised his adamant refusal of his lover's attention was causing tremendous stress between them; he would say it was a test of wills.

Lestat had tolerated this initially when they first returned to New Orleans. How amusing it had been when their squabbles should start as soon as they arrived? Lestat had asked him to stay at his downtown apartment, this very place and he had refused. He had in fact gone to live in a shack on one of his properties as a way to spite Lestat, to get him all worked up and seething with indignity when all his aristocratic bearing come to fore.

"No, no, no! No, Louis, this is despicable, unfitting... Where's the bourgeois who wanted matching pearls set in a pair of pistols and the buttons of every vest? Cambric shirts, tricorne and wig shipped directly from France?" Lestat made a slow circuit of the shack, not disguising the disdainful expression on his face. It would not be difficult for Louis to see in his mind's eye Lestat dressed in the elaborate costumes which he had adorned himself during those times as if this was the thoroughfare of Paris. "And don't give me that shocked look, which tailors and drapers in New Orleans didn't know the peculiar tastes of M'sieur de Point Du Lac, M'sieur Extravagance on Two Legs?"

"I don't see the need to drag up the past," he had said, dismissing the entire matter and faintly humoured that Lestat had actually interviewed the various merchants of town then.

"So you're the reformed son?" Lestat drawled. "The saint amongst demons?"

"Why don't you just go wallow in your rank materialism and leave me be?"

"Fool!" Lestat had snarled a particularly long string of expletive of which he condemned Louis as well as all the sniveling Creole speaking bourgeois to be flogged like dogs on the cart-tail at the Place de Greve.

He had stared at Lestat for several minutes, as had Lestat at him. Lestat standing very still and silent after this remarkable proclamation. The context and time, as well as the unique inventiveness of the expletive had them both laughing helplessly. They had laughed and laughed so hard for the first time since their reunion. And when he was on the verge of recovery, Lestat had howled with renewed zeal- clearly in one of his fits as he was like to have in those days; he had quitted his seat and helped Lestat to sit down or he would probably have collapsed on the very floor.

"Mon Dieu, I am perishing with exhaustion..." Lestat lay his head on the desk, his voice muffled by his arm as he tried valiantly to stop.

It was near impossible for him to resist it and he had put his hand on the golden curls, the thick pampered mane. Such a surprise to find that it was soft, not any different, only Lestat's flesh was hardened to stone in his hiatus.

"You know people die from such fits," he had said casually handing Lestat his handkerchief when his maker was able to stifle the chortles.

"Should I care?" Lestat grinned, he dabbed his eyes daintily like a courtier then opened the handkerchief looking it over with a critical eye. "Why, M'sieur de Pointe du Lac would suffer to stay in a filthy shanty, to wear his rags to dust, but he must keep the best linen handkerchief. How truly vain Louis."

"Practicality doesn't pertain vanity Lestat, wearing cashmere, velvet and wool at the height of summer constitute the most improper mode of dressing and that my friend, is vanity," he had smiled with forbearance then, but it was hilarious as it was heartwarmingly familiar to be engaged in their insipid repartee once again, to see the mischievous sweetness in Lestat's face animating the pure white flesh.

"Very well, you've out-witted me on this count, I give you leave on that today if only because you have so graciously helped me to this chair and I needn't soil my dress on the ground..."

"Lestat, you really should start updating your vocabulary."

"Deplorable ingrate! You would rather favour the company of vermin who can go no further than their limited crass vernaculars?"

What an arrant fool he was! Had memory not served him so well that this was exactly the kind of thing that would make Lestat fly into a rage? As Lestat had so said and written, in the early years that what education he had, the literary brilliance he exhibited was self-learnt and he was unreservedly proud of this. Attacking Lestat on this point was the utmost insult which he would never tolerate.

He was so prepared to bear the harangue that would follow. Perhaps he even showed it on his face for Lestat watched him so carefully, a calmness coming over the blue eyes and Lestat had come to him, and very gently laid those cold hands on his face.

"My dear old friend..." Lestat muttered kissing his brow. "I hope you never change..."

Armand was right to say Lestat was never willing to see the changes in the others. The landscape of the Savage Garden and it's creatures grow all the more beautiful but would remain unchanging in their reliable dependency...

