The vampire did not pause or look both ways. There was no need. He crossed the street almost casually, with the assurance of knowing no vehicle was within striking distance.
Hands clasped lightly behind his back, he walked through the quiet urban neighborhood. Not the best he’d seen but far from the worst. There was a feeling of modest comfort here. Perhaps that was what had drawn him down this street. The lath and plaster houses on either side were old, he knew, by California standards. A smile played over his alabaster face, briefly lighting his dark green eyes. Old was a state of mind and California was a young land, younger even than his beloved New Orleans.
He slowed, letting his left hand touch the bark of a sequoia at the edge of a neatly manicured lawn. A young tree, only forty feet tall now. His gaze rose, absorbed in the lacework the branches cast against the moon’s light. The vampire could easily hear the somnambulant rustling, inaudible to human ears, of the birds and squirrels roosting in the upper branches.
A dog barked somewhere on the next block. He let his eyes fall to his hand, his nails like glass, reflective against the ruddy, cracked surface of the trunk. For a moment, he tried to savor the roughness of the tree as a human would feel it. Sadness instantly welled within him and he jerked his hand away from the tree. A mortal, were one awake to see, would have simply seen the hand disappear and rematerialize, held again behind the vampire’s back, so swiftly had he moved.
The sorrow hovered there, just outside his consciousness. A sadness he dreaded, a pain long guarded against. He had otherwise perfect detachment, he believed, from the human world. That mortal coil, as Lestat had often called it. Scornfully.
The vampire did not scorn humanity. He could not. All life was precious to him, though he could no longer be a part of that life. He had not sought to feel human in over a century.
It was safer to feel nothing.
His brow furrowed slightly and his eyes misted over, seeming to see only his own thoughts. Why now? And why think about Lestat? He gently shook his head. Futility. He looked at his boots. Black, as black as his hair, peeking out from under the long legs of his faded jeans. Willing his foot forward, he continued slowly down the street, breathing deeply of the overpowering perfume of night-blooming jasmine filling the beds of the next yard, letting the scent clear his thoughts. Jasmine was one of the few consolations given to the night in California. It was a land worshipping in the sunlight. It was as much a mystery to him as Lestat.
Again with Lestat!
The vampire climbed a porch and sank onto a swing, its chains well-oiled and silent. A shade among the shadows. He did not fear discovery by the inhabitants. His vampire ears heard their steady breathing farther away in the house and he knew they slept. It was late by their standards though the night was not half gone.
He closed his eyes and, resigned, allowed his maker’s face to fill his inner vision. Not the face as it was now, clouded by recent events, old scars still visible. Visible at least to the vampire, who was the cause of them, and deeper now that his maker had stopped feeding. Lestat’s skin had become even more translucent, shimmering like an opal, though it retained the darker hue of his burning in the Gobi desert, when he had tried, finally, to end his life.
Had he feelings, he would pity Lestat.
The vampire absently ran a finger along his brow. Do we all try to end this existence eventually? Armand had said it was common. He knew Lestat had tried, several times, but he himself had never been moved to attempt such an end. He clung to life, damned though he was, absorbing the beauty it offered and giving nothing back of himself. There seemed no end to his fascination. To his heart, beating on stolen blood, he knew it was wrong. Yet he continued, revealing his cowardice.
He knitted his arms across his chest, hugging himself and the heather-gray of his sweater, spun of virgin Highland wool. Soft and almost luxuriantly warm. It was a ludicrous thing to wear, here in California, in early June when the nights were already sultry. But he was, after all, a vampire and vampires were warm only for a brief time after feeding. He would not feed for hours yet, preferring still to let the hunger build until it was undeniable.
When he let Lestat’s face come to him at all, it was the face of two hundred years ago. Flush from an early kill, joyous after a night at the opera, his maker’s lustrous yellow hair flowing about his shoulders, curling like a swollen stream, his profile that of a young man. How Lestat would sing on those nights! How the vampire would be caught up by Lestat and twirled until he was dizzy and could do no more than laugh.
He smiled now, wistfully. The frivolity seemed so shallow to him then, and perhaps more so now that his maker had turned introspective. Lestat had been born a hunter, he knew, and had enjoyed the kill, though he killed no longer. He, on the other hand, had been raised to master his surroundings. It was unthinkable that the hunger that drove him, every night, to kill mastered him.
