Chérie was already back at work on the long galley pages, reading every word carefully with her red pen hovering. She was determined to finish the task before their wedding three nights hence and in her hands were the final proofs. All errors must be caught, corrected, and reproofed before the manuscript would gain their approval. It was in Daniel’s contract. Lestat had personally paid a visit to Daniel’s editor to ensure there would be no further underhanded substitutions. The editor had so assured him, on his knees.
Louis shook his head and smiled as he walked past his study, leaving Chérie undisturbed with her project. He stepped out of his rooms and into the long hallway, leisurely strolling down the enclosed gallery.
Lestat was still Lestat, and he was more convinced than ever that nothing would ever change that, not for very long. And, he reminded himself, he would never want it any other way.
He knew what Lestat was doing even before he stepped into the front parlor. Louis was always the last to rise and every evening he found his maker engaged in the same activity.
Holding court.
Louis stepped slowly around Lestat’s precious Louis XV furnishings and trod lightly across the exquisite carpets. He rested his hand on the corner of his desk, the desk he had long sought to fulfill his maker’s dream of restoring the townhouse to its nineteenth-century splendor. As he had every night since their arrival, Louis stood and watched Lestat bask in the adulation of his fans, those who had read his books and journeyed far to catch a glimpse of the Vampire Lestat. Mortals and immortals alike.
He smiled. Lestat had certainly dressed the part this evening. He sat perched atop the thin iron railing, his long legs stretched out, encased in tight black leather pants, the soft finish absorbing the lights of the Quarter. Beyond his crossed ankles, his black boots balanced delicately, almost reaching the corner post. The rich black silk shirt draped his broad shoulders perfectly, though the effect was muted by the leather tour jacket he wore over the marvelous fabric. The all-black ensemble made a perfect pedestal for Lestat’s thick mane of yellow curls. Louis could care less for the tinted lenses his maker had donned, though. But they were the de rigueur attempt at concealing himself, however half-heartedly.
Every so often, Lestat would wave or blow a kiss secretively to one of his fans, spying up at him from under the balconies across the street.
“How many are out there tonight?” Louis asked.
“Six just now. All mortal,” Lestat answered quietly. “Are you presentable?”
“I am always presentable, my beloved. It is only you who does not believe so.” Louis smiled. “But yes, tonight I am dressed as you would consider appropriate.”
Lestat tipped his sunglasses down on his nose and stole a glance at his fledgling. He nodded approvingly when he saw Louis’s linen suit, of modern tailoring and in the palest cream. Louis had even left his hair down, brushing it carefully. His maker held out his hand.
“Come. Give them a thrill.”
Louis stepped out onto the balcony and took the proffered hand, drawing it to his breast as he bent to kiss Lestat amiably on both cheeks, his hair tumbling over his shoulders.
They could easily hear the murmur from the little group across the street. Louis leaned against the tall shutters beside Lestat and smiled as he heard his name pass among the mortals.
“I believe you just gave that poor dark-haired thing a heart attack, mon cher,” his maker teased.
Louis glanced down and saw the young woman Lestat indicated. He raised the fingers of his right hand to his lips briefly, in a gesture that was not quite but certainly could have been a salute.
“Why, Louis! You actually seem to enjoy this tonight.”
He smiled. “I am enjoying it. Do you recall when I once told you I wished I could be you? A delusion, of course, because I’ve discovered I very much like being me. But I’ve found I’m no longer repulsed at the thought of being the object of adoration.” He laughed without making a sound. “I will not pretend to understand, of course, nor will I ever seek it out as you do, but that is hardly reason for dismissal on the rare occasions when I’m confronted with it.”
“The living legend,” Lestat snickered.
Louis smiled, his eyes alight. “As I live and breathe.”
His maker was surprised into a fit of laughter and teetered on the high railing. Louis instantly had him in his arms, pulling him to safety on the balcony.
“Good Lord, Lestat,” he hissed, but stopped because his maker was bowing to the smattering of applause that had erupted across the street. Annoyed, Louis grabbed him, waving, by the hand and dragged him back into the townhouse.
Lestat meandered over to lounge on the silver damask divan. He pulled the sunglasses off his face and tossed them onto the table, shaking his head sadly at his fledgling.
“Yes, yes,” Louis admitted. “The fall wouldn’t have killed you, of course. But it still would’ve hurt like hell!”
