The Vampire Lestat (35 page)

The gray-eyed boy was there, which surprised me, and he had a dazed expression on his face. A tall blond male vampire stood behind him with a handsome woman, both of them swathed in rags like lepers. It was the pretty one, the dark-eyed one who had laughed at my little jest on the stairs under les Innocents, who spoke:

“You have to help us!” she whispered.

“I do?” I tried to steady the mare. She didn’t like their company. “Why do I have to help you?” I demanded.

“He’s destroying the coven,” she said.

“Destroying us . . . ” the boy said. But he didn’t look at me. He was staring at the stones in front of him, and from his mind I caught flashes of what was happening, of the pyre lighted, of Armand forcing his followers into the fire.

I tried to get this out of my head. But the images were now coming from all of them. The dark-eyed pretty one looked directly into my eyes as she strove to sharpen the pictures—Armand swinging a great charred
beam of wood as he drove the others into the blaze, then stabbing them down into the flames with the beam as they struggled to escape.

“Good Lord, there were twelve of you!” I said. “Couldn’t you fight?”

“We did and we are here,” said the woman. “He burned six together, and the rest of us fled. In terror, we sought strange resting places for the day. We had never done this before, slept away from our sacred graves. We didn’t know what would happen to us. And when we rose he was there. Another two he managed to destroy. So we are all that is left. He has even broken open the deep chambers and burned the starved ones. He has broken loose the earth to block the tunnels to our meeting place.”

The boy looked up slowly.

“You did this to us,” he whispered. “You have brought us all down.”

The woman stepped in front of him.

“You must help us,” she said. “Make a new coven with us. Help us to exist as you exist.” She glanced impatiently at the boy.

“But the old woman, the great one?” I asked.

“It was she who commenced it,” said the boy bitterly. “She threw herself into the fire. She said she would go to join Magnus. She was laughing. It was then that he drove the others into the flames as we fled.”

I bowed my head. So she was gone. And all she had known and witnessed had gone with her, and what had she left behind but the simple one, the vengeful one, the wicked child who believed what she had known to be false.

“You must help us,” said the dark-eyed woman. “You see, it’s his right as coven master to destroy those who are weak, those who can’t survive.”

“He couldn’t let the coven fall into chaos,” said the other woman vampire who stood behind the boy. “Without the faith in the Dark Ways, the others might have blundered, alarmed the mortal populace. But if you help us to form a new coven, to perfect ourselves in new ways . . . ”

“We are the strongest of the coven,” said the man. “And if we can fend him off long enough, and manage to continue without him, then in time he may leave us alone.”

“He will destroy us,” the boy muttered. “He will never leave us alone. He will lie in wait for the moment when we separate . . . ”

“He isn’t invincible,” said the tall male. “And he’s lost all conviction. Remember that.”

“And you have Magnus’s tower, a safe place . . . ” said the boy despairingly as he looked up at me.

“No, that I can’t share with you,” I said. “You have to win this battle on your own.”

“But surely you can guide us . . . ” said the man.

“You don’t need me,” I said. “What have you already learned from my example? What did you learn from the things I said last night?”

“We learned more from what you said to him afterwards,” said the dark-eyed woman. “We heard you speak to him of a new evil, an evil for these times destined to move through the world in handsome human guise.”

“So take on the guise,” I said. “Take the garments of your victims, and take the money from their pockets. And you can then move among mortals as I do. In time you can gain enough wealth to acquire your own little fortress, your secret sanctuary. Then you will no longer be beggars or ghosts.”

I could see the desperation in their faces. Yet they listened attentively.

“But our skin, the timbre of our voices . . . ” said the dark-eyed woman.

“You can fool mortals. It’s very easy. It just takes a little skill.”

“But how do we start?” said the boy dully, as if he were only reluctantly being brought into it. “What sort of mortals do we pretend to be?”

“Choose for yourself!” I said. “Look around you. Masquerade as gypsies if you will—that oughtn’t to be too difficult—or better yet mummers,” I glanced towards the lights of the boulevard.

