Prince Lestat
Page 61
“He has a great fascination for me,” Rhoshamandes had said. “And Benedict is to blame for allowing it to happen. But let’s see what he will do with the Blood, poor humpbacked and clever Magnus.”
“Be very careful, Everard,” said Magnus. He looked for all the world like a man of forty-five, or perhaps fifty in these healthy times of plenty and rampant good health, with glowing skin and hair truly the color of ashes. Why hadn’t he made himself flamingly beautiful like the flashy Lestat with that leonine golden mane, and those violet-blue eyes? But as he gazed at Magnus, this seemed a stupid question. This was a splendid being here before him. They were both splendid, these ghosts. And they could change, couldn’t they, anytime they wanted to.
“Yes, but we try not to do that,” said Raymond. “We seek to perfect what we are, not to constantly alter it. We seek to find something that is a true expression of our soul with which to shape what makes up our form. But there’s no need for you to trouble yourself over these things.”
“Stay safe,” said Teskhamen. “Be clever. And if this Voice provokes a gathering of the tribe, consider coming. We cannot stay the same in these times, because nothing now can stay the same, and we must needs meet the challenges as humans are meeting them.”
Teskhamen took a small white card out of his pocket and handed it to Everard. A gentleman’s calling card. On it was written the name TESKHAMEN in golden script, and beneath it was an e-mail very simple to memorize, actually, and a phone number.
“We’re going now, friend,” said Teskhamen. “But if you need us, contact us. We wish you luck.”
“I think I’ll survive this, same way I survived world wars and the earlier massacre, but thank you. And thank you for putting up with my … my disagreeable behavior.”
“It’s been a pleasure,” said Teskhamen. “One last bit of advice. Keep listening to Benji. If there is to be a coming together, Benji will give the word.”
“Hmmm.” Everard shook his head. “A coming together? Like last time? A big showdown to stop the wicked Voice the way the wicked Queen was stopped? How do you have a showdown with a Voice that can pop into the head of anyone at any time and can hear anything perhaps that I’m saying … or even thinking?”
“That’s a good question,” said Raymond Gallant. “It all depends, doesn’t it, on what the Voice really wants.”
“And what is that,” said Everard, “other than to turn us against one another?”
The three creatures rose to their feet. Teskhamen extended his hand.
Everard also rose with obvious respect. “You make me think of better times, you really do,” he murmured in spite of himself. Suddenly he was furious at himself for becoming so emotional.
“And what times were those?” asked Teskhamen kindly.
“When Rhoshamandes was still … Oh, I don’t know. Hundreds of years ago before the Children of Satan destroyed his castle. Destroyed everything. That’s what happens when blood drinkers unite, band together, believe things. We’re evil. We’ve always been.”
The three looked at him calmly without making the slightest response. Nothing in their expressions or demeanor suggested agreement. Or evil.
“And you have no idea at all where Rhoshamandes might be, do you?” asked Raymond Gallant.
“None,” said Everard. And then he found himself confessing, “If I did, why, I’d go to him.” Such strange words coming from him, who had such complete disregard for other blood drinkers, who scorned covens, havens, vampire hostels, and gangs. But he knew he had confessed the truth, that he’d travel the Earth to find Rhoshamandes. Actually, he never traveled anywhere much. But it was good to think he’d travel the Earth to find his old master. “He’s long gone, dead, burned up, immolated, whatever!” he said sharply. “Has to be.”
“You think?” asked Raymond Gallant.
A sudden pain tugged at Everard’s heart. He has to be dead or he would have found me by now, gathered me to him, forgiven me.…
Rhoshamandes had abandoned the wild thick forests of France and Germany in the 1300s. Weary of battling the ever-increasing Children of Satan who had cannibalized his own fledglings to his eternal misery, he had simply left the ancient battlefield.
But Everard had never known the true story. The Children of Satan had had Everard by then, dragging him out nightly to scourge the innocent of Paris. They bragged that they’d driven the last great blasphemer from French land. Had they really? Magnus they had not feared as they had Rhoshamandes.
They told tales of Rhoshamandes’s castle and lands burnt in the daylight hours by rabid monks and nuns driven to do it by the nightly whispers of Children of Satan pretending to be angels. Ah, those times. Those superstitious times when vampires could speak to gullible religious minds and play infernal games with them.
“Well, I can tell you this,” Everard said, denying the pain. “If he’s slumbering underground somewhere under some Merovingian ruin, the Voice won’t get anywhere with him, no matter what state he’s in. He’s too wise for that, too powerful. He was … he was magnificent.”
Sharp grinding memory. Everard going out in filthy rags with the Children of Satan to harry the Parisian poor, slinking into filthy hovels to feed on the innocent, and somewhere near the voice of Rhoshamandes calling: “Everard, break free. Come back to me!”
“Goodbye, Everard,” said Teskhamen, and the three moved off together.
For a long moment, Everard watched them as they walked down the narrow street and disappeared around the corner.
Not a single human being would ever guess what they were. Their human poise was simply superb.
He leaned his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. Was he glad they were gone? Or was he sorry?
Did he want to run after them and say, Don’t leave me here! Take me with you. I want to stay with you.
Yes and no.
He did want to do that, but he simply could not do it. He didn’t know how to do that, how to speak that honestly to them, how to implore them for their help or their companionship. He didn’t know how to be anything but what he was.
Suddenly the Voice was there. He heard it sigh.
“They can’t protect you from me,” said the Voice. “They’re devils.”
