[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
was of absolutely no concern to her at all, as long as no one harmed her son.
Well, it was quite impossible for anyone to harm her son. He is unharmable, as far as we all know. Or rather, to speak
more plainly, let me say that his own adventures have harmed Lestat far more than any vampire might. His trip to Heaven
and Hell with Memnoch, be it delusion or supernatural journey, has left him stunned spiritually to such a point that he is
not ready to resume his antics and become the Brat Prince whom we once adored.
However, with vicious and sordid blood drinkers breaking down the very doors of St. Elizabeth's and coming up the
iron stairs of our very own town house in the Rue Royale, it was Armand who was able to rouse Lestat and goad him into
taking the situation in hand.
Lestat, having already waked to listen to the piano music of a fledgling vampire, blamed himself for the tawdry
invasion. It was he who had created the "Coven of the Articulate," as we had come to be called. And so, he declared to us
in a hushed voice, with little or no enthusiasm for the battle, that he would put things right.
Armand given in the past to leading covens, and to destroying them assisted Lestat in a massacre of the unwelcome
rogue vampires before the social fabric was fatally breached.
Having the gift of fire, as the others called it that is, the means to kindle a blaze telekinetically Lestat destroyed with
flames the brash invaders of his own lair, and all those who had violated the privacy of the more retiring Marius and
Pandora, Santino, and Louis and myself. Armand dismembered and obliterated those who died at his hand.
Those few preternatural beings who weren't killed fled the city, and indeed many were overtaken by Armand, who
showed no mercy whatsoever to the misbegotten, the heartlessly careless, and the deliberately cruel.
After that, when it was plain to one and all that Lestat had returned to his semi-sleep, absorbed utterly in recordings of
the finest music provided for him by me and by Louis, the elders Marius, Pandora, Santino, and Armand, with two
younger companions gradually went their way.
It was an inevitable thing, that parting, because none of us could really endure the company of so many fellow blood
drinkers for very long.
As it is with God and Satan, humankind is our subject matter. And so it is that, deep within the mortal world and its
many complexities, we choose to spend our time.
Of course, we will all come together at various times in the future. We know well how to reach one another. We are not
above writing letters. Or other means of communication. The eldest know telepathically when things have gone terribly
wrong with the young ones, and vice versa. But for now, only Louis and Lestat and I hunt the streets of New Orleans, and
so it will be for some time.
That means, strictly speaking, that only Louis and I hunt, for Lestat simply does not feed at all. Having the body of a
god, he has subsumed the lust which still plagues the most powerful, and lies in his torpor as the music plays on.
And so New Orleans, in all her drowsy beauty, is host to only two of the Undead. Nevertheless, we must be very clever.
We must cover up the deeds that we do. To feed upon the evildoer, as Marius has always called it, is our vow; however,
the blood thirst is a terrible thing.
But before I return to my tale of how Louis and I went out on this particular evening, allow me a few more words
about Lestat.
I personally do not think that things are as simple with him as the others tend to believe. Above, I have given you pretty
much "the party line," as the expression goes, as to his coma-like slumber and his music. But there are very troubling
aspects to his presence which I cannot deny or resolve.
Unable to read his mind, because he made me a vampire and I am therefore his fledgling and far too close to him for
such communication, I, nevertheless, perceive certain things about him as he lies by the hour listening to the brilliant and
stormy music of Beethoven, Brahms, Bach, Chopin, Verdi, and Tchaikovsky, and the other composers he loves.
I've confessed these "doubts" about his well-being to Marius and to Pandora and to Armand. But no one of them could
penetrate the veil of preternatural silence which he has drawn about his entire being, body and soul.
"He's weary," say the others. "He'll be himself soon." And "He'll come around."
I don't doubt these things. Not at all. But to put it plainly, something is more wrong with him than anyone has guessed.
There are times when he is not there in his body.
Now this may mean that he is projecting his soul up and out of his body in order to roam about, in pure spirit form, at
will. Certainly Lestat knows how to do this. He learnt it from the most ancient of the vampires; and he proved that he
could do it, when with the evil Body Thief he worked a switch.
But Lestat does not like that power. And no one who has had his body stolen is likely to use it for more than a very short
interval in any one night.