“Mummers!” said the dark-eyed woman with a little spark of excitement.

“Yes, actors. Street performers. Acrobats. Make yourselves acrobats. Surely you’ve seen them out there. You can cover your white faces with greasepaint, and your extravagant gestures and facial expressions won’t even be noticed. You couldn’t choose a more nearly perfect disguise than that. On the boulevard you’ll see every manner of mortal that dwells in this city. You’ll learn all you need to know.”

She laughed and glanced at the others. The man was deep in thought, the other woman musing, the boy unsure.

“With your powers, you can become jugglers and tumblers easily,” I said. “It would be nothing for you. You could be seen by thousands who’d never guess what you are.”

“That isn’t what happened with you on the stage of this little theater,” said the boy coldly. “You put terror into their hearts.”

“Because I chose to do it,” I said. Tremor of pain. “That’s my tragedy. But I can fool anyone when I want to and so can you.”

I reached into my pockets and drew out a handful of gold crowns. I gave them to the dark-eyed woman. She took them in both hands and stared at them as if they were burning her. She looked up and in her eyes I saw the image of myself on Renaud’s stage performing those ghastly feats that had driven the crowd into the streets.

But she had another thought in her mind. She knew the theater was abandoned, that I’d sent the troupe off.

And for one second, I considered it, letting the pain double itself and pass through me, wondering if the others could feel it. What did it really matter, after all?

“Yes, please,” said the pretty one. She reached up and touched my hand with her cool white fingers. “Let us inside the theater! Please.” She turned and looked at the back doors of Renaud’s.

Let them inside. Let them dance on my grave.

But there might be old costumes there still, the discarded trappings of a troupe that had had all the money in the world to buy itself new finery. Old pots of white paint. Water still in the barrels. A thousand treasures left behind in the haste of departure.

I was numb, unable to consider all of it, unwilling to reach back to embrace all that had happened there.

“Very well,” I said, looking away as if some little thing had distracted me. “You can go into the theater if you wish. You can use whatever is there.”

She drew closer and pressed her lips suddenly to the back of my hand.

“We won’t forget this,” she said. “My name is Eleni, this boy is Laurent, the man here is Félix, and the woman with him, Eugénie. If Armand moves against you, he moves against us.”

“I hope you prosper,” I said, and strangely enough, I meant it. I wondered if any of them, with all their Dark Ways and Dark Rituals, had ever really wanted this nightmare that we all shared. They’d been drawn into it as I had, really. And we were all Children of Darkness now, for better or worse.

“But be wise in what you do here,” I warned. “Never bring victims here or kill near here. Be clever and keep your hiding place safe.”

I
T WAS
three o’clock before I rode over the bridge on to the Ile St.-Louis. I had wasted enough time. And now I had to find the violin.

But as soon as I approached Nicki’s house on the quai I saw that something was wrong. The windows were empty. All the drapery had been pulled down, and yet the place was full of light, as if candles were burning inside by the hundreds. Most strange. Roget couldn’t have taken possession of the flat yet. Not enough time had passed to assume that Nicki had met with foul play.

Quickly, I went up over the roof and down the wall to the courtyard window, and saw that the drapery had been stripped away there too.

And candles were burning in all the candelabra and in the wall sconces. And some were even stuck in their own wax on the pianoforte and the desk. The room was in total disarray.

Every book had been pulled off the shelf. And some of the books were in fragments, pages broken out. Even the music had been emptied sheet by sheet onto the carpet, and all the pictures were lying about on the tables with other small possessions—coins, money, keys.

Perhaps the demons had wrecked the place when they took Nicki. But who had lighted all these candles? It didn’t make sense.

I listened. No one in the flat. Or so it seemed. But then I heard not thoughts, but tiny sounds. I narrowed my eyes for a moment, just concentrating, and it came to me that I was hearing pages turn, and then something being dropped. More pages turning, stiff, old parchment pages. Then again the book dropped.