“They didn’t seem like devils to me,” said Everard testily.
“They and their laughable Talamasca!” said the Voice. “Be damned!”
“Be very careful, Everard,” said Magnus. He looked for all the world like a man of forty-five, or perhaps fifty in these healthy times of plenty and rampant good health, with glowing skin and hair truly the color of ashes. Why hadn’t he made himself flamingly beautiful like the flashy Lestat with that leonine golden mane, and those violet-blue eyes? But as he gazed at Magnus, this seemed a stupid question. This was a splendid being here before him. They were both splendid, these ghosts. And they could change, couldn’t they, anytime they wanted to.
“Yes, but we try not to do that,” said Raymond. “We seek to perfect what we are, not to constantly alter it. We seek to find something that is a true expression of our soul with which to shape what makes up our form. But there’s no need for you to trouble yourself over these things.”
“Stay safe,” said Teskhamen. “Be clever. And if this Voice provokes a gathering of the tribe, consider coming. We cannot stay the same in these times, because nothing now can stay the same, and we must needs meet the challenges as humans are meeting them.”
Teskhamen took a small white card out of his pocket and handed it to Everard. A gentleman’s calling card. On it was written the name TESKHAMEN in golden script, and beneath it was an e-mail very simple to memorize, actually, and a phone number.
“We’re going now, friend,” said Teskhamen. “But if you need us, contact us. We wish you luck.”
“I think I’ll survive this, same way I survived world wars and the earlier massacre, but thank you. And thank you for putting up with my … my disagreeable behavior.”
“It’s been a pleasure,” said Teskhamen. “One last bit of advice. Keep listening to Benji. If there is to be a coming together, Benji will give the word.”
“Hmmm.” Everard shook his head. “A coming together? Like last time? A big showdown to stop the wicked Voice the way the wicked Queen was stopped? How do you have a showdown with a Voice that can pop into the head of anyone at any time and can hear anything perhaps that I’m saying … or even thinking?”
“That’s a good question,” said Raymond Gallant. “It all depends, doesn’t it, on what the Voice really wants.”
“And what is that,” said Everard, “other than to turn us against one another?”
The three creatures rose to their feet. Teskhamen extended his hand.
Everard also rose with obvious respect. “You make me think of better times, you really do,” he murmured in spite of himself. Suddenly he was furious at himself for becoming so emotional.
“And what times were those?” asked Teskhamen kindly.
“When Rhoshamandes was still … Oh, I don’t know. Hundreds of years ago before the Children of Satan destroyed his castle. Destroyed everything. That’s what happens when blood drinkers unite, band together, believe things. We’re evil. We’ve always been.”
The three looked at him calmly without making the slightest response. Nothing in their expressions or demeanor suggested agreement. Or evil.
“And you have no idea at all where Rhoshamandes might be, do you?” asked Raymond Gallant.
“None,” said Everard. And then he found himself confessing, “If I did, why, I’d go to him.” Such strange words coming from him, who had such complete disregard for other blood drinkers, who scorned covens, havens, vampire hostels, and gangs. But he knew he had confessed the truth, that he’d travel the Earth to find Rhoshamandes. Actually, he never traveled anywhere much. But it was good to think he’d travel the Earth to find his old master. “He’s long gone, dead, burned up, immolated, whatever!” he said sharply. “Has to be.”
“You think?” asked Raymond Gallant.
A sudden pain tugged at Everard’s heart. He has to be dead or he would have found me by now, gathered me to him, forgiven me.…
Rhoshamandes had abandoned the wild thick forests of France and Germany in the 1300s. Weary of battling the ever-increasing Children of Satan who had cannibalized his own fledglings to his eternal misery, he had simply left the ancient battlefield.
But Everard had never known the true story. The Children of Satan had had Everard by then, dragging him out nightly to scourge the innocent of Paris. They bragged that they’d driven the last great blasphemer from French land. Had they really? Magnus they had not feared as they had Rhoshamandes.
They told tales of Rhoshamandes’s castle and lands burnt in the daylight hours by rabid monks and nuns driven to do it by the nightly whispers of Children of Satan pretending to be angels. Ah, those times. Those superstitious times when vampires could speak to gullible religious minds and play infernal games with them.
“Well, I can tell you this,” Everard said, denying the pain. “If he’s slumbering underground somewhere under some Merovingian ruin, the Voice won’t get anywhere with him, no matter what state he’s in. He’s too wise for that, too powerful. He was … he was magnificent.”
Sharp grinding memory. Everard going out in filthy rags with the Children of Satan to harry the Parisian poor, slinking into filthy hovels to feed on the innocent, and somewhere near the voice of Rhoshamandes calling: “Everard, break free. Come back to me!”
“Goodbye, Everard,” said Teskhamen, and the three moved off together.
For a long moment, Everard watched them as they walked down the narrow street and disappeared around the corner.
Not a single human being would ever guess what they were. Their human poise was simply superb.
He leaned his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. Was he glad they were gone? Or was he sorry?
Did he want to run after them and say, Don’t leave me here! Take me with you. I want to stay with you.
Yes and no.
He did want to do that, but he simply could not do it. He didn’t know how to do that, how to speak that honestly to them, how to implore them for their help or their companionship. He didn’t know how to be anything but what he was.
Suddenly the Voice was there. He heard it sigh.
“They can’t protect you from me,” said the Voice. “They’re devils.”
“They didn’t seem like devils to me,” said Everard testily.
“They and their laughable Talamasca!” said the Voice. “Be damned!”
