Prince Lestat
Page 34
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m Viktor,” said the boy. “I’m here to be with you now.”
“But Uncle Lestan, is he coming?”
“They’re trying to find him. It’s not always easy to find him. But when he finds out what happened to you, I promise you, he will come.”
The young boy’s face was cheerful, fresh, his smile generous and almost sweet. He had large blue eyes so like Uncle Lestan’s, but it was the hair and the shape of his face more than anything that locked in the resemblance.
“Precious Rose,” he said. In a soft even voice, an American voice that had nevertheless a kind of crisp enunciation to it, he explained that Aunt Marge could not be here now in this place. But Rose was safe, completely safe, from all harm, and he, Viktor, would see to that. And so would the nurses. The nurses would take care of her every need.
“You’ve had surgery after surgery,” Viktor said, “but you’re improving wonderfully and soon you’ll be fully yourself again.”
“Where is the doctor?” Rose asked. When he reached for her hand, she clasped his.
“He’ll come tonight, after sunset,” said Viktor. “He can’t be here now.”
“Like a vampire,” she said, musing, laughing softly under her breath.
He laughed with her, gently, softly. “Yes, very like that, Rose,” he said.
“But where is the Prince of the Vampires, my uncle Lestan?” Never mind that Viktor would never in a thousand years understand her mad humor. He would ascribe it to the sedatives that were making her loopy and almost content.
“The Prince of the Vampires will come, I assure you,” Viktor answered. “As I said, they are searching for him now.”
“You’re so like him,” she said dreamily. There came that pain again to her eyes and that blurring vision, and it seemed for one instant that the window was on fire. She turned her head away in a panic. But the pain stopped and she could see clearly all the objects of this room. What a pretty room, painted a cobalt blue and with bright white enameled moldings, and on the wall a brilliant painting of roses, wild, exploding roses against a backdrop of a darker blue.
“But I know that painting, that’s my painting,” she said. “That’s from my bedroom at home.”
“All your things are here now, Rose,” said Viktor. “Just tell me whatever you want. We have your books, your clothes, everything. You’ll be able to get up in a few days.”
A nurse came into the room, soundlessly, and appeared to be checking the equipment that surrounded the bed. For the first time, Rose saw the glistening plastic sacks of IV fluid, the slender gleaming silver cords that ran to the needles taped to her arms. She really was drugged. One moment she thought her mind was clear and the next she was astonished or confused. Clothes. Get up. Books.
“Any pain, darling?” asked the nurse. She had soft brown skin and large sympathetic brown eyes.
“No, but whatever it is, give me more of it.” She laughed. “I’m floating. I believe in vampires.”
“Don’t we all?” asked the nurse. She made some adjustment in the IV feed. “There now,” she said, “you’ll be sleeping again soon enough. When you sleep you heal, and that’s what you must do now. Heal.” Her shoes made a soft squeaking noise as she left the room.
Rose drifted and then she saw Viktor again smiling down at her. Well, Uncle Lestan never wore his hair that short, did he? And never did he wear that kind of sweater vest, even if it was cashmere, or a pink shirt like that open at the neck.
“You look so like him,” she said.
In the distance she heard the “Serenade” again, that plaintive, painful music, trying to describe beauty, pure beauty, and so heartbreakingly sad. “But he sang that to me when I was little.…”
“You told us this,” said Viktor, “and that’s why we’re playing it for you now.”
“I could swear, you look more like him than any human being I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Viktor smiled. Why, it was that same smile, that same infectious and loving smile.
“That’s because I’m his son,” said Viktor.
“Uncle Lestan’s son?” she said. She was so drowsy. “Did you say you were his son?” She sat up, staring at him. “My God in Heaven! You are his son. I had no idea that he had a son!”
“He doesn’t have any idea either, Rose,” said Viktor. He bent over her and kissed her forehead. She put her arms around him, the wires streaming from their needles. “I’ve been waiting such a long time,” he said, “to tell him myself.”
6
Cyril
HE SLEPT FOR MONTHS at a time. Sometimes years. Why not? In a cave on Mount Fuji, he had slept for centuries. There were years when he slept in Kyoto. Now he was in Tokyo. He didn’t care.
He was thirsty and crazed. He’d been having bad dreams, dreams of fire.
He crawled from his hiding place and went out into the teeming nighttime streets. Rain, yes, cooling rain. Didn’t matter to him much who the victim was, as long as it was young and strong enough to survive that first bite. He wanted hearts that would pump the blood into him. He wanted that blood being pumped by another heart through his heart.
As he walked deeper and deeper into the Ginza district of the city, the neon lights delighted him and made him happy. Lights flickering, dancing, racing up and down and across on the borders of great moving pictures. Lights! He decided to take his time.
Strange it was that when he emerged from his hiding places, he always knew the languages and the ways of the people who were nearest to them. He was never surprised so much as delighted by their goings-on. Rain couldn’t stop the crush of people here, the beautiful, fresh-faced, scrubbed, and scented children of this century, so rich, so innocent, so willing to provide him with draught after draught of their blood.
Drink because I want you. I have much for you to do.
Ah, there was that nagging voice, that being talking inside his head. Who was this arrogant blood drinker shogun who thought he could tell Cyril what to do?
He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Human beings were staring at him. Well, let them stare. His brown hair was filthy, of course, and so were the rags he wore, but he accelerated his pace, skillfully, moving fast away from prying eyes. Then he looked down. He was barefoot. And who’s to say that I can’t be barefoot? He laughed under his breath. After he’d fed, he would bathe, wash himself properly, and make himself “blend in.”