His maker held up a finger. “Excuse me. You forget that I can fly.”
Louis stormed right up to him, nose-to-nose. “In full view of mortals? And are you so certain you would have remembered that before your pretty head was smashed like a casaba on the cobblestones? Hmm?”
Lestat kissed him on the nose. “I like you this way, Louis. I’ve always loved your righteous anger.” He furrowed his brow playfully. “Come on, Louis! Make up some nasty, horrid rule that I can break!”
“Aren’t you breaking enough of them with these whole proceedings? For crying out loud, Lestat! You even have us taking instruction. And I won’t mention the hours you made me sit in that confessional.” Louis sat in the chair nearest the divan and held up a hand in frustration. “When you know full well we cannot take Communion anyway!”
“Of course you can. There’s always a way. And remember what the good Father said,” Lestat chided him. “‘It’s important to know what the Church expects of the married faithful.’”
Louis groaned and pushed the hair away from his face. “I haven’t practiced my Catholicism in over two hundred years. I’m not exactly what springs to mind when he says ‘faithful.’ And they don’t even use Latin any more, did you know that?”
Lestat leaned forward and spoke quietly. “This is for Chérie. Remember that and it will all work out splendidly. She wasn’t forced into the Church any more than she was forced into being a vampire. She chose this faith consciously, as an adult and after great contemplation, and being Born to Darkness hasn’t lessened her belief, so we must respect that.” He took Louis’s hand. “It’s forever, Louis. And with us, that actually means something. But think of it like mortal death, if you must. Once it’s over, you never have to go through it again.”
Louis sighed and held his maker by the back of his neck, leaning against his blond brow gently. “I know. I must be more anxious about this than I thought.” He touched Lestat’s cheek and rose. “I’m going for a walk. Would you care to join me?”
“Thank you, no,” Lestat said, shaking his head as he settled back on the divan. “I have a million things to check on. And when Daniel and Armand get back, we need to focus on wrapping up your book. I want it done and hopefully tomorrow will be as calm as before any proverbial storm. So if you want any time with Chérie tonight, take her with you now.”
Louis bowed and returned Lestat’s smile. “I believe I will heed your advice for once. Thank you.” Walking from the room he halted, however, before crossing the threshold.
“Oh, and that applause?” He held up a hand and, without turning back, unfurled a finger toward the balcony. “That was for me, Lestat. For saving your pretty little ass.”
His maker burst out laughing.
Louis stepped into the hall. He smiled to himself as he walked beside the gold and white striped wallpaper, boards still creaking under the dark carpet. Louis was fairly certain Lestat had purposefully retained the creaks just so he could hear his passage.
He stepped into his rooms and to the door of the study where Chérie looked much as she had before, red pen poised but motionless. Glennie lay curled about her feet, the big Scottish deerhound nestled up against the enormous mound of fur that was Mojo.
Louis laughed quietly and Chérie looked up.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Lestat will be feeling abandoned if he sees Mojo in here.”
The German shepherd raised his long muzzle at the sound of his name before lazily lying back down.
“Don’t be silly,” Chérie said. “Mojo is simply spending time with his contemporary. He’s probably bored stiff being around you old guys all the time.” She winked playfully.
“And you?” Louis asked, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the doorframe. “Do you find us boring?”
Chérie set down her pen and, rising carefully so as not to disturb the dogs, came to slip her arms around his waist. “Not in the least. You’re the most fascinating creatures I’ve ever met.”
He kissed the top of her head and wrapped his long arms around her. “Lestat tells me you have a lengthy editing session ahead of you. I’m going for a walk. Why don’t you come with me?”
She glanced at the stack of galleys, at Louis, and back at the galleys guiltily. “Okay,” she said, grinning. “Since you’ve twisted my arm.”
And he did, gently.
“Should we take the dogs?” she asked. “They could use the exercise before they get shuttled off to Lestat’s lady friend.”
“How soon would you like to return? There may not be time to allow Glennie a proper run.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Good point. Perhaps we can at least let them out on the patio.”
“Courtyard,” Louis whispered.
“Right, courtyard. Thank you. Veranda, not porch. Divan, not couch, though Lestat doesn’t hold with that one.”
Louis laughed quietly. “Well, Lestat still doesn’t know which fork is which.”
“Not that he’ll ever use one again.”
