Prince Lestat: The Vampire Chronicles

by Anne Rice

  “We must all come to the table and talk of what’s happening,” Lestat had said, so easily assuming command. “Armand, I say let’s do this in the attic ballroom. I’ll be there as soon as I’ve taken Rose safely down to the cellar and talked with her. And Benji, you must be there. You must shut down broadcasting long enough to be there, do you understand? No one can absent himself or herself. The crisis is too great. Maharet, Khayman, murdered, their house burned, Mekare gone. The Voice is inheriting the wind, and we have to hold this tent together against it!”

  Gregory was tempted to applaud. It was fireworks in the front hallway.

  Armand had agreed at once as though it were the most natural thing in the world to do what Lestat wanted.

  But wasn’t it what they all wanted?

  And what a dashing and beautiful figure Lestat was. The James Bond of the Vampires indeed. How had he managed under such pressure to show up at Trinity Gate in a fresh and show-stopping ensemble of Ralph Lauren wool plaids and pastel linen and silk, with brown-and-white wing-tip shoes, and his full shining mane of blond hair—just possibly the most fabled head of hair in the vampire world—tied at the back of his neck in black silk beneath a diamond brooch that might have ransomed a king but likely not his son, Viktor?

  The plaid coat was a long hacking jacket, exquisitely like a frock coat of an earlier time when fashion had been more daring and consciously romantic, and it fairly well concealed some sort of weapon, a large weapon that he carried—scent of wood and steel—without losing its beautiful shape and cut.

  Oh, this was the blood drinker of now, the vampire of now, for certain. Who else could better grasp that now was the Golden Time for all the Undead, transcending all ages past, and who else better to take the helm at this perfect moment? So what if it had taken this crisis to bring him to himself?

  Beside Gregory, Zenobia, Avicus, and Flavius evinced the same complete admiration and fascination, Flavius laughing softly under his breath.

  “He is all that anyone ever said he was,” he whispered to Gregory.

  And Gregory felt that giddy ridiculous feeling so many mortals have described over the millennia—of utter devotion to another so well expressed in the old phrase “I’ll follow him anywhere!”

  And Gregory did feel that. Yes, I would follow him in whatever he decides to do and put all my strength, all my gifts, at his disposal. But didn’t all the others feel precisely the same thing? Hadn’t all the arguments and uneasy conversations stopped? The whole house had assembled in the drawing room, the hallway, on the stairs. Weren’t all united? Didn’t even Gregory’s beloved Sevraine and the inscrutable and ever-diffident Notker the Wise stare at Lestat with the same complete submission? Even Lestat’s mother, slouching against the front door in her dusty khaki, was eyeing her son with a certain iron satisfaction, as if to say, Well now, maybe something will indeed happen.

  Rose, poor Rose, poor mortal Rose, poor tender terrified Rose with her huge searching blue eyes and her thick blue-black curling hair. The sooner she was brought over the better. A mortal mind could be damaged beyond repair by what this girl had witnessed.

  She was clinging to Lestat, like a shivering bride in her white silk dress, trying so desperately and selflessly to keep her weeping silent, and he, like a mighty bridegroom, held her in his arms, reassuring her once again as he gave her over to Louis. “Give me one precious moment, my dearest,” he said to her, “and I will be with you. You are safe now.”

  Gregory stared astonished as Lestat gestured for his mother to step aside, and opened the front door. He went out onto the little portico and stared right at the young fledglings gathered three deep on the pavement in the deep shadows of the giant trees that crowded the narrow street, whose electric lamps had been mysteriously disengaged several nights ago.

  A roar went up such as Gregory had never heard from assembled blood drinkers in all his life. Not even the old armies of the Queens Blood had ever roared in such support for a leader.

  All this while, these young ones had defied Benji’s warnings, gathering hour by hour to watch the house, and struggling to glimpse the faces that appeared at the windows, scrutinizing each passing car for new arrivals, though in fact arrivals seldom if ever came by car, and those that did, managed to slide into the underground garage beneath the third townhouse of the assemblage.

