by Anne Rice
"Understandable," I said.
"Father worked almost all his life for Cunard shipping, spending his last years as a cabin steward in first class on the Queen Elizabeth 2. Very proud of his record. Great scandal and disgrace not so many years ago, when James was also hired, thanks to the influence of his father, and promptly robbed one of the passengers of four hundred pounds in cash. Father disowned him, was reinstated by Cunard before he died. Never spoke to his son again."
"Ah, the photograph on the ship," I said.
"What?"
"And when you expelled him, he had wanted to sail on that very vessel back to America .
. . first class, of course."
"He told you that? It's possible. I didn't really handle the particulars myself."
"Not important, go on. How did he get into the occult?"
"He was highly educated, spent years at Oxford, though at times he had to live like a pauper. Started dabbling in medium-ship even before his mother died. Didn't come into his own until the fifties, in Paris, where he soon acquired an enormous following, then started bilking his clients in the most crude and obvious ways imaginable, and went to jail.
"Same thing happened later in Oslo, more or less. After a series of odd jobs, including very menial work, he started some sort of a spiritualist church, swindled a widow out of her life savings, and was deported. Then Vienna, where he worked as a waiter in a first- class hotel until he became a psychic counselor to the rich within a matter of weeks. Soon a hasty departure. He barely escaped arrest. In Milan, he bilked a member of the old aristocracy out of thousands before he was discovered, and had to leave the city in the middle of the night. His next stop was Berlin, where he was arrested but talked himself out of custody, and then back to London, where he went to jail again."
"Ups and downs," I said, remembering his words.
"That's always the pattern. He rises from the lowest employment to living in extravagant luxury, running up ludicrous accounts for fine clothing, motorcars, jet excursions here and there, and then it all collapses in the face of his petty crimes, treachery, and betrayal. He can't break the cycle. It always brings him down."
"So it seems."
"Lestat, there is something positively stupid about this creature. He speaks eight languages, can invade any computer network, and possess other people's bodies long enough to loot their wall safes-he is obsessed with wall safes, by the way, hi an almost erotic fashion!-and yet he plays silly tricks on people and ends up with handcuffs on his wrists! The objects he took from our vaults were nearly impossible for him to sell. He ended up dumping them on the black market for a pittance. He's really something of an arch fool."
I laughed under my breath. "The thefts are symbolic, David. This is a creature of compulsion and obsession. It's a game. That's why he cannot hang on to what he steals. It's the process that counts with him, more than anything else."
"But, Lestat, it's an endlessly destructive game."
"I understand, David. Thank you for this information. I'll call you soon."
"Wait just a minute, you can't ring off, I won't allow it, don't you realize-"
"Of course I do, David."
"Lestat, there is a saying in the world of the occult. Like attracts like. Do you know what it means?"
"What would I know about the occult, David? That's your territory, not mine."
"This is no time for sarcasm."
"I'm sorry. What does it mean?"
"When a sorcerer uses his powers in a petty and selfish fashion, the magic always rebounds upon him."
"Now you're talking superstition."
"I am talking a principle which is as old as magic itself."
"He isn't a magician, David, he's merely a creature with certain measurable and definable psychic powers. He can possess other people. In one case of which we know, he effected an actual switch."
"It's the same thing! Use those powers to try to harm others and the harm comes back to oneself."
"David, I am the extant proof that such a concept is false. Next you will explain the concept of karma to me and I will slowly drop off to sleep."
"James is the quintessential evil sorcerer! He's already defeated death once at the expense of another human being; he must be stopped."
"Why didn't you try to stop me, David, when you had the opportunity? I was at your mercy at Talbot Manor. You could have found some way."
"Don't push me away with your accusations!"
"I love you, David. I will contact you soon." I was about to put down the phone, when I thought of something. "David," I said. "There's something else I'd like to know."
"Yes, what?" Such relief that I hadn't hung up.
"You have these relics of ours-old possessions in your vaults."
"Yes." Discomfort. This was an embarrassment to him, it seemed.
"A locket," I said, "a locket with a picture of Claudia, you have seen such a thing?"
"I believe I have," he said. "I verified the inventory of all of those items after you first came to me. I believe there was a locket. I'm almost certain, in fact. I should have told you this, shouldn't I, before now?"
"No. Doesn't matter. Was it a locket on a chain, such as women wear?"
"Yes. Do you want me to look for this locket? If I find it, I shall give it to you, of course."
"No, don't look for it now. Perhaps sometime in the future. Good-bye, David. I'll come to you soon."
I hung up, and removed the small phone plug from the wall. So there had been a locket, a woman's locket. But for whom had such a thing been made? And why did I see it in my dreams? Claudia would not have carried her own image with her in a locket. And surely I would remember it if she had. As I tried to envision it, or remember it, I was filled with a peculiar combination of sadness and dread. It seemed I was very near a dark place, a place full of actual death. And as so often happens with my memories, I heard laughter. Only it wasn't Claudia's laughter this time. It was mine. I had a sense of preternatural youth and endless possibility. In other words I was remembering the young vampire I'd been in the old days of the eighteenth century before time had dealt its blows.