“Touché, Chérie. Hopefully, he will never toy with mortality again.” Louis glanced at the dogs. “They look so peaceful. Let’s not disturb them.”
She nodded her agreement. “Let me change before we go. You look positively GQ and I feel so underdressed in my Cal sweats.” She pulled at her fleeced pants and shirt before squeezing past him to duck into the bedroom.
“GQ?” Louis repeated to himself.
“Gentlemen’s Quarterly,” Lestat said, standing in the doorway to the gallery. He stepped up beside his fledgling, eyes scanning the study. “It’s a men’s fashion magazine. You should pick up a copy. It smells nice. I see you have appropriated my dog.”
“A magazine that smells nice?” Louis asked.
“Yes, Louis. Now catch up. Why is Mojo in your rooms?”
Louis glanced back at the slumbering canines and grinned at his maker. “He’s a mortal dog, Lestat. You figure it out.”
Lestat frowned. “Have you ever heard of puppies, Louis?”
Chérie emerged from the bedroom. She was wearing a deep steel-blue rayon shirt, oversized and hanging almost to the knees of her white cotton pants. On her feet was a pair of thonged slippers she called zoriis.
Louis marveled at the swiftness with which she always attended her clothing. He was certain this was attributable to her simple wardrobe and vampiric abilities, but he was no less amazed. And he suspected she timed herself in this ordinary activity. For him, it had been remaining motionless for longer and longer periods. They all did this, he believed, in one way or another.
She crossed the little sitting room and patted their maker on his shoulder. “There’s no need to worry about Glennie. She had a couple of litters when she was younger and then I retired her from the breeding circus. Permanently. She only does that for grins and giggles now.” Chérie smiled lasciviously. “And Mojo is a handsome devil, is he not?”
Lestat’s lips curled into a smile. “Grins and giggles. Pure enjoyment, right? I like that.”
“Seems made for you,” Louis readily agreed.
“You two!” Chérie said, exasperated. “We’re going for a walk. Mojo seems happy right where he is, so leave him be.”
Lestat nodded. “I only wanted to find him before Armand’s return so there wouldn’t be any unfortunate surprises.”
“Well, I’m surprised you haven’t put Mojo up to sire a litter, Lestat,” she said. “Glennie would be heartbroken, of course, but I’m sure you could find a bitch worthy of carrying Mojo’s genes.” She grinned at her maker. “You know, the pitter-patter of little paws around the place?”
A smile played across his lips, but Lestat’s gaze was otherwise distant, unreadable. “Yes, that might be nice,” he said, turning and striding from Louis’s rooms.
Chérie shook her head after him, puzzled, as she wandered back into the study. She stepped to the computer and activated the screen saver. She tried to deactivate it and was prompted for a password.
“Can’t be too safe about this with Armand in the house,” she said, her hand resting lightly atop the monitor, tipping her head to smile at Louis. “I still can’t believe you bought this. I would have enjoyed watching you shop for it.”
Louis smiled. “It was rather anticlimactic, really. I walked into three stores and asked after the best Macintosh available. Their responses were the same.”
“Yes, my love. But they don’t all come as this one did. How ever did you know about the memory, or the storage, or the video?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “And I still don’t. But a phrase like ‘money is no object’ is universally understood.” He laughed quietly. “‘Multimedia’ has a similar effect, I noticed.”
Chérie smiled, nodding her head. “I’ll bet it did. Well, if you’d let me in on the surprise, I probably could have gotten you a better price.”
“Undoubtedly,” Louis admitted. “But you’ve read my financial statements so you know I won’t feel it. And you know how little I cherish all those numbers, beyond the comfort of knowing they are there and that they tally properly.” And seeing the delight in her eyes had been worth far more to him than the few extra dollars he might have paid. “What I cannot believe is that you promptly stuck my photograph on it.”
Chérie glanced back to see that a short video of Louis was playing as part of the screen saver. There were actually several clips of him that played in rotation when the computer was idle.
“Some things are important, Louis.” She smiled up at him, taking his arm as they stepped from the study.
Lestat was nowhere to be seen as they walked to the end of the gallery and descended to the courtyard. Most of the flowers were in bloom and their luscious scents filled the warm evening air.
The wrought-iron gate unbolted and its latch lifted, seemingly of its own accord, as they neared.