The vampire stood quickly on the porch, tipping his head as he stretched. His hands reached up and untied the black ribbon holding his hair tight at the nape of his neck. He ran his fingers through the long waves of black and then shook his hair loose. Better.
Silently, he strode back to the sidewalk and moved quietly down the street. Thinking about Lestat was dangerous to him. And yet his maker had engulfed his thoughts in recent days. He knew the sorrow lurked, as it always had, biding its time and waiting for his resolve to weaken. But in this, he vowed again, in this he would never weaken.
The vampire filled his mind with the night’s sounds, lest he smile at his use of the word never. For to one who would live forever, how terribly human was the word. He drank in the night, hearing a nocturnal bird and seeing its form eclipse the stars momentarily as it winged its way across the gray sky. The clarity of the night was dimmed by the man-made illumination that arose from the city. The neighborhood was, thankfully, marred only by widely spaced streetlights and the yellow incandescence that guarded the occasional door.
The vampire halted abruptly, stepping close to a walnut tree and peering over the hedge that flanked its trunk. All were not asleep, it seemed. Merde! Had he been so absorbed in his own thoughts, that he’d passed into a mortal’s view without sensing her presence? No. The vampire had long ago forsaken his human walk on such solitary wanderings. She had not seen nor heard his approach. He could hear her heartbeat, relaxed, forcing the blood steadily through her veins. He ignored the hunger that rose at the musky smell of her, pulling his own veins taut, imploring him to feed. Too early yet.
Rarely did he watch humans anymore, no longer wishing, as he had for so many years, to rejoin their mortal world. The human heart meant nothing to him now. He watched her only with a vampire’s fascination. Completely detached.
She lay in the long grass, knees bent, toes moving almost imperceptibly among the blades, enticing the coolness to embrace her bare feet. One arm was crooked, under her head, while the other was extended in the grass toward the open door of the house. The vampire raised his eyes to the door and watched the interior light strobe lazily in shades of gray. She had left the television on when she’d escaped the heat of the house, feeling as he did the radiant warmth from where he stood.
He returned his attention to the woman stretched out before him as she slowly raised her extended hand to her lips and caused an orange glow to erupt over their moist surface. Enthralled by this ordinary magic, he realized she was smoking a cigarette. He tipped his head, his lips parted in a smile, to watch the cigarette’s arc as she gracefully flicked it high overhead. He watched her back arch as she ensured herself the glowing butt had landed well away from her and was extinguishing itself in the damp green.
She stretched out her long legs, unencumbered, fleeced gray shorts cinched about her waist, her arms bare beneath a black knitted shirt without sleeves.
The vampire enjoyed the roundness of her shape, a woman’s shape, though he knew the mortals around her probably considered her plain, preferring, as they did, their women to have the appearance of emaciated children. To him, she was beautiful, as were all humans. Myriad colors danced beneath her mortal, blood-filled skin, seemingly unable to contain her life.
He could make out her eyes in the darkness and to his astonishment, he recognized those blue-gray eyes. He stifled a gasp.
They were Lestat’s eyes!
He took a deep breath. Thankfully, she had none of Lestat’s hair else the illusion would be complete. Dark brown, warmer than his own, but of nearly identical length and bent. The woman could be their sister, so closely was she their median. Her nose matched his perfectly but she had his maker’s jaw, not so severely squared as his own. And her lips exactly mirrored the determined set of Lestat’s lips.
The vampire was startled to realize that he wanted her. Not to satisfy his hunger, which was nearly overwhelming. But to know her, to be close to her, as he had not felt since he had wanted Armand in the last century. He watched as she picked a green-husked walnut off the lawn, an early victim to the tirade of chattering squirrels, and gently tossed it in the air, catching it effortlessly. A tiny laugh escaped her lips. She seemed at home in the night, belonging to it as no mortal he’d met.
How he wanted her!
He clamped his eyes shut. No! Dear God, no! The sorrow closed about him suddenly, challenging the thin barriers he had long fought to maintain, forcing his eyes open to look upon her again.
