by Rice, Anne
Akasha!
Someone was shaking me. “Lestat,” he said.
Confusion.
“Ah, Louis, forgive me.” The dark neglected hallway. I shuddered. “I came here because I was so concerned … about you.”
“No need,” he said considerately. “It was just a little pilgrimage I had to make.”
I touched his face with my fingers; so warm from the kill.
“She’s not here, Louis,” I said. “It was something Jesse imagined.”
“Yes, so it seems,” he said.
“We live forever; but they don’t come back.”
He studied me for a long moment; then he nodded. “Come on,” he said.
We walked down the long hallway together; no, I did not like it; I did not want to be here. It was haunted; but real hauntings have nothing to do with ghosts finally; they have to do with the menace of memory; that had been my room in there; my room.
He was struggling with the back door, trying to make the old weathered frame behave. I gestured for him to go out on the porch and then I gave it the shove it needed. Locked up tight.
So sad to see the overgrown courtyard; the fountain ruined; the old brick kitchen crumbling, and the bricks becoming earth again.
“I’ll fix it all for you if you want,” I told him. “You know, make it like it was before.”
“Not important now,” he said. “Will you come with me, walk with me a little?”
We went down the covered carriageway together, water rushing through the little gutter. I glanced back once. Saw her standing there in her white dress with the blue sash. Only she wasn’t looking at me. I was dead, she thought, wrapped in the sheet that Louis thrust into the carriage; she was taking my remains away to bury me; yet there she stood, and our eyes met.
I felt him tugging on me. “No good to stay here any longer,” he said.
I watched him close the gate up properly; and then his eyes moved sluggishly over the windows again, the balconies, and the high dormers above. Was he saying farewell, finally? Maybe not.
We went together up to the Rue Ste. Anne, and away from the river, not speaking, just walking, the way we’d done so many times back then. The cold was biting at him a little, biting at his hands. He didn’t like to put his hands in his pockets the way men did today. He didn’t think it a graceful thing to do.
The rain had softened into a mist.
Finally, he said: “You gave me a little fright; I didn’t think you were real when I first saw you in the hallway; you didn’t answer when I said your name.”
“And where are we going now?” I asked. I buttoned up my denim jacket. Not because I suffered from cold anymore; but because being warm felt good.
“Just one last place, and then wherever you wish. Back to the coven house, I should think. We don’t have much time. Or maybe you can leave me to my meanderings, and I’ll be back in a couple of nights.”
“Can’t we meander together?”
“Yes,” he said eagerly.
What in God’s name did I want? We walked beneath the old porches, past the old solid green shutters; past the walls of peeling plaster and naked brick, and through the garish light of the Rue Bourbon and then I saw the St. Louis Cemetery up ahead, with its thick whitewashed walls.
What did I want? Why was my soul aching still when all the rest of them had struck some balance? Even Louis had struck a balance, and we had each other, as Marius had said.
I was happy to be with him, happy to be walking these old streets; but why wasn’t it enough?
Another gate now to be opened; I watched him break the lock with his fingers. And then we went into the little city of white graves with their peaked roofs and urns and doorways of marble, and the high grass crunching under our boots. The rain made every surface luminous; the lights of the city gave a pearl gleam to the clouds traveling silently over our heads.
I tried to find the stars. But I couldn’t. When I looked down again, I saw Claudia; I felt her hand touch mine.
Then I looked at Louis again, and saw his eyes catch the dim and distant light and I winced. I touched his face again, the cheekbones, the arch beneath the black eyebrow. What a finely made thing he was.
“Blessed darkness!” I said suddenly. “Blessed darkness has come again.”
“Yes,” he said sadly, “and we rule in it as we have always done.”
Wasn’t that enough?
He took my hand—what did it feel like now?—and led me down the narrow corridor between the oldest, the most venerable tombs; tombs that went back to the oldest time of the colony, when he and I had roamed the swamps together, the swamps that threatened to swallow everything, and I had fed on the blood of roustabouts and cutthroat thieves.
His tomb. I realized I was looking at his name engraved on the marble in a great slanting old-fashioned script.
Louis de Pointe du Lac
1766–1794
He rested against the tomb behind him, another one of those little temples, like his own, with a peristyle roof.
“I only wanted to see it again,” he said. He reached out and touched the writing with his finger.
It had faded only slightly from the weather wearing at the surface of the stone. The dust and grime had made it all the clearer, darkening each letter and numeral. Was he thinking of what the world had been in those years?
I thought of her dreams, her garden of peace on earth, with flowers springing from the blood-soaked soil.
“Now we can go home,” he said.
Home. I smiled. I reached out and touched the graves on either side of me; I looked up again at the soft glow of the city lights against the ruffled clouds.
“You’re not going to leave us, are you?” he asked suddenly, voice sharpened with distress.
“No,” I said. I wished I could speak of it, all the things that were in the book. “You know, we were lovers, she and I, as surely as a mortal man and woman ever were.”
“Of course, I know,” he said.