Well, what did I care about this damned locket? Maybe I'd picked up the image from James's brain as he pursued me. It had been for him merely a tool to ensnare me. And the fact was, I'd never even seen such a locket. He would have done better to pick some other trinket that had once belonged to me.
No, that last explanation seemed too simple. The image was too vivid. And I'd seen it in my dreams before James had made his way into my adventures. I grew angry suddenly. I had other things to consider just now, did I not? Get thee behind me, Claudia. Take your locket, please, ma cherie, and go.
For a very long time, I sat still in the shadows, conscious that the clock was ticking on the mantel, and listening to the occasional noise of traffic from the street.
I tried to consider the points David had made to me. I tried. But all I was thinking was ... so James can do it, really do it. He is the white-haired man in the photograph, and he did switch with the mechanic in the hospital in London. It can be done!
Now and then I saw the locket in my mind's eye-1 saw the miniature of Claudia painted so artfully in oils. But no emotion came to me, no sorrow, no anger, no grief.
It was James upon whom my entire heart was fastened. James can do it! James isn't lying. I can live and breathe in that body! And when the sun rises over Georgetown on that morning, I shall see it with those eyes.
It was an hour after midnight when I reached Georgetown. A heavy snow had been falling all evening long, and the streets were filled with deep white drifts of it, clean and beautiful; and it was banked against the doors of the houses, and etching in white the fancy black iron railings and the deep window ledges here and there.
The town itself was immaculate and very charming-made up of graceful Federal-style buildings, mostly of wood, which had the clean lines of the eighteenth century, with its penchant for order and balance, though many h
ad been built in the early decades of the nineteenth. I roamed for a long time along deserted M Street, with its many commercial establishments, and then through the silent campus of the nearby university, and then through the cheerfully lighted hillside streets.
The town house of Raglan James was a particularly fine structure, made of red brick and built right on the street. It had a pretty center doorway and a hefty brass knocker, and two cheerful flickering gas lamps. Old-fashioned solid shutters graced the windows, and there was a lovely fanlight over the door.
The windows were clean, in spite of the snow on the sills, and I could see into the bright and orderly rooms. There was a smart look to the interior-trim white leather furnishings of extreme modern severity and obvious expense. Numerous paintings on the walls- Picasso, de Kooning, Jasper Johns, Andy Warhol-and intermingled with these multimillion dollar canvases, several large expensively mounted photographs of modern ships. Indeed there were several replicas of large ocean liners in glass cases in the lower hall. The floors gleamed with plastic lacquer. Small dark Oriental rugs of geometric design were everywhere, and the many ornaments gracing glass tables and inlaid teak cabinets were almost exclusively Chinese.
Meticulous, fashionable, costly, and highly individual-that was the personality of the place. It looked to me the way the dwellings of mortals always did-like a series of pristine stage sets. Quite impossible to believe I could be mortal, and belong in such a house, even for an hour or more.
Indeed, the small rooms were so polished it seemed impossible that anyone actually inhabited them at all. The kitchen was full of gleaming copper pots, and black glassdoored appliances, cabinets without visible handles to open them, and bright red ceramic plates.
In spite of the hour, James himself was nowhere to be found.
I entered the house.
A second storey held the bedroom, with a low modern bed, no more than a wooden frame with a mattress inside it, and covered with a quilt of bright geometric pattern, and numerous white pillows-as austere and elegant as all the rest. The closet was crammed with expensive garments, and so were the drawers of the Chinese bureau and another small hand-carved chest by the bed.
Other rooms lay empty, but nowhere was there evidence of neglect. I saw no computers here either. No doubt he kept these someplace else.
In one of these rooms, I concealed a great deal of money for my later use, hiding it inside the chimney of the unused fireplace.
I also concealed some money in an unused bathroom, behind a mirror on the wall.
These were simple precautions. I really couldn't conceive of what it would be like to be human. I might feel quite helpless. Just didn't know.
After I made these little arrangements, I went up on the roof. I could see James at the base of the hill, just turning the comer from M Street, a load of parcels in his arms. He'd been up to thievery, no doubt, for there was no place to shop in these slow hours before dawn. I lost sight of him as he started his ascent.
But another strange visitor appeared, without making the slightest sound that a mortal could hear. It was a great dog, seeming to materialize out of nowhere, which made its way back the alleyway and to the rear yard.
I'd caught its scent as soon as it approached, but I did not see the animal until I came over the roof to the back of the house. I'd expected to hear from it before this time, for surely it would pick up my scent, know instinctively that I wasn't human, and then begin to sound its natural alarm of growls and barks.
Dogs had done that enough to me over the centuries, though they don't always.
Sometimes I can entrance them and command them. But I feared the instinctive rejection and it always sent a pain through my heart.
This dog had not barked or given any clue that he knew I was there. He was staring intently at the rear door of the house and the butter-yellow squares of light falling from the window of the door onto the deep snow.
I had a good chance to study him in undisturbed silence, and he was, very simply, one of the most handsome dogs I had ever beheld.