The vampire was aghast to see the woman sitting upright, studying him. Her heartbeat had quickened, but not in the desperate pounding of fear. She was only surprised by his presence. And there was something more, something long forgotten.
He could not move, his feet rooted to the spot. She had seen him, the moon high enough now to reveal the luster of his skin, the fiend that he was, yet she did not turn away.
“Come,” she said softly, slowly opening the palm of her hand in a welcoming gesture. “I won’t harm you. Sit with me.” Her lips parted and a gentle smile filled her eyes.
The vampire moved, though he could not say how or why. His feet led him around the hedge until he was beside her, towering over her.
“Please,” she said, touching the grass.
He sat opposite her, not at her side as she’d indicated, and rested his arms on his crossed legs. This was madness! What power did she have to spellbind him in this fashion? He knew he should run from her as fast as his vampiric abilities could carry him.
He remained where he was.
“Louis?” she asked, carefully. “You are Louis, aren’t you?”
His gasp this time was audible, even to her mortal ears. She wasn’t guessing! Her question asked only for confirmation.
She smiled disarmingly, almost tenderly, and his pulse quickened.
“Yes,” Louis whispered, just loud enough for her to hear. “That is my name. How is it you know this?”
She shook her head. “I have no supernatural powers. You would know if I did, would you not?” She searched his green eyes boldly.
Her voice caressed him. Though he was certain it sounded rough and masculine to mortals, her lush alto was soothing and resonate to his ears.
Louis said nothing.
“I’ve read your book,” she explained. “And Lestat’s books. His description of you is impeccable. But surely you know that.”
“No,” he said.
“You’ve read his books?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“But you don’t see yourself as he sees you. Of course not.” She looked at her hands in her lap, slightly embarrassed, as if she’d fallen for a malicious trick.
Louis took her hand, wanting her to feel wanted, startling her with the speed of his movement.
“I’m sorry,” he said, though he did not release her hand. “Don’t be frightened.” He hesitated. A smile formed on his lips as he turned her hand over in his, tracing the lines of her palm with his thumb. “I seem to have forgotten how to move in the presence of a lady.”
She seemed even more surprised by this. “You flatter me.”
“No,” he said, gently shaking his head.
She reached out with her free hand to stroke his hair and despite the warnings echoing through his mind he allowed it, relishing her touch as she laid her open palm against his pallid cheek, the warmth of her hand sending a shudder through his body.
How could she stand it, the cold, unyielding flesh against her tender skin? He felt a tear gather suddenly in his eye.
The woman instinctively caught it with the back of her knuckle and drew it toward her lips.
“No!” He caught her hand, knocking the teardrop free to fall harmlessly on the grass. “Don’t ever do that!”
Her eyes grew wide, shocked with the realization of what she’d almost done. “I didn’t even think of that. It would not have been enough, would it?”
“No,” he confided, yet he retained the urgency in his voice. “But it would have affected you, nonetheless. Please. Do not take that chance.”
“You have my word, Louis. Thank you.”
The intimacy of hearing her speak his name thrilled him. But confusion obscured his features.
“For...?”
“For caring,” she said, smiling.
Before he knew what she meant to do, she had gently freed her hands and, holding his shoulders, leaned over to tenderly kiss his cheek.
It was perhaps the most dangerous thing she’d done in her life. The scent of blood engulfed him. He felt the beating of her heart, the rhythm of her blood coursing through the vein only inches from his lips, from his lethal teeth. It would be the simplest matter to take her, to feel her heart beat as one with his in that terrible pounding.
“Lestat was right,” she whispered in his ear. “You are the most beguiling creature.”
A low moan escaped him and he pulled her away from him.
“Your hair,” she continued. “The longing in your eyes. You are beautiful, as he sees you.”
“No.” Louis shook his head as he again took her hand, slowly this time, turning it over and gently kissing her fingers. “I am a monster.”
“Are you?” She seemed amused. “Are you really?”
“Yes,” he said, returning her hand to her lap, his head bowed. Surely, she could not doubt that. She said she’d read his book. She knew what he was.
“Is a tiger a monster because he kills?”
“No. But he only does so to live, to protect himself.”
“And you? Do you not kill for the same reason? How can you be a monster when he is not?” She shifted onto her knees, sitting back on her feet.