I smiled. I kissed him suddenly, thrilled by the warmth of him, the soft pliant feel of his near human skin. God, how I hated the whiteness of my fingers touching him, fingers that could have crushed him now effortlessly. I wondered if he even guessed.
There was so much I wanted to say to him, to ask him. Yet I couldn’t find the words really, or a way to begin. He had always had so many questions; and now he had his answers, more answers perhaps than he could ever have wanted; and what had this done to his soul? Stupidly I stared at him. How perfect he seemed to me as he stood there waiting with such kindness and such patience. And then, like a fool, I came out with it.
“Do you love me now?” I asked.
He smiled; oh, it was excruciating to see his face soften and brighten simultaneously when he smiled. “Yes,” he said.
“Want to go on a little adventure?” My heart was thudding suddenly. It would be so grand if—“Want to break the new rules?”
“What in the world do you mean?” he whispered.
I started laughing, in a low feverish fashion; it felt so good. Laughing and watching the subtle little changes in his face. I really had him worried now. And the truth was, I didn’t know if I could do it. Without her. What if I plunged like Icarus—?
“Oh, come now, Louis,” I said. “Just a little adventure. I promise, I have no designs this time on Western civilization, or even on the attentions of two million rock music fans. I was thinking of something small, really. Something, well, a little mischievous. And rather elegant. I mean, I’ve been awfully good for the last two months, don’t you think?”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Are you with me or not?”
He gave another little shake of his head again. But it wasn’t a No. He was pondering. He ran his fingers back through his hair. Such fine black hair. The first thing I’d ever noticed about him—well, after his green eyes, that is—was his black hair. No, all that’s a lie. It was his expression; the passion and the innocence
and the delicacy of conscience. I just loved it!
“When does this little adventure begin?”
“Now,” I said. “You have four seconds to make up your mind.”
“Lestat, it’s almost dawn.”
“It’s almost dawn here,” I answered.
“What do you mean?”
“Louis, put yourself in my hands. Look, if I can’t pull it off, you won’t really be hurt. Well, not that much. Game? Make up your mind. I want to be off now.”
He didn’t say anything. He was looking at me, and so affectionately that I could hardly stand it.
“Yes or no.”
“I’m probably going to regret this, but.…”
“Agreed then.” I reached out and placed my hands firmly on his arms and I lifted him high off his feet. He was flabbergasted, looking down at me. It was as if he weighed nothing. I set him down.
“Mon Dieu,” he whispered.
Well, what was I waiting for? If I didn’t try it, I’d never find out. There came a dark, dull moment of pain again; of remembering her; of us rising together. I let it slowly slip away.
I swung my arm around his waist. Upwards now. I lifted my right hand, but that wasn’t even necessary. We were climbing on the wind that fast.
The cemetery was spinning down there, a tiny sprawling toy of itself with little bits of white scattered all over under the dark trees.
I could hear his astonished gasp in my ear.
“Lestat!”
“Put your arm around my neck,” I said. “Hold on tight. We’re going west, of course, and then north, and we’re going a very long distance, and maybe we’ll drift for a while. The sun won’t set where we’re going for some time.”
The wind was ice cold. I should have thought of that, that he’d suffer from it; but he gave no sign. He was merely gazing upwards as we pierced the great snowy mist of the clouds.
When he saw the stars, I felt him tense against me; his face was perfectly smooth and serene; and if he was weeping the wind was carrying it away. Whatever fear he’d felt was gone now, utterly; he was lost as he looked upward; as the dome of heaven came down around us, and the moon shone full on the endless thickening plain of whiteness below.
No need to tell him what to observe, or what to remember. He always knew such things. Years ago, when I’d done the dark magic on him, I hadn’t had to tell him anything; he had savored the smallest aspects of it all on his own. And later he’d said I’d failed to guide him. Didn’t he know how unnecessary that had always been?
But I was drifting now, mentally and physically; feeling him a snug yet weightless thing against me; just the pure presence of Louis, Louis belonging to me, and with me. And no burden at all.
I was plotting the course firmly with one tiny part of my mind, the way she’d taught me to do it; and I was also remembering so many things; the first time, for example, that I’d ever seen him in a tavern in New Orleans. He’d been drunk, quarreling; and I’d followed him out into the night. And he had said in that last moment before I’d let him slip through my hands, his eyes closing:
“But who are you!”
I’d known I’d come back for him at sunset, that I’d find him if I had to search the whole city for him, though I was leaving him then half dead in the cobblestone street. I had to have him, had to. Just the way I had to have everything I wanted; or had to do everything I’d ever wanted to do.
That was the problem, and nothing she’d given me—not suffering, or power, or terror finally—had changed it one bit.
Four miles from London.
One hour after sunset. We lay in the grass together, in the cold darkness under the oak. There was a little light coming from the huge manor house in the middle of the park, but not much. The small deep-cut leaded windows seemed made to keep it all inside. Cozy in there, inviting, with all the book-lined walls, and the flicker of flames from those many fireplaces; and the smoke belching up from the chimneys into the foggy dark.
Now and then a car moved on the winding road beyond the front gates; and the beams would sweep the regal face of the old building, revealing the gargoyles, and the heavy arches over the windows, and the gleaming knockers on the massive front doors.