“Very nice, my love,” Chérie whispered. “You have that down cold.” She stepped past him onto the street as he held the gate for her.
“Thank you, Chérie,” Louis said, pulling the gate closed and hearing the latch fall into place. “But you should practice.”
“When we return, I promise.”
They quickly cut over to Rue Chartres. Louis knew from experience it was better not to remain on the Rue Royale because Lestat’s fans lingered there. Sometimes their approach was far from polite.
You have a few fans of your own out there, Chérie reminded him silently, reading his thoughts.
One or two, he allowed, smiling.
They walked a few blocks before turning away from the river, up Dumaine. When they reached the Rue Bourbon, they strolled slowly among the tourists crowding the narrow thoroughfare. Other natives were easy to spot for they shared the same leisurely pace, pausing as they did to enjoy the myriad treasures displayed in the shop windows or simply pausing to watch the unending parade of visitors rush past. In the crush of tropical colors surrounding them, no one gave their pallid countenance more than a second glance.
As they crossed before an open tavern door, the recorded music wafting from its smoky interior, Chérie halted abruptly.
“I love that song,” she whispered, drawing Louis into her arms.
“I’m afraid I don’t keep up on modern music,” Louis said. The song was not quite jazz, though it certainly had the forlorn overtones. The singer, he guessed, was English from the softness of his vowels. He suddenly noticed Chérie’s amazed expression.
“Tell me you’re kidding,” she said. “You really don’t know this song?”
Louis smiled and shook his head, puzzled. “Should I?”
“Listen to the lyrics,” she instructed. But the song had ended. She looked around frantically. “Where’s a record store? A big one so we don’t have to worry about standing out.”
“We may need to go outside the Quarter for something large.”
“Something small then!”
They held hands as he led her through the press of mortals. His heart beat a little faster, feeling the excitement of her self-imposed mission. Chérie grinned when she saw the sign for the record store before them and she took the lead as they passed through its portals.
A number of shoppers roamed the store’s narrow aisles, many dressed in bright tourist garb, browsing through the multitude of bins filled with cassette tapes and compact discs. Music blared through unseen speakers and the lighting was thankfully dim.
Down along the ends of the narrow aisles she pulled him, stopping to scan the categories posted considerately above the bins. He about collided with her twice. Laughing quietly, he let her pull him down one row and watched as she scanned the alphabetical dividers before digging in with both hands.
Chérie quickly found her quarry and held aloft the shiny compact disc as if it were a prize.
Louis shook his head and kissed her. They had begun walking toward the cashier when she suddenly pulled him in another direction.
“Wait! There’s something else I want to get while we’re here.” She turned down another aisle. “I’m tired of listening to Lestat’s whining when I borrow his copy and I don’t feel like flying home just to get mine.” Her eyes flashed up at him. “See? You’ve corrupted me, my love.”
He smiled at her teasing. He had done no such thing. It had taken most of the year, but she had come to the realization, on her own and without his intercession, that enjoying her new life made working and paying her own bills exceedingly difficult. Her frustration had finally gotten too great and one night he was delighted when she reluctantly accepted his entreaty to allow him to set up certain modest investments in her name, though she staunchly refused to consider full financial partnership.
Still, Chérie had been staggered by his interpretation of “modest.” He smiled, recalling how he’d worried she might literally faint dead away at one point when she’d seen the figures. He had given her far better preparation before revealing his full holdings. He had not wanted to learn if a vampire could indeed suffer a coronary.
Chérie extracted a disc he recognized. It was the soundtrack for the movie of his book.
“Mood music?” he teased, laughing when the very tip of her tongue impudently parted her lips.
She made her purchases and began unwrapping the first disc the moment they had stepped back onto the street. Chérie pulled the little booklet from the packaging, flipped through its pages, and handed it to him.
“You can listen to it when we get back to the townhouse, but for now just read the lyrics.”
Louis smiled warmly and pointed. “This one?”
She nodded and leaned against the brick edifice as he scanned the words, watching as the smile slowly faded from his face, replaced with astonishment. He flipped to the last page, checked the copyright date, and looked up at her.
“Your song,” Chérie said, nodding. “‘Moon Over Bourbon Street.’ The story is he wrote that after reading your book.”
“And over a decade later, they still sell it?”
“Oh, yes. The artist is probably in the top one percent of his field. World renowned. More fame than Lestat could ever hope to achieve.”