I raised the window as quietly as I could. The little sounds continued, but no scent of human, no pulse of thought.

Yet there was a smell here. Something stronger than the stale tobacco and the candle wax. The smell the vampires carried with them from the cemetery soil.

More candles in the hallway. Candles in the bedroom and the same disarray, books open as they lay in careless piles, the bedclothes snarled, the pictures in a heap. Cabinets emptied, drawers pulled out.

And no violin anywhere, I managed to note that.

And those little sounds coming from another room, pages being turned very fast.

Whoever he was—and of course I knew who he had to be—he did not give a damn that I was there! He had not even stopped to take a breath.

I went farther down the hall and stood in the door of the library and found myself staring right at him as he continued with his task.

It was Armand, of course. Yet I was hardly prepared for the sight he presented here.

Candle wax dripped down the marble bust of Caesar, flowed over the brightly painted countries of the world globe. And the books, they lay in mountains on the carpet, save for those of the very last shelf in the corner where he stood, in his old rags still, hair full of dust, ignoring me as he ran his hand over page after page, his eyes intent on the words before him, his lips half open, his expression like that of an insect in its concentration as it chews through a leaf.

Perfectly horrible he looked, actually. He was sucking everything out of the books!

Finally he let this one drop and took down another, and opened it and started devouring it in the same manner, fingers moving down the sentences with preternatural speed.

And I realized that he had been examining everything in the flat in this fashion, even the bed sheets and curtains, the pictures that had been taken
off their hooks, the contents of cupboards and drawers. But from the books, he was taking concentrated knowledge. Everything from Caesar’s
Gallic Wars
to modern English novels lay on the floor.

But his manner wasn’t the entire horror. It was the havoc he was leaving behind him, the utter disregard of everything he used.

And his utter disregard of me.

He finished his latest book, or broke off from it, and went to the old newspapers stacked on a lower shelf.

I found myself backing out of the room and away from him, staring numbly at his small dirty figure. His auburn hair shimmered despite the dirt in it; his eyes burned like two lights.

Grotesque he seemed, among all the candles and the swimming colors of the flat, this filthy waif of the netherworld, and yet his beauty held sway. He hadn’t needed the shadows of Notre Dame or the torchlight of the crypt to flatter him. And there was a fierceness in him in this bright light that I hadn’t seen before.

I felt an overwhelming confusion. He was both dangerous and compelling. I could have looked on him forever, but an overpowering instinct said: Get away. Leave the place to him if he wants it. What does it matter now?

The violin. I tried desperately to think about the violin. To stop watching the movement of his hands over the words in front of him, the relentless focus of his eyes.

But these things were putting me in a trance.

I turned my back on him and went into the parlor. My hands were trembling. I could hardly endure knowing he was there. I searched everywhere and didn’t find the damned violin. What could Nicki have done with it? I couldn’t think.

Pages turning, paper crinkling. Soft sound of the newspaper dropping to the floor.

Go back to the tower at once.

I went to pass the library quickly, when without warning his soundless voice shot out and stopped me. It was like a hand touching my throat. I turned and saw him staring at me.

Do you love them, your silent children? Do they love you?
That was what he asked, the sense disentangling itself from an endless echo.

I felt the blood rise to my face. The heat spread out over me like a mask as I looked at him.

All the books in the room were now on the floor. He was a haunt standing in the ruins, a visitant from the devil he believed in. Yet his face was so tender, so young.

The Dark Trick never brings love, you see, it brings only the silence
. His
voice seemed softer in its soundlessness, clearer, the echo dissipated.
We used to say it was Satan’s will, that the master and the fledgling not seek comfort in each other. It was Satan who had to be served, after all
.

Every word penetrated me. Every word was received by a secret, humiliating curiosity and vulnerability. But I refused to let him see this. Angrily I said:

“What do you want of me?”

It was shattering something to speak. I was feeling more fear of him at this moment than ever during the earlier battles and arguments, and I hate those who make me feel fear, those who know things that I need to know, who have that power over me.