He was covered in deep, plush fur, beautifully golden and gray in places, and overlaid with a faint saddle of longer black hairs. His overall shape was that of a wolf, but he was far too big to be a wolf, and there was nothing furtive and sly about him, as is the case with wolves. On the contrary, he was wholly majestic in the way that he sat staring motionless at the door.
On closer inspection, I saw that he most truly resembled a giant German shepherd, with the characteristic black muzzle and alert face.
Indeed, when I drew close to the edge of the roof, and he at last looked up at me, I found myself vaguely thrilled by the fierce intelligence gleaming in his dark almond-shaped eyes.
Still he gave no bark, no growl. There seemed a near-human comprehension in him. But how could that explain his silence? I had done nothing to enthrall him, to lure or befuddle his dog mind. No. No instinctive aversion at all.
I dropped down into the snow in front of him, and he merely continued to look at me, with those uncanny and expressive eyes. Indeed, so large was he and so calm and sure of himself, that I laughed to myself with delight as I looked at him. I couldn't resist reaching out to touch the soft fur between his ears.
He cocked his head to one side as he continued to look at me, and I found this very endearing, and then to my further amazement he lifted his immense paw and stroked my coat. His bones were so big and heavy he put me in mind of my mastiffs of long ago. He had their slow heavy grace as he moved. I reached out to embrace him, loving his strength and his heaviness, and he reared back on his hind legs and threw his huge paws up on my shoulders, and ran his great ham-pink tongue over my face.
This produced in me a wonderful happiness, really near to weeping, and then some giddy laughter. I nuzzled him, and held him, and stroked him, loving his clean furry smell, and kissing him all over his black muzzle, and then looking him in the eye.
Ah, this is what Little Red Riding Hood saw, I thought, when she beheld the wolf in her grandmother's nightcap and gown. It was too funny, really, the extraordinary and keen expression in his dark face.
"Why don't you know me for what I am?" I asked. And then as he sank back down to a majestic sitting position, and looked up at me almost obediently, it struck me that this was an omen, this dog.
No, "omen" is not the proper word. This did not come from anyone, this gift. It was merely something which put me more in mind of what I meant to do and why I meant to do it, and how little I really cared about the risks involved.
I stood beside the dog, petting him and stroking him and moments passed. It was a small garden, and the snow was falling again, deepening around us, and the cold pain in my skin was growing deeper too. The trees were bare and black in the silent storm. Whatever flowers or grass there might have been was of course not visible; but a few garden statues of darkened concrete and a sharp, thick shrubbery-now nothing but bare twigs and snow- marked a clear rectangular pattern to the whole.
I must have been there with the dog perhaps three minutes before my hand discovered the round silver disk dangling from his chain-link collar, and finally I gathered this up and held it to the light.
Mojo. Ah, I knew this word. Mojo. It had to do with voodoo, gris-gris, charms. Mojo was a good charm, a protective charm. I approved of it as a name for a dog; it was splendid, in fact, and when I called him Mojo he became faintly excited and once again stroked me slowly with his big eager paw.
"Mojo, is it?" I said again. "That's very beautiful." I kissed him and felt the leathery black tip of his nose. There was something else written on the disk, however. It was the address of this house.
Very suddenly the dog stiffened; it moved slowly and gracefully out of the sitting position and into an alert stance. James was coming. I heard his crunching steps in the snow. I heard the sound of his key in the lock of his front door. I sensed him realize suddenly that I was very near.
The dog gave a deep fierce growl and moved slowly closer to t
he rear door of the house. There came the sound of the boards inside creaking under James's heavy feet.
The dog gave a deep angry bark. James opened the door, fixed his fierce crazy eyes on me, smiled, and then hurled something heavy at the animal which it easily dodged.
"Glad to see you! But you're early," he said.
I didn't answer him. The dog was growling at him in the same menacing fashion and he gave his attention to the animal again, with great annoyance.
"Get rid of it!" he .said, purely furious. "Kill it!"
"You're talking to me?" I asked coldly. I laid my hand on the animal's head again, stroking it, and whispering to it to be still. It drew closer to me, rubbing its heavy flank against me and then seated itself beside me.
James was tense and shivering as he watched all this. Suddenly he pushed up his collar against the wind, and folded his arms. The snow was blowing all over him, like white powder, clinging to his brown eyebrows and his hair.
"It belongs to this house, doesn't it?" I said coldly. "This house which you stole."
He regarded me with obvious hatred, and then flashed one of those awful evil smiles. I truly wished he'd lapse back into being the English gentleman. It was so much easier for me when he did. It crossed my mind that it was absolutely base to have to deal with him. I wondered if Saul had found the Witch of Endor so distasteful. But the body, ah, the body, how splendid it was.
Even in his resentment, with his eyes fixed upon the dog, he could not wholly disfigure the beauty of the body.
"Well, it seems you've stolen the dog too," I said.
"I'll get rid of it," he whispered, looking at it again with fierce contempt. "And you, where do things stand with you? I won't give you forever to make up your mind. You've given me no certain answer. I want an answer now."
"Go to your bank tomorrow morning," I said. "I'll see you after dark. Ah, but there is one more condition."