  Not a single immortal within the house had dared to acknowledge the existence of these desperate creatures, not for an instant, except Benji through the radio broadcast only and always urging them gently not to gather, and to please go away.

  Yet they had come, and now they remained, irresistibly drawn to the only place around which they had hope.

  And this bold bright gentleman vampire, Lestat, went right down the steps now to the pavement to greet them.

  Reaching out, he drew them to himself in a huge tight circle, telling them all in his commanding voice to be wise, to be careful, and above all to be patient!

  All around Gregory, blood drinkers within the house moved to the windows to watch this absolutely unprecedented spectacle—the peacock prince with his dark creamy skin and impeccable clothes, taking the time to talk to his subjects, and they were indeed his subjects, the rambling, scrambling baby vampires all trying to assure him of their love, their devotion, their innocence, their desire for a “chance,” their pledge to feed on the evildoer only, to have no more quarrels, no fights, to do what he wanted, what he said, to have his love and his protection as a ruler.

  And all the while, the iPhones were flashing, even cameras were flashing, and the taller stronger males were struggling to appear gentlemanly as they sought the front ranks, sought to grip his hand, the females throwing him kisses, and those in the back jumping up and down to wave to him.

  Beside Gregory, Benji Mahmoud was overcome with joy.

  “Do you see this?” he shouted and jumped in the air now as if he were still the twelve-year-old boy he’d been when the Dark Blood took him.

  “I am so sorry,” Lestat said to the crowd in the most genuine and persuasive voice, “that I have taken so long to come to my senses, to know your needs, to know your desperation. Forgive me that I let you down in the past, that I ran from you, that I hid myself from those whose love I’d sought and then disappointed. I’m here now and I tell you we will survive this, do you hear me, and Benji Mahmoud is right. Out of the mouths of babes! He’s right. ‘Hell shall have no dominion!’ ”

  Again, the roar went up from them as if a tempest had hit the narrow street. What in the world did the mortals in those buildings across the way think of such things? What about the few cars that tried to make their way towards Lexington or Madison Avenue?

  What did it matter? This was Manhattan where a crowd this size might loosely assemble outside a nightclub or for a gallery opening, or for a wedding, and were they not quick to get out of the way of the mortal world if they had to? Oh, the daring of it all, to go right out there and speak to them, to trust that such a thing was possible.

  Sixty centuries of superstition, secrecy, and elitism were being overturned in one precious moment.

  Lestat backed up the marble steps towards the portico, pausing with upraised hands, letting all those iPhones and cameras snap, even beaming at a mortal couple, young, curious, tourists in the big city, who passed wondering what manner of celebrity was this and then hurried on, slipping through the shifting blood drinkers as if they were mere Goth kids who would never harm anyone.

  “Now you must let us do our work!” declared Lestat. “I ask you to listen to all that Benji has to say especially on this night of all nights, and be patient with us. I’ll come back to you myself in person when I have something important, truly important, to tell you.”

  A young female dashed forward and kissed his hand; the males were giving off raucous cries of support. Indeed deep guttural sounds were breaking out in the crowd such as bloodthirsty mortal soldiers used to make but which were now the stuff of sports audiences in packed arenas. Woot
, woot!

  “Where shall we search for Viktor?” a male cried out from the middle of the empty street. “Benji’s told us to search, but where do we begin?”

  Gregory could see that this shocked Lestat. He hadn’t been prepared for this. Apparently, he hadn’t known that Benji had sent out the word as soon as Viktor was kidnapped. But Lestat rose to the moment.

  “He that brings Viktor back safe to these front steps,” he called out, “shall have his fill of my powerful blood in my grateful embrace, I swear to you.”

  Again the whole shifting and glittering assembly roared in unison.

  “But be careful as you search, as you listen, as you use your gifts, to cast a net for his voice, for images of him and where he’s held captive. For this thing that has Viktor is merciless, an outcast and a slayer of the greatest of his own kind, and therefore desperate. Come to us, here, or call Benji with any intelligence. Now be safe, and be wise, and be good! Be good!”