“I was not born this way. I chose this life.”
She seemed to ponder that for a long moment. “Did you?”
“Yes!” Couldn’t she see the hideous thing that he was?
“Or did you simply choose not to die?”
Louis was dumbfounded. Didn’t she see his....
“Cowardice? Do you still believe, after so many years, after all you’ve seen, that you acted cowardly in choosing life?” She shook her head sadly. “Do you now look upon a boy of twenty-five and think him a man of rational thought? Or do you see the boy that he is? Inexperienced. Filled with fantastical notions.”
She held Louis’s hand between her own. He sat motionless, fearful to move, as she stroked his icy flesh, her fingertips tracing his luminous nails. Why was this mortal confusing him? His mind was suddenly in turmoil. And the sorrow he had held at bay for a century threatened him now, as it never had. He opened his mouth to speak, to say anything that would silence her words and force the sadness away.
But she covered his lips with one hand and entwined his fingers with the other, holding him fast.
“Can you not see that boy who was you, fighting for his life against weapons no mortal can be prepared to face, and choosing what God gave him to understand? To live!”
“Dear God!” he begged. “Don’t do this to me!”
“And why not?” she challenged. “Do you not deserve a confessor who will tell you the truth, for once in your long life?”
“You cannot know! What it means to live by killing!”
“Can I not? And how do you know I do not bear this guilt myself?” Her stare was fierce.
Pain, something Louis knew well, filled her face, seeming to crush her from within, though it did not consume her. Yet, she was all the more beautiful to him. His lips parted and he reached to stroke her cheek.
She shook him off, springing to her feet out of his comforting reach. “I too have chosen life for myself, though I was not in mortal danger of losing my own.” She pounded a fist into her chest. “I chose the death of another so my life would continue, unchanging.” She touched her temple as angry tears spilled down her cheek. “But I was a child myself, barely twenty, when I made that choice.”
He rose beside her, forgetting himself, torn by her anguish. He cupped her face in his hands and she allowed it.
“I had to forgive that child, Louis. As you must forgive the child you were.”
“But you do not need to go on killing,” he whispered.
She took a deep breath. “That will be harder to forgive, I cannot deny that. But you cannot change the past, or the choices you made in your youth. Only what goes before you is important. And you continue killing by choice.”
Louis’s brow furrowed. She seemed to understand so much. How could she not understand this simplest part of his existence? That he must feed!
She took a step back and held up her hands. “Wait! I need a cigarette.” She smiled and extended her hand to him. “Come with me, Louis. You’re getting cold and it’s warm inside.”
He took her hand eagerly, letting her lead him into the little house. When she had turned from closing the door behind them, she laughed, the sound pure and clear to Louis’s ears. He smiled at the music of it, though he had no idea why she laughed.
She saw his confusion and shrugged somewhat sheepishly, repeating, “‘You’re getting cold.’”
Louis laughed quietly. The irony was irresistible. How natural it seemed for her to understand. But she was correct, he hadn’t realized how chill the night had become. He rubbed his arms as he watched her walk to a large desk in one corner of the room. She lighted a cigarette, breathing its toxins deep into her lungs. She seemed to enjoy it.
She saw his gaze on her, held up the burning cylinder, and again shrugged. “Bad habit, I know.”
He smiled for her. “I know worse ones.” But something on her desk had caught his attention.
He had been mistaken earlier when he’d thought she’d left a television on when she’d gone outside. In the center of her desk sat a large metal and plastic box atop which glowed a monitor. It changed every few seconds, moving about the screen what looked like a photograph of a blond man sitting in a chair. It suddenly occurred to him the device was providing the only illumination in the house.
The woman noticed his interest and smiled. “You never saw the movie that was made of your book, did you?”
“No,” he replied, quietly fascinated.
She pointed to the screen. “That’s the actor who played you, though they dyed his hair dark for it. Look at this.” She nudged an oblong device on the desk and the picture went away, replaced by a larger photo of the same actor, now with dark hair. His morose face filled the screen. “I have a copy of the movie, if you’d like to see it.”
He shook his head. “No. Thank you, but no. Perhaps another time, if I may. This is your computer?”
“Yes, that’s my Macintosh.”