I have always loved these old European dwellings, big as landscapes; no wonder they invite the spirits of the dead to come back.
Louis sat up suddenly, looking about himself, and then hastily brushed the grass from his coat. He had slept for hours, inevitably, on the breast of the wind, you might say, and in the places where I’d rested for a little while, waiting for the world to turn. “Where are we?” he whispered, with a vague touch of alarm.
“Talamasca Motherhouse, outside London,” I said. I was lying there with my hands cradling my head. Lights on in the attic. Lights on in the main rooms of the first floor. I was thinking, what way would be the most fun?
“What are we doing here?”
“Adventure, I told you.”
“But wait a minute. You don’t mean to go in there.”
“Don’t I? They have Claudia’s diary in there, in their cellar, along with Marius’s painting. You know all that, don’t you? Jesse told you those things.”
“Well, what do you mean to do? Break in and rummage through the cellar till you find what you want?”
I laughed. “Now, that wouldn’t be very much fun, would it? Sounds more like dreary work. Besides, it’s not really the diary I want. They can keep the diary. It was Claudia’s. I want to talk to one of them, to David Talbot, the leader. They’re the only mortals in the world, you know, who really believe in us.”
Twinge of pain inside. Ignore it. The fun’s beginning.
For the moment he was too shocked to answer. This was even more delicious than I had dreamed.
“But you can’t be serious,” he said. He was getting wildly indignant. “Lestat, let these people alone. They think Jesse is dead. They received a letter from someone in her family.”
“Yes, naturally. So I won’t disabuse them of that morbid notion. Why would I? But the one who came to the concert—David Talbot, the older one—he fascinates me. I suppose I want to know.… But why say it? Time to go in and find out.”
“Lestat!”
“Louis!” I said, mocking his tone. I got up and helped him up, not because he needed it, but because he was sitting there glowering at me, and resisting me, and trying to figure out how to control me, all of which was an utter waste of his time.
“Lestat, Marius will be furious if you do this!” he said earnestly, his face sharpening, the whole picture of high cheekbones and dark probing green eyes firing beautifully. “The cardinal rule is—”
“Louis, you’re making it irresistible!” I said.
He took hold of my arm. “What about Maharet? These were Jesse’s friends!”
“And what is she going to do? Send Mekare to crush my head like an egg!”
“You are really past all patience!” he said. “Have you learned anything at all!”
“Are you coming with me or not?”
“You’re not going into that house.”
“You see that window up there?” I hooked my arm around his waist. Now, he couldn’t get away from me. “David Talbot is in that room. He’s been writing in his journal for about an hour. He’s deeply troubled. He doesn’t know what happened with us. He knows something happened; but he’ll never really figure it out. Now, we’re going to enter the bedroom next to him by means of that little window to the left.”
He gave one last feeble protest, but I was concentrating on the window, trying to visualize a lock. How many feet away was it? I felt the spasm, and then I saw, high above, the little rectangle of leaded glass swing out. He saw it too, and while he was standing there, speechless, I tightened my grip on him and went up.
Within a second we were standing inside the room. A small Elizabethan chamber with dark paneling, and handsome period furnishings, and a busy little fire.
Louis was in a rage. He glared at me as he
straightened his clothes now with quick, furious gestures. I liked the room. David Talbot’s books; his bed.
And David Talbot staring at us through the half-opened door to his study, from where he sat in the light of one green shaded lamp on his desk. He wore a handsome gray silk smoking jacket, tied at the waist. He had his pen in hand. He was as still as a creature of the wood, sensing a predator, before the inevitable attempt at flight.
Ah, now this was lovely!
I studied him for a moment; dark gray hair, clear black eyes, beautifully lined face; very expressive, immediately warm. And the intelligence of the man was obvious. All very much as Jesse and Khayman had described.
I went into the study.
“You’ll forgive me,” I said. “I should have knocked at the front door. But I wanted our meeting to be private. You know who I am, of course.”
Speechless.
I looked at the desk. Our files, neat manila folders with various familiar names: “Théâtre des Vampires” and “Armand” and “Benjamin, the Devil.” And “Jesse.”
Jesse. There was the letter from Jesse’s aunt Maharet lying there beside the folder. The letter which said that Jesse was dead.
I waited, wondering if I should force him to speak first. But then that’s never been my favorite game. He was studying me very intensely, infinitely more intensely than I had studied him. He was memorizing me, using little devices he’d learned to record details so that he would remember them later no matter how great the shock of an experience while it was going on.
Tall, not heavy, not slender either. A good build. Large, very well-formed hands. Very well groomed, too. A true British gentleman; a lover of tweed and leather and dark woods, and tea, and dampness and the dark park outside, and the lovely wholesome feeling of this house.
And his age, sixty-five or so. A very good age. He knew things younger men just could not possibly know. This was the modern equivalent of Marius’s age in ancient times. Not really old for the twentieth century at all.
Louis was still in the other room, but he knew Louis was there. He looked towards the doorway now. And then back to me.