  The crowd was screaming.

  With a great wave of his right hand, Lestat backed through the open door and then he closed it.

  He stood there as if catching his breath, his back to the dark-paneled wood, and then he looked up, his large blue-violet eyes flashing over the surrounding faces like lights.

  “Where has Louis taken Rose?” he asked.

  “Downstairs, the cellar,” said Gregory. “We will see you in the attic.”

  The whole congregation moved upwards, to the giant ballroom where the meeting would take place.

  By the time Gregory reached the top floor and walked into the vast dimly lighted space, a conference table had been arranged by bringing lots of smaller square tables, each covered in gold leaf, to form one great glittering rectangle with chairs up one side and down the other.

  This was directly beneath the central chandelier and illuminated by the chandeliers before and after it.

  All the residents and guests of the house were streaming into the room.

  “Is there to be an order as to where we take our places,” asked Arjun in a polite voice as he approached Gregory.

  Gregory smiled. “I don’t think it matters as long as there’s a vacant chair at that far end, at the head of the table.”

  Suddenly he realized that Sevraine was standing beside him, his ancient and precious Blood Wife, Sevraine. But there was no time for taking her in his arms, for telling her what a joy it had been earlier to see her come through the back garden and into this house with all her company.

  She couldn’t possibly read his thoughts, but she knew what they were nevertheless.

  “We have the future now,” she whispered. “Does it matter that we’ve wasted so many opportunities to meet in the past?”

  And he said with a soft sigh, “I honestly do believe that is true. We have the future.” But he was reassuring himself now as well as he was reassuring her.

  23

  Lestat

  In the Multitude of Counselors

  THERE MUST HAVE BEEN forty or forty-five members of the Undead in the ballroom when I entered it with Louis. I was carrying Rose. We had had the briefest of reunions in the quiet of a cellar room, but I had been unable to quiet her fears, or my own for that matter as to leaving her, and so I’d vowed not to let her out of my sight.

  “Be still, my darling,” I whispered to her. “You’re with us now, and everything is made new.”

  She snuggled against me, helpless and trusting, her heart beating dangerously fast against my chest.

  I stared at the assemblage. There were sixteen or seventeen blood drinkers flanking the broad table, made up as it was of two rows of small square tables, and most of these blood drinkers were speaking quietly to one another in little informal groups, Antoine with Sybelle and Bianca with Allesandra, and some alone, such as Marius or Armand, or my mother, merely watching and waiting without a word. Daniel was next to Marius. Eleni and Eugénie were beside Sevraine. On the far sides of the vast room were other small groups, though why they were out of the way like that I had no idea. One or two were obviously ancient. And the others were far older than I was.

  The long broad rectangular table had no chairs at this end facing the door.

  And at the other hand the lone chair was empty. Benji Mahmoud was standing by that chair. I sucked in my breath when I saw that empty chair. If they thought I was going to take that chair, they were crazy. Or mad, to put it with more gravitas and grace. I wasn’t going to do it. The two chairs nearest the head of the table were empty too.

  Louis brought the bundle of silk pillows and we walked down the length of the ballroom as the others fell silent unevenly. By the time Louis laid out the cushions to make a small square bed with bolsters for Rose in the corner, no one was speaking.

  Her arms felt hot around my neck, and her heart was pounding.

  I put her down on the pillows and brought the blankets up over her. “Now you be quiet, and don’t try to follow what’s happening. Just rest. Sleep. Be confident that Viktor will be recovered. Be confident, you’re in our care.”

  She nodded. Her cheek burned against mine as I kissed her.

  I stepped back. She looked like a dewy pink mortal princess deposited there in the shadows, curled up now, with the blankets covering her, bright eyes peering ahead of her at the great grouping around the table.

  Benji beckoned for me to come to the head of the table. He gestured to Louis that he take the chair opposite Benji’s own. At Benji’s side, Sybelle stared at me with rapt fascination, and, to her left, my tender fledgling musician Antoine could not have looked more worshipful.