“Scottish?” Louis furrowed his brow.
She smiled. “It’s just a name.”
“Lestat has a computer, but it’s not like this.”
“If his books are correct, Lestat uses a computer that’s usually called a PC, though that’s not an entirely accurate name.”
Louis nodded. “Yes, that is what he calls it. His PC. For what do you use a computer?”
She shrugged. “It’s how I pay the mortgage. It allows me to work from home, at whatever hours I choose.” She laughed, the music of it filling Louis’s ears. “Which is usually all night.”
He straightened. “What is it you do on your computer?”
“I help other people use their computers. And I write a little.” She looked embarrassed.
Louis smiled, his eyes alight. “An aspiring artist?”
She snubbed out her cigarette. “Perhaps. But mostly I write instructions for people to follow. Technical manuals.” She started to walk through a doorway into a darkened room when she paused. “I’m going to get a cup of coffee. Is there anything I can get you?”
She was being polite, he knew. He did not eat or drink as a human, though he had occasionally chewed on a few things in a very unvampiric fashion. Armand had been appalled.
“A cup of coffee would be nice. In an earthen mug, if you have one.”
“To warm your hands?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
He smiled. “Yes.”
“I have something better for that.” She disappeared through the doorway.
Curious, he followed her into the dark kitchen. The fire was already heating the kettle.
He was surprised that she had not turned on the light. The glow from the open refrigerator seemed enough illumination for her. She emerged, triumphantly holding a round of bread as large as her fist and closing the refrigerator door. She opened what he recognized as a microwave oven, popped the bread inside, and set the timer. The machine hummed to life. He watched it as she spooned brown and white crystals into her mug, which was indeed ceramic.
She was busy pouring steaming water over the crystals when the microwave began beeping.
“Press the large button along the bottom. There’s a spring release, so you may need to press it harder than you’d imagine.”
Louis scanned the front of the machine and pushed the largest button. She was correct. He felt it begin to open and then catch again. He pushed it with slightly more force and the door popped open. He caught it and looked inside. Steam was rising from the bread. Its aroma vaguely reminded Louis of when he and Armand had lived in New York.
He stepped aside for the woman, forcing himself to ignore her sudden closeness. A strange prick of guilt struck him as he realized she seemed completely at ease with his presence.
Using a thick cloth napkin, she retrieved the bread and offered it to him. “It’s warmer than I can tolerate, I’m afraid. I don’t know if it will be too warm for you.”
He held out his hand and when he nodded, she dropped the bread onto his bare palm. A smile spread over his face, setting his eyes ablaze.
“Exquisitely warm,” he murmured. “What sort of bread is it?”
She laughed. “A bagel. Jewish, from New York.”
“Ah! That’s why it smells familiar.”
She took a hurried sip of her coffee and saluted him with her mug. “That’s right. You lived in New York for a time. I’d forgotten.”
Louis’s smile was relaxed as he studied her. The dark room was too much to bear and he flicked on the overhead light, to see her completely. And so she might see him clearly.
She immediately squeezed her eyes shut, guarding them not against him, but from the fluorescent bulb. “Warn me before you do that!” she said, laughing. “My eyes are not young anymore and they need preparation.”
Louis cradled the bagel between his hands and his face became serious. “How old can you be? Twenty-seven? Thirty, at most?”
She laughed brightly. “Now you are flattering me. Bless you.” She shook her head. “No. I’m thirty-eight.”
He smiled. Yes, he had been flattering her. Her age was readily apparent to him, if to no one else. The occasional gray shimmering in her hair, the tiny lines at the corners of her mouth and her eyes, so blue in the light. And he could not remember the last time he had been blessed in that manner.
“You know, that’s something only hinted at in your books, yours and Lestat’s. You have a wonderful sense of humor, Louis.”
“Thank you,” he said softly, his eyes alight. “I don’t believe anyone has ever said that of me.”
She sipped her coffee, deep in thought. “You should enjoy your life more,” she said quietly. Her voice was strangely sad, not envious as Daniel’s had once been. She laughed and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m being presumptuous, of course.”
Louis flexed the fingers of one hand. They were as warm as they could be. Without feeding. He was very aware of her nearness and the fragrance of her over the spicy smells of the kitchen. The scent of her blood was heady, sweetly tormenting his hunger.