At that time Louis had believed it was Lestat's capriciousness and brushed the episode aside, thinking he was lucky. When Lestat's charitable mood persisted, he had remonstrated himself for not having more faith in Lestat; the brat was finally grown up! Unthinkable in those years but there was indeed a kind of maturity about Lestat. He could attest to that same mistake of thinking that Lestat could never change. No more violent tantrums and fisticuffs, the eternal belligerence; unthinkable!

"Day dreaming again?"

A soft voice said in his ear making all the hair on his body stand.

It was only Lestat. "You've been standing here for 40 minutes no less, and the proprietor is wondering if a crazed junkie meant to murder him for his cash. I would suggest we walk for the sake of discretion and before the police comes," Lestat smiled easily guiding him away from the store front.

"It's starting to rain..." he whispered, feeling for once the fine spray on his face and it came to him that he was quite drenched.

"Heaven help you Louis, sometimes you are such a scatterbrain!"

Lestat led the way to his apartment. They had to walk the length of Rue Dumaine twice before he found the door.

"Are you sure this is the street Lestat" he had ventured to ask in aninnocent voice. "It could be St Phillippe or St Ann."

"Or I could be that penniless curmudgeon who made a fledgling as a form of monetary investment," Lestat responded lightly, there was a derisive smile dancing in his lips. " We're here at last!"

"This, this and this. Try them all if you want, I don't care but something new for once Louis," Lestat had piled his arms with clothes and pushed into the batch then closed the door.

It was very nice, the whole place. He did not actually live in asperity when he was in the bustling cities of San Francisco or New York as he did now. He was in fact quite fond of his comfortable apartment on Divisadero Street- he had to vacate it mercifully in recent months as mortals and immortals alike started to scour the streets for him. Terribly annoying all this was.

Should he be surprised Lestat knew him so well? The clothes fitted perfectly and they were not machine-made mass products displayed in shops like mongers selling their wares in the olden days in the Square. To think after all this time... Well, Lestat was always the one who insisted on all of them dressed to the height of Parisian fashion; the tailors and drapers were probably one of the few people he wouldn't kill!

How ecstatic Lestat looked and all he could do was kiss him on the cheeks and laughed delightedly. Then with some ceremony, Lestat held out a small pewter tray. On this tray was a card and a small lacquered case.

"Take it," Lestat urged.

It was a very formal invitation card, like the ones he used to send out and receive, written in Lestat's distinctive calligraphy.

"See if you have the gall to refuse that M'sieur!" Lestat said with a wicked triumphant smile on his face.

And Lestat had made a game of it, leaving such cards on his desk, and even at the bookstore that he frequented where the proprietor knew him. Quite embarrassing when the proprietor started asking him if he knew the blond man who left the notes or perhaps the man was a stalker, he should be more careful about his person.

"Stop it Lestat, it's childish and petty."

"So?"

"Just stop it, you know that I will come here..."

"Then why make such a drama of everything when you want this all along," Lestat smirked.

"How dare you mock me..."

"You can be so stubborn Louis," Lestat had wanted to take him in his arms but he was so furious that he had pushed pass his maker to leave.

"For the love of God Louis..." Lestat threw up his hands in frustration.

"Stop the theatrical displays Lestat!"

"You are the one being impossibly petty. Don't you tire of telling me the rules, the rules, the rules? If you wanted to live in that primitive shack thinking you're a saint in the Dark Ages, if that makes you happy by all means, I don't give a damn. But I thought we were lovers." Lestat glared at him with anger coming to his eyes. "Or in writing your frivolous memoir it has created more fantasies and also conveniently eradicated what used to be actual occurrences? Occurrences which happened!"

"Damn you Louis!"

He heard Lestat's voice as he went down the steps. Two blocks away, Lestat had stepped in front of him blocking his way. There was a terrible anger emanating from Lestat.

"What kind of coward are you, turning your back on me?"

"You know the argument, you've become even more incorrigible than you were before..."

"You're such a bore, can't you try something new?"

"Listen to the others, listen to reason. What you have requires more responsibility, more wisdom and discretion, why must you carry on in this fashion?"