I feel something far more grave is wrong there, that Lestat is not always in control of either body or soul, and we must
wait to discover the terms and outcome of a battle which might still be going on.
As for Lestat's appearance, he lies on the Chapel floor, or on the four-poster bed in the town house, with his eyes open,
though they appear to see nothing. And for a while after the great cleansing battle, he did periodically change his clothes,
favoring the red velvet jackets of old, and his lace-trimmed shirts of heavy linen, along with slim pants and plain black
boots.
Others have seen this attention to wardrobe as a good sign. I believe Lestat did these things so that we would leave him
alone.
Alas, I have no more to say on the subject in this narrative. At least I don't think so. I can't protect Lestat from what is
happening, and no one really has ever succeeded in protecting him or stopping him, no matter what the circumstances of
his distress.
Now, let me return to my record of events.
Louis and I had made our way deep into a forlorn and dreadful part of the city where many houses stood abandoned,
and those few which still showed evidence of habitation were locked up tight with iron bars upon their windows and
doors.
As always happens with any neighborhood in New Orleans, we came within a few blocks to a market street, and there
we found many desolate shops which had long ago been shut up with nails and boards. Only a "pleasure club," as it was
called, showed signs of habitation and those inside were drunk and gambling the night away at card games and dice.
However, as we continued on our journey, I following Louis, as this was Louis's hunt, we soon came to a small dwelling
nestled between the old storefronts, the ruins of a simple shotgun house, whose front steps were lost in the high weeds.
There were mortals inside, I sensed it immediately, and they were of varying dispositions.
The first mind which made itself known to me was that of an aged woman, keeping watch over a cheap little bassinet
with a baby inside of it, a woman who was actively praying that God deliver her from her circumstances, those
circumstances pertaining to two young people in a front room of the house who were entirely given over to drink and
drugs.
In a quiet and efficient manner, Louis led the way back to the overgrown alley to the rear of this crooked little shack,
and without a sound he peered through the small window, above a humming air conditioner, at the distraught woman, who
wiped the face of the infant, who did not cry.
Again and again I heard this woman murmur aloud that she didn't know what she would do with those young people in
the front room, that they had destroyed her house and home and left her this miserable little infant who would starve to [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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was of absolutely no concern to her at all, as long as no one harmed her son.
Well, it was quite impossible for anyone to harm her son. He is unharmable, as far as we all know. Or rather, to speak
more plainly, let me say that his own adventures have harmed Lestat far more than any vampire might. His trip to Heaven
and Hell with Memnoch, be it delusion or supernatural journey, has left him stunned spiritually to such a point that he is
not ready to resume his antics and become the Brat Prince whom we once adored.
However, with vicious and sordid blood drinkers breaking down the very doors of St. Elizabeth's and coming up the
iron stairs of our very own town house in the Rue Royale, it was Armand who was able to rouse Lestat and goad him into
taking the situation in hand.
Lestat, having already waked to listen to the piano music of a fledgling vampire, blamed himself for the tawdry
invasion. It was he who had created the "Coven of the Articulate," as we had come to be called. And so, he declared to us
in a hushed voice, with little or no enthusiasm for the battle, that he would put things right.
Armand given in the past to leading covens, and to destroying them assisted Lestat in a massacre of the unwelcome
rogue vampires before the social fabric was fatally breached.
Having the gift of fire, as the others called it that is, the means to kindle a blaze telekinetically Lestat destroyed with
flames the brash invaders of his own lair, and all those who had violated the privacy of the more retiring Marius and
Pandora, Santino, and Louis and myself. Armand dismembered and obliterated those who died at his hand.
Those few preternatural beings who weren't killed fled the city, and indeed many were overtaken by Armand, who
showed no mercy whatsoever to the misbegotten, the heartlessly careless, and the deliberately cruel.
After that, when it was plain to one and all that Lestat had returned to his semi-sleep, absorbed utterly in recordings of
the finest music provided for him by me and by Louis, the elders Marius, Pandora, Santino, and Armand, with two
younger companions gradually went their way.
It was an inevitable thing, that parting, because none of us could really endure the company of so many fellow blood
drinkers for very long.
As it is with God and Satan, humankind is our subject matter. And so it is that, deep within the mortal world and its
many complexities, we choose to spend our time.