“Who are you?” he whispered, looking up, ensuring himself she had indeed heard. “Why are you being a friend to me?”
Her eyes twinkled. “Because you can still ask why.” She flicked off the light, took his arm, and led him back into the front room, sitting beside him on the divan. She picked up a book of matches and, quickly striking a flame, lighted a candle on the coffeetable. “Because when I read your story, I knew your pain. I recognized it.”
Louis watched the flame lengthen over the glowing wick and slowly smiled. “But you weren’t frightened of me.” He drew up one long leg so he might sit facing her.
She shrugged. “I knew who you were. Even half-hidden behind the walnut tree, I knew who you were before it struck me what you were. I knew, of course, but it took a moment to sink in that it wasn’t my imagination.” Her smile was warm. “And then you were sitting there, holding my hand.”
Setting the bagel on the table, he moved to take her hand again. She met his hand with hers, eagerly. Her cheeks flushed and she lowered her eyes, studying his long fingers.
Louis pressed her fingers gently to his lips, savoring the salty taste of her before lowering her hand and cupping it between both of his. He felt her eyes on him and he met her gaze. It was again there, that long-forgotten something he couldn’t bring himself to name, sparkling in her eyes. He slowly ran his hand down her face and she pressed her cheek against it, her lips parting as her eyes fell shut.
His entire world seemed reduced to this moment, this one night. Such intimacy, and the growing tightness around his heart that he could not turn away from.
“You have me at a disadvantage, chérie,” he said softly, lapsing into his native French. “Tell me about yourself.”
She ran her hand through her hair. “There’s little to tell, I’m afraid. I had a good home, loving parents. I did well in school and in college. I worked at the requisite dead-end jobs before becoming a contractor and working my own hours.” She drew in her breath. “At twenty, I had a brief liaison with a complete bastard and had an abortion rather than raise a child alone. And I tried to kill myself seven times in the next five years.”
She fell silent and Louis could see his own pain in her face. Old pain, scarred over. He longed to take it away from her, though he knew it was only a memory of pain. He could not hope to understand how much more the ache was in killing your own child, even unborn. He wanted to gather her into his arms and stroke her hair as she lay against his chest, but he did not trust himself.
Could he stop there? Already he knew he did not want to be without her. Ever. Could he do as Lestat had done to David, taking her against her will, condemning her to his routine of endless, mindless killing? She would surely feel his living pain then and share his loathing for her maker. He could not stand the thought of her hating him.
He rose quickly and moved to stand before the computer. He stared at the negative image of himself, the actor with the tanned face and blond hair, whose photo had resumed bouncing around the screen. His own thoughts frightened him and he shuddered. For the first time, he had considered breaking the vow he held most dear. Never to make another as himself. Never to condemn to death those upon whom that vampire must feed. How had he allowed this to go so far?
Safer to feel nothing!
But already he knew it was too late. Love was pushing the pain upon him, cutting through his foggy barriers, their flimsy protection dissipating, abandoning him.
Louis heard her shift on the divan, facing him. Without turning, he held his hand out to stop her from rising.
“Do not come near me. You are in danger now.” His head bowed and he continued in a whisper. “All I have held dear, everything I have ever loved, I have destroyed. I love you, chérie, but I am not human.” He sighed, tears filling his eyes. “I am a monster and I have just plotted your destruction.”
“You cannot destroy that which would not be destroyed, Louis. Hasn’t Lestat taught you that yet?”
Louis dug a handkerchief out of his pocket. He shook his head. “You read the books. Lestat taught me nothing.”
“You love him and he is not destroyed. Is that not lesson enough?” She sighed. “And you are wrong about not being human. You may not be mortal, but you are human. Lestat, Gabrielle, even Marius have forgotten their humanity yet you worship it as they cannot. It’s what Lestat loves most in you and understands least.”
“I feed on humanity. Nothing more.”
“You cannot ignore your hunger any more than the tiger, Louis. The meal is no less satisfying. You hunt as he hunts, taking your prey as it comes to you and taking no more than you need.” Frustration filled her voice. “This is not evil! It is your pure acceptance of your dual nature and you cannot be damned for that. Your vampire nature craves human blood. But you are human, and your human nature mourns the lives you take. You are stronger than the others because you remember you are human. And before anything else, Louis, humans are predators!”