"Because I can't help being myself!"

Louis had taken a commercial flight out of New Orleans to San Francisco the next night directly, angry and despairing that the both of them would end up exactly the same way everything had always been.

It did not take three days for Lestat to catch up with him when he was at the wharf with his friends. In his suite of empty rooms at Divisadero Street, he had tried to have a gentlemanly settlement but he was alarmed by the way Lestat looked, his maker was murderously furious.

"So this is how things will be?" Lestat asked.

"You cannot simply ignore the rules Lestat, it's vain and selfish."

"Why are you putting two completely different issues together? Tell me Louis," Lestat got up to pace the room.

There was only these leather couches and some tables left which he did not care to move so there was plenty of room for Lestat to walk out his temper. "I know," he said without backing down.

"Then explain this mystery to me, why don't I see the meaning?" Lestat said sardonically.

"Everyone is concerned Lestat..."

"And you would side with them?"

"It's not about taking sides, look at what's happened, none of us can afford having that horrible disaster again," his heart had softened to see the hurt on Lestat's face, the one who suffered the most would probably had been Lestat. "Stop trying to challenge the world, please."

Lestat stopped pacing to look at him, he was eerily silent and brooding, his frown deepened. "Ah, I see now," the blue eyes were icy cold and the low voice tinged with menace. "So you would hold me to ransom with this, you!"

"Don't you see..."

Lestat crossed his arms and paced again like a restless panther in the narrow constrain of it's cage. "This is not noble. No, not noble," he muttered again and again as he paced angrily.

Then suddenly Lestat turned to slam his palms down on the table instantly smashing the wood into a dozen pieces and making Louis sit back in his chair in shock.

"I don't appreciate this puerile reasoning! And pray tell who is the more insensitive party Louis?"

"It's not the way I would have wanted things to be. Don't you see, I love you..."

"And you say that like a curse!" Lestat spat the words back at him. There was no pretense, no sarcasm, Lestat was embittered as he was maliciously dangerous.

Louis had no doubt that the same hands that had flattered the table could break him in pieces, crushed him as Akasha had pulverized the elder in Marius' tale. But he was no less angry and agitated himself and he was not about to back away.

"How can you bring yourself to believe that after all this time? You wrote it down in your own words for the world to see, you know my loyalty..."

"I would that I can split open your heart to see the manner of liar you are!" Lestat growled viciously.

Ah-...

"Then do it!" He stood up slowly, facing his maker eye-to-eye. "End it now, you know I lack the courage."

Lestat's eyes grew large staring at him, trying to read his mind in his expression perhaps. He was clearly astounded, and the colour drained from Lestat's face leaving him even more ghastly white, like a ghost he stood there, like a statue...

He could say nothing, standing there glaring at Lestat and he could do nothing. He heard a sharp sound and turned, distracted, in time to see the panes of glass on the windows vibrating like a terrible wind was pushing against them and before his eyes he saw them crack into a thousand pieces. It was a thunderous crash, he remembered reaching out trying to push Lestat to the ground, and what a stupified expression was on Lestat's face.

It was dark.

He found himself staring at the graffiti on the walls. Somehow he was now in the crammed staircase at least fifteen steps down from the landing of his apartment.

"Louis."

A cold hand touched his face. He felt wetness there.

He bit back a groan and tried to turn to his side, to get some leverage, to get up but he was hit by a wave of dizziness and he felt nausea, the blood was going to come up from his throat.

"Don't move, rest for a while." It was Lestat's voice, firm and assuring, suffused with concern.

He heard the annoying electric noise of car alarms. The sound of mortal voices. "We'll have to leave... before someone comes..." he muttered hoarsely between painful breathes.

"I'll take care of that, close your eyes," Lestat was speaking in his ear so hypnotically softly... He must have passed out, or was too dazed; he knew only there was a rush of wind, a blur of darkness and light...

A coolness on his face roused him as if he had been in a deep dreamless sleep. He opened his eyes to see Lestat peering into his face.

"You have a nasty bump on the back of your head, and a cut there," the cloth touched a tender spot and he could not suppress the hiss of pain. "It's healing..."