“I’m Viktor,” said the boy. “I’m here to be with you now.”
“But Uncle Lestan, is he coming?”
“They’re trying to find him. It’s not always easy to find him. But when he finds out what happened to you, I promise you, he will come.”
The young boy’s face was cheerful, fresh, his smile generous and almost sweet. He had large blue eyes so like Uncle Lestan’s, but it was the hair and the shape of his face more than anything that locked in the resemblance.
“Precious Rose,” he said. In a soft even voice, an American voice that had nevertheless a kind of crisp enunciation to it, he explained that Aunt Marge could not be here now in this place. But Rose was safe, completely safe, from all harm, and he, Viktor, would see to that. And so would the nurses. The nurses would take care of her every need.
“You’ve had surgery after surgery,” Viktor said, “but you’re improving wonderfully and soon you’ll be fully yourself again.”
“Where is the doctor?” Rose asked. When he reached for her hand, she clasped his.
“He’ll come tonight, after sunset,” said Viktor. “He can’t be here now.”
“Like a vampire,” she said, musing, laughing softly under her breath.
He laughed with her, gently, softly. “Yes, very like that, Rose,” he said.
“But where is the Prince of the Vampires, my uncle Lestan?” Never mind that Viktor would never in a thousand years understand her mad humor. He would ascribe it to the sedatives that were making her loopy and almost content.
“The Prince of the Vampires will come, I assure you,” Viktor answered. “As I said, they are searching for him now.”
“You’re so like him,” she said dreamily. There came that pain again to her eyes and that blurring vision, and it seemed for one instant that the window was on fire. She turned her head away in a panic. But the pain stopped and she could see clearly all the objects of this room. What a pretty room, painted a cobalt blue and with bright white enameled moldings, and on the wall a brilliant painting of roses, wild, exploding roses against a backdrop of a darker blue.
“But I know that painting, that’s my painting,” she said. “That’s from my bedroom at home.”
“All your things are here now, Rose,” said Viktor. “Just tell me whatever you want. We have your books, your clothes, everything. You’ll be able to get up in a few days.”
A nurse came into the room, soundlessly, and appeared to be checking the equipment that surrounded the bed. For the first time, Rose saw the glistening plastic sacks of IV fluid, the slender gleaming silver cords that ran to the needles taped to her arms. She really was drugged. One moment she thought her mind was clear and the next she was astonished or confused. Clothes. Get up. Books.
“Any pain, darling?” asked the nurse. She had soft brown skin and large sympathetic brown eyes.
“No, but whatever it is, give me more of it.” She laughed. “I’m floating. I believe in vampires.”
“Don’t we all?” asked the nurse. She made some adjustment in the IV feed. “There now,” she said, “you’ll be sleeping again soon enough. When you sleep you heal, and that’s what you must do now. Heal.” Her shoes made a soft squeaking noise as she left the room.
Rose drifted and then she saw Viktor again smiling down at her. Well, Uncle Lestan never wore his hair that short, did he? And never did he wear that kind of sweater vest, even if it was cashmere, or a pink shirt like that open at the neck.
“You look so like him,” she said.
In the distance she heard the “Serenade” again, that plaintive, painful music, trying to describe beauty, pure beauty, and so heartbreakingly sad. “But he sang that to me when I was little.…”
“You told us this,” said Viktor, “and that’s why we’re playing it for you now.”
“I could swear, you look more like him than any human being I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Viktor smiled. Why, it was that same smile, that same infectious and loving smile.
“That’s because I’m his son,” said Viktor.
“Uncle Lestan’s son?” she said. She was so drowsy. “Did you say you were his son?” She sat up, staring at him. “My God in Heaven! You are his son. I had no idea that he had a son!”
“He doesn’t have any idea either, Rose,” said Viktor. He bent over her and kissed her forehead. She put her arms around him, the wires streaming from their needles. “I’ve been waiting such a long time,” he said, “to tell him myself.”
6
Cyril
HE SLEPT FOR MONTHS at a time. Sometimes years. Why not? In a cave on Mount Fuji, he had slept for centuries. There were years when he slept in Kyoto. Now he was in Tokyo. He didn’t care.
He was thirsty and crazed. He’d been having bad dreams, dreams of fire.
He crawled from his hiding place and went out into the teeming nighttime streets. Rain, yes, cooling rain. Didn’t matter to him much who the victim was, as long as it was young and strong enough to survive that first bite. He wanted hearts that would pump the blood into him. He wanted that blood being pumped by another heart through his heart.
As he walked deeper and deeper into the Ginza district of the city, the neon lights delighted him and made him happy. Lights flickering, dancing, racing up and down and across on the borders of great moving pictures. Lights! He decided to take his time.
Strange it was that when he emerged from his hiding places, he always knew the languages and the ways of the people who were nearest to them. He was never surprised so much as delighted by their goings-on. Rain couldn’t stop the crush of people here, the beautiful, fresh-faced, scrubbed, and scented children of this century, so rich, so innocent, so willing to provide him with draught after draught of their blood.
Drink because I want you. I have much for you to do.
Ah, there was that nagging voice, that being talking inside his head. Who was this arrogant blood drinker shogun who thought he could tell Cyril what to do?
He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Human beings were staring at him. Well, let them stare. His brown hair was filthy, of course, and so were the rags he wore, but he accelerated his pace, skillfully, moving fast away from prying eyes. Then he looked down. He was barefoot. And who’s to say that I can’t be barefoot? He laughed under his breath. After he’d fed, he would bathe, wash himself properly, and make himself “blend in.”