She jumped to her feet angrily and, carrying her empty cup, moved to pass him and enter the kitchen.
The cup skittered across the carpet and thudded against a wall as Louis caught her, clutching her close and holding her fast in his arms. She did not struggle against him, even as he brought his face close to hers, his fanged teeth revealed behind his parted lips. The blind could surely see his hunger! Her eyes, so much like Lestat’s eyes, stayed fixed on his and he felt the pounding of her heart. But it was not fear.
“Would you kill me now, Louis? Take my life?” she breathed.
Louis let his lips trail across her cheek until his nose was entangled in the hair around her ear.
“You do not understand,” he whispered, pressing the length of her warm body to him, giving in to the desire that had been growing since he had first seen her eyes upon him. “I would have you with me always, my love. You see so clearly what I am, revealing for me what I refused to see, awakening what I thought was surely dead. You caress the anguish in my heart, and I will not lose this.” Louis shifted his grip, freeing one hand to touch her arm, her shoulder, and stroke the vein at her throat. Her pulse quickened under his delicate touch. “I cannot bear the thought of you growing old and dying. I am a monster, chérie, for I would have you share my hell before leaving you to that fate.” He grazed her ear with his lips, following its velvety curve, before tenderly, gingerly piercing her lobe.
A gasp escaped her as he coaxed the drops of blood from the tiny wound. The taste of her blood thrilled him, sending an ecstatic shudder resounding through his veins. He could hear her heartbeat faintly, as in the distance and he knew how easily it could be brought rushing toward him. He suddenly understood why Lestat had always prolonged the kill, loving his victims. The torment was exquisite! She slumped, almost imperceptibly, before he pulled her tighter against him. His lips kissed the wound dry.
“You feel it, chérie. But what you feel is only a beginning. There is more. So much more.” The rush of her blood, loud and so very near, was drawing him.
“Louis,” she said, without a hint of pleading. “You know I cannot turn you if you decide to do this thing. But will you risk my death, will you risk making me imperfectly if I refuse to drink deeply enough?”
He pulled back to face her, alarmed. “You would do this? Choose living madness rather than come to me?” To his surprise, she smiled.
“Yes.”
“But I feel your love for me. You desire this as much as I do. Am I mistaken?” He loosened his hold on her but she remained in his arms.
“No, your senses serve you well. I would walk with you through eternity if you would have it so. I could not want for a better companion.”
Louis was perplexed. The idea that she would become as those things in eastern Europe sickened him. And yet, she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
“I do not understand.”
She took his hand. “As much as I crave never to leave your side, I would die rather than be made at your hand. I cannot become the killer that you are and still love you. You know this, Louis.” She turned her back to him, leaning heavily on the desk chair before continuing. “To be near you forever, yet never to know your touch would be more than I could bear.”
Louis wrapped his arms around her shoulders and drew her back close, a tear tumbling slowly down his cheek.
“There is another way,” she whispered, her voice trembling for the first time.
He spun her around, so quickly that, for an instant, he worried he might have injured her. “You said earlier, out on the lawn, that I continued killing by choice. What did you mean?”
She laid both hands against his chest, leaning on him. It seemed an effort for her to continue. “Do you know a vampire who no longer feeds nightly?”
“My God! Lestat!” Louis’s face lighted as he tipped his head back and closed his eyes, laughing quietly. “Of course! David does not feed every night. Why did I not see it?”
“Your regret blinded you.” Her voice became quieter. “I don’t think you dared consider it. Could you live knowing you did not need to feed, but felt the burning desire to kill nonetheless? Could you forgive yourself then, when you conceded to that desire because it was no less in your nature to do?” She stared into his eyes. “There is danger there, as well.”
Louis shook his head, confused. “But why do you say this, chérie? You said yourself you would not allow me to be your maker. You have not lived as a monster and I could never teach you to become one needlessly.”
She cupped his face in her hand and he pressed his cheek into it. “If I had this ability, do you think I could keep it from you? That which might give you peace as you’ve never known? As Lestat and Akasha fed from each other, so could we feed, until we were the same.”