Of course, we will all come together at various times in the future. We know well how to reach one another. We are not
above writing letters. Or other means of communication. The eldest know telepathically when things have gone terribly
wrong with the young ones, and vice versa. But for now, only Louis and Lestat and I hunt the streets of New Orleans, and
so it will be for some time.
That means, strictly speaking, that only Louis and I hunt, for Lestat simply does not feed at all. Having the body of a
god, he has subsumed the lust which still plagues the most powerful, and lies in his torpor as the music plays on.
And so New Orleans, in all her drowsy beauty, is host to only two of the Undead. Nevertheless, we must be very clever.
We must cover up the deeds that we do. To feed upon the evildoer, as Marius has always called it, is our vow; however,
the blood thirst is a terrible thing.
But before I return to my tale of how Louis and I went out on this particular evening, allow me a few more words
about Lestat.
I personally do not think that things are as simple with him as the others tend to believe. Above, I have given you pretty
much "the party line," as the expression goes, as to his coma-like slumber and his music. But there are very troubling
aspects to his presence which I cannot deny or resolve.
Unable to read his mind, because he made me a vampire and I am therefore his fledgling and far too close to him for
such communication, I, nevertheless, perceive certain things about him as he lies by the hour listening to the brilliant and
stormy music of Beethoven, Brahms, Bach, Chopin, Verdi, and Tchaikovsky, and the other composers he loves.
I've confessed these "doubts" about his well-being to Marius and to Pandora and to Armand. But no one of them could
penetrate the veil of preternatural silence which he has drawn about his entire being, body and soul.
"He's weary," say the others. "He'll be himself soon." And "He'll come around."
I don't doubt these things. Not at all. But to put it plainly, something is more wrong with him than anyone has guessed.
There are times when he is not there in his body.
Now this may mean that he is projecting his soul up and out of his body in order to roam about, in pure spirit form, at
will. Certainly Lestat knows how to do this. He learnt it from the most ancient of the vampires; and he proved that he
could do it, when with the evil Body Thief he worked a switch.
But Lestat does not like that power. And no one who has had his body stolen is likely to use it for more than a very short
interval in any one night.
I feel something far more grave is wrong there, that Lestat is not always in control of either body or soul, and we must
wait to discover the terms and outcome of a battle which might still be going on.
As for Lestat's appearance, he lies on the Chapel floor, or on the four-poster bed in the town house, with his eyes open,
though they appear to see nothing. And for a while after the great cleansing battle, he did periodically change his clothes,
favoring the red velvet jackets of old, and his lace-trimmed shirts of heavy linen, along with slim pants and plain black
boots.
Others have seen this attention to wardrobe as a good sign. I believe Lestat did these things so that we would leave him
alone.
Alas, I have no more to say on the subject in this narrative. At least I don't think so. I can't protect Lestat from what is
happening, and no one really has ever succeeded in protecting him or stopping him, no matter what the circumstances of
his distress.
Now, let me return to my record of events.
Louis and I had made our way deep into a forlorn and dreadful part of the city where many houses stood abandoned,
and those few which still showed evidence of habitation were locked up tight with iron bars upon their windows and
doors.
As always happens with any neighborhood in New Orleans, we came within a few blocks to a market street, and there
we found many desolate shops which had long ago been shut up with nails and boards. Only a "pleasure club," as it was
called, showed signs of habitation and those inside were drunk and gambling the night away at card games and dice.
However, as we continued on our journey, I following Louis, as this was Louis's hunt, we soon came to a small dwelling
nestled between the old storefronts, the ruins of a simple shotgun house, whose front steps were lost in the high weeds.
There were mortals inside, I sensed it immediately, and they were of varying dispositions.
The first mind which made itself known to me was that of an aged woman, keeping watch over a cheap little bassinet
with a baby inside of it, a woman who was actively praying that God deliver her from her circumstances, those
circumstances pertaining to two young people in a front room of the house who were entirely given over to drink and
drugs.
In a quiet and efficient manner, Louis led the way back to the overgrown alley to the rear of this crooked little shack,
and without a sound he peered through the small window, above a humming air conditioner, at the distraught woman, who
wiped the face of the infant, who did not cry.
Again and again I heard this woman murmur aloud that she didn't know what she would do with those young people in
the front room, that they had destroyed her house and home and left her this miserable little infant who would starve to [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]