  “No,” I said. I did walk up to the head of the table, yes, but I didn’t take the chair. “Who places me at the head of this assembly?” I demanded.

  No one responded.

  I looked down the two rows of faces. So many I knew and so many I didn’t know, and so many ancient and obviously supremely powerful. And none of the ghosts here or the spirits.

  Why not? Why had the great Sevraine brought three ancient female blood drinkers who were off to the side against the wall of French doors, just watching us, but not the spirits and the ghosts of the Talamasca?

  And why were they all looking at me, this august company?

  “Now, listen to me,” I said. “I don’t have three hundred years in the Blood as you say it now. Why am I standing here? Marius, what do you expect of me? Sevraine, why aren’t you in this place? Or you?” I turned to one of the smoothest blood drinkers of the group. Gregory. “Yes, all right, Gregory,” I said. “Is there anyone who knows our world and their world out there better than you do, Gregory?”

  He looked to me to be as old as Maharet or Khayman, and his demeanor was so human as to have convinced anyone. Polish and capability, and fathomless strength, that’s what I saw in him, clothed as he was in some of the fanciest duds the modern world has to offer, with a handmade shirt and a gold watch on his wrist that was worth as much as diamonds.

  No one moved or spoke. Marius was regarding me with a faint smile. He wore a black suit, simple, with shirt and tie. Beside him, Daniel was similarly dressed, fully restored, this child who’d been so mad and lost after the last great debacle. And who were these others?

  Suddenly the names were coming at me telepathically in a chorus of salutation: Davis, Avicus, Flavius, Arjun, Thorne, Notker, Everard—.

  “Very well, stop, please,” I said, putting up my hand. “Look, I went outside and spoke to the crowd because somebody had to do it. But I can’t be the leader here.”

  My mother, halfway down the table away from me on the left, started laughing. It was soft laughing but it made me positively furious.

  David, who sat beside her, as always the British Oxford Don in his Harris tweed Norfolk jacket, suddenly rose to his feet.

  “We want you to lead,” he said. “It’s that simple.”

  “And you must lead,” said Marius who sat opposite him and had turned to me without rising, “because no one else feels he or she can effectively d
o it.”

  “That’s absurd,” I said, but nobody heard it because I was drowned out by a chorus of exhortations and encouragements.

  “Lestat, we don’t have time for this,” said Sevraine.

  Another very commanding female blood drinker, who sat beside Gregory, echoed the same words. She told me in a quick telepathic burst that her name was Chrysanthe.

  She stood now and said in a soft voice, “If anyone here had been willing to lead, well, it would have happened a long time ago. You’ve brought something entirely new to our history. I beg you now. Follow through.”

  Others were nodding and whispering in agreement.

  I had a multitude of objections. What had I ever done but write books, tell stories, take to the rock music stage, and how could they romanticize this out of all proportion?

  “I’m the Brat Prince, remember?” I said.

  Marius waved that away with a bit of a laugh and told me to “get to it!”

  “Yes, please,” said a dark-skinned blood drinker who introduced himself as Avicus. The one beside him, Flavius, blond and blue-eyed, only smiled at me, gazing at me with a trusting admiration that I saw on other faces here too.

  “Nothing effective will be done,” said Allesandra, “if you do not take the helm. Lestat, I saw your destiny in you centuries ago in Paris when you came striding fearlessly through the mortal crowd.”

  “I’m in agreement,” said Armand in a low voice as if talking to me alone. “Who but the Brat Prince to take charge? Beware of anyone else here who might try.”

  Laughter all around.

  Allesandra, Sevraine, Chrysanthe, and Eleni and Eugénie looked like queens of ages past in their simple jeweled gowns, with hair as spectacular as the gold trimming on their sleeves, and the rings on their fingers.

  Even Bianca, the fragile grieving Bianca, had a majestic poise that commanded respect. And the petite Zenobia, her dark hair trimmed like that of a boy, in her exquisite blue velvet suit, appeared a cherubic page boy from a medieval court.