Louis nodded. Lestat had for years offered Louis to drink of his blood. But always his maker spoke of making Louis more powerful and he had declined. The gifts Lestat had now were terrible. He shuddered.
“You’re remembering his other powers, aren’t you, Louis?” she asked. “Can they not be controlled?” Concern filled her face.
He paced the small room considering all he knew of Lestat’s powers. After several long moments, he turned quickly and scooped her up in his arms. She laughed in delight and he smiled as she draped her arms around his neck.
“Yes,” he said, smiling down at her sweet face. “I do not have Lestat’s temper.” Louis closed his eyes and felt the beating of her heart. “And neither do you, my love. If he can control them, so can we.” She was warm in his arms and the taste of her mortal blood lingered still on his lips. But he knew he would not complete what he had started, not while there was a chance to save her from his waking hell.
He hungered still, however, and he must feed soon. And there was something else.
“Chérie, Lestat has sworn never to kill again.” Louis set her upon her feet. “And though he has offered his blood to me many times, he may deny me this thing because he will not kill.”
“Then you must accept what he offers and bring me to you after. I would loathe missing the chance to hear your thoughts, and you mine, to speak silently with you, but I cannot see life without you, my love.” A flush rose in her cheeks. “Louis.”
Louis tipped her face to meet his and kissed her quickly, happily. A mortal kiss.
She smiled and stepped to the computer, nudging the mouse to clear the screen. Her smile disappeared as she saw the time and whirled to face him. “You haven’t fed, have you?”
He furrowed his brow and smiled. “Yes, I have noticed that. Perhaps I should skip tonight.” The tight pulling on his veins, however, told him that was not possible, that he must feed before sleeping. “I must go for now, chérie.” He stroked her hair gently, drinking in her eyes.
“But is there time, Louis? To find what you need and get to your rest?”
“I’ll be fine. I will find something. If not, forgoing one night is not impossible. I have done it before.” He ran his finger down her nose that was so like his own. “And there are always rats.” He winked at her.
Louis could see her mind rushing forward and as she opened her mouth to speak, he laid a finger across her lips and let his expression grow serious.
“Do not offer it, my love. My thirst is too great.”
She nodded. “Then you must once again be Merciful Death.”
“Yes, chérie.” How differently she said it, Merciful Death, as if it were truly a kindness. There was none of the disdain that had always left him wanting to strangle Lestat.
Louis turned to leave but stopped at the door, his back to her. A new pain had welled within him, grasping at his heart, constricting his breath.
“I love you,” he whispered.
The silence was excruciating for several long seconds, until he heard her approach. His eyes closed, lips parting, and he felt her hands on his shoulders. When she turned him gently, he opened his eyes to find her moist gaze upon him. And he recognized what he had seen there earlier. The joy filled him as it never had.
“I love you, Louis,” she said, sliding her arms around his waist. “Hurry back to me.”
He searched her eyes carefully.
She slowly smiled. “I am under no spells, my love.”
“Such a thing has happened, chérie, from time to time.” Louis laughed quietly and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. She felt perfect against him.
She held the door and then followed him onto the porch.
Louis kissed her hand once more and walked slowly to the sidewalk. He stopped when he was beside the walnut tree and, turning, saw her sit on the porch.
“You’re going to stay up to watch the dawn, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“I probably would, as well.” He smiled, remembering something else. “Tell me your name.”
She returned his smile, tears filling her eyes. “But you already know my name. It’s the name you have given me, the name you have called me all night. How could I refuse such a gift?” She touched her fingers to her lips, raising her hand to wave him on his way.
Louis, with his perfect detachment, smiled.
“Good night, Chérie,” he said quietly.
Twenty minutes later, he was miles away, his flesh warm and ruddy from the kill. Leaning against a cinderblock wall near his hotel, he called, as only a vampire could. He repeated the silent appeal several times. He knew his maker could not hear him, but the others would and Lestat could hear his call through them. Louis concentrated on the hotel’s lighted sign, noticing every contour and color, creating a perfect image of it in his mind.
“Lestat! I need your help!”
Satisfied, he hurried off to his room.
“Louis...the most beguilingly human fiend.”
Lestat (TVL, p499, pb)
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