"Your hand!" He had taken Lestat's hand, there was blood from his elbow to his wrist.

"It's nothing, you don't have to worry about me at all, what can possibly hurt me now," Lestat's voice had a bitter edge to it and he looked rueful. "I think I've totally ruined your apartment though."

"Foolish thing to say," he smiled, his mind taken off the pain. He felt Lestat's lips touch his face and that gave him more comfort than he would admit.

Perhaps a half hour passed before he was well enough to sit up with Lestat's help without the world whirling and tumbling like he was caught in the waves of the Pacific Ocean, the thought invariably made him sick again. He swallowed, gritting his teeth he had gotten up, Lestat's hand supporting him.

"We're safe here, you don't have to worry," Lestat whispered.

"I want to see what's happening," he replied kissing Lestat quickly, assuring him that he was recovering.

They were in a darkened and dusty room, one of the boarded up houses, deserted and cold. From the murky cracked windows he could see clearly the crush of human traffic, the flashing lights of the ambulances and the police cars. All along the street there were broken shards of glass glittering like jewels scattered on the well trampled asphalt. Perhaps this meant that he was done with San Francisco? It was a sign to return to New Orleans?

"What will it be?" Lestat asked quietly. He was sitting in a corner, back against the wall, an elbow on his bent knee.

He could not read the expression on Lestat's face. There was a blankness where only the burning colours fired the dark blue, evincing life. He was reminded clearly of Lestat's account of his encounter with Enkil and Akasha, and how it was just a terrifying image in his mind. Now it was made flesh. When he looked into his maker's face he saw not the power, he saw only the Lestat he knew so well, trapped and bound by the hardness of this shell.

"Let's go."

Lestat cocked his head looking up at him in puzzlement.

"I'll find us a place to clean up, come Lestat," he extended his hand, not that Lestat needed any help to get up but it was the thing to do.

Lestat took his hand, getting up slowly to his feet. "Louis," he looked troubled.

"No use standing around here," he said patting the white hardness.

Blue and red lights penetrated the darkness of the room, and the noise from the street threatened to overwhelm them, as if there would be a legion of mortals pounding up the stairs now to demand for the monsters which had wreaked such havoc. Lestat's brow wrinkled, he seemed to wince as if the piercing sirens hurt his ears. He took in a deep breath then let it out in a near inaudible sigh. He looked away squinting his eyes against the glare of lights flooding in.

"Lestat."

"Ah, like a dull actor now, I have forget my part, and I am out,
Even to a full disgrace-" Lestat muttered gazing into his eyes. "Best of my flesh
Forgive my tyranny, but do not say, For that, 'Forgive our Romans'..."¹⁰

The vulnerability in Lestat was not something that he would ever forget. And he could not have been able to bear this... What he did might be for a perceived goodness but it was hurting them both, and he had just folded his arms about Lestat but he could not answer.

A vampire was such a creature of habit, insulated by it's invincibility and unstimulated by the outside world; no longer had he swore his allegiance on the accursed blood which flowed in his veins, he had betrayed Lestat all over again. He had let some worthless idea obliterate his thoughts.

Such self-deception and egoism. He sat with his hands on his head, steeped in misery.



Notes:

¹Shakespeare - Hamlet, Act I, Scene 3

² Shakespeare - Hamlet, Act 1 Scene 4

³ Giovanni Battista Pergolese (1710-1736), baroque composer. The Sabat Mater is a piece of carol church music. Pergolese used a contralto (those who read Cry to Heaven, this should mean something) but we have to make do with an alto nowadays (but of course!!).

⁴ Marlowe - Doctor Fautus, Scene 20, line 15

⁵ Marlowe - Doctor Fautus, Scene 15, line 21

⁶Johann Sebastian Bach - St. Matthew's Passion (Aria and Choral Works)

⁷ Luigi Boccherini, Baroque composer / Concerto in G Major for Cello and orchestra, G.480

⁸ Jesse Cook / Gravity, Mario Takes a Walk (1996)

⁹ Old language, 18th century attention paid to a lady.

¹⁰Shakespeare/Coriolanus: Act 5 Sc 3



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