Louis was stunned. How many had heard this song?
“Millions,” she answered, reading his thoughts. She took the booklet and returned it to its case. Louis accepted the discs and slipped them into his pocket as they continued walking.
Chérie seemed lost in thought as they meandered along the streets, turning whichever way struck their fancy.
“The woman in the song, Louis, Mademoiselle de Freniere,” she tentatively began. “Tell me something about her. Something small. One little thing she did that made you smile.”
He was startled by the request. The instant she had said Babette’s name, he expected her to ask as Daniel had asked, if he had loved her. Now he found himself hastily searching his memories. The immortal ones were clear, while the mortal remembrances far more difficult and vague. But something scratched at that distant gray barrier.... His face suddenly softened as his eyes lighted.
“When I was twenty-one,” Louis said. “And only a week after my father had died, years yet before I would meet our dear Lestat, the Frenieres paid their sympathy call. The boy and his five sisters. They were perfectly gracious but after a long week of such visits, I never again wanted to hear another carefully worded kindness. In a few short days, I had gone from apprentice to master of not one but two plantations. There were a thousand details awaiting my attention, yet I was tied hour after hour to these receptions.”
Louis laughed. “Much to my mother’s chagrin, I excused myself far too shortly for mixed company and rushed from the house. I would have ridden out to the fields immediately, but I quite literally fell over Babette, tumbling badly to avoid stepping on her. I had not noticed when she had stolen away and was surprised to find her sitting alone on the steps. She was very young then, perhaps thirteen. She smiled up at me, unaware that anything untoward had occurred, as I furiously brushed the dust from my coat, my waistcoat. All this she watched, innocently fascinated, until I came to the legs of my trowsers and her eyes grew as big as saucers, as they say. Annoyed by the effrontery of her stare, I snapped at her, demanding to know what was wrong.”
“And what did she say?” Chérie prompted.
“In her tiny little voice, full of wonder, she looked up at me and said, ‘Why, Monsieur Louis! Those are the most enormous feet I have ever seen! How ever do you walk with them?’”
Chérie laughed aloud, quickly covering her mouth with one hand. Louis pressed his thumb to his lips and smiled.
“Oh, you must have been mortified, Louis!”
“I was. But it was obvious she was making no commentary on my terribly ungraceful descent moments earlier. Yet I was all too aware of the irony and began laughing. I took her hand and we went back into the house.”
Chérie slipped her arm around his waist. “That is a wonderful memory, Louis!”
“And aren’t you clever for making me remember, my love.” He pressed her free hand to his lips. “Thank you.”
She shrugged. “We must make our own light, n’est-ce pas?” Smiling, she scanned the area to get her bearings.
They had been steadily wandering away from the river and without realizing it, were within sight of the whitewashed walls of the St. Louis Cemetery.
She regarded the thick walls solemnly, taking a step closer, seeming to drink in their very texture, and he thought he saw a shadow cross her blue-gray eyes.
“Show me, Louis,” Chérie said quietly.
“Why, my love? It’s just a grave.”
“I don’t know why,” she whispered, looking up at him suddenly. “But every night....”
There was a desperation in her voice that disturbed him. Louis reached for her, touching her cheek, her lustrous brown hair, her shoulder.
“It haunts you?”
She slowly nodded. “It makes no sense. Why should this place draw me so strongly?”
“Come,” Louis said. As they neared the gate, he heard the lock open. He had not done it. He glanced back at Chérie.
“Only me, my love,” she said, pushing the gate closed once they had stepped inside. “I’ve never been in such a cemetery.” She breathed deeply and crinkled her nose. “Yes, old death. I understand that now.”
Louis drew her through the little city of crypts with their peristyle roofs, marble alcoves littered with candle stubs and wilted flowers. Down narrow corridors and into the oldest section of the cemetery she followed him. He halted and pulled her gently into his arms.
“It’s only an empty tomb, Chérie,” he assured her. “Nothing more.”
“I know, Louis. But I must see it.”
“Then see what you shall see, my love.” He held her shoulders as he turned her around.
A startled gasp escaped her and she leaned to touch the old script, his name, Louis de Pointe du Lac. Her knees buckled and she sank to the ground before the tall crypt. Both hands against the marble, tracing the dates.
Her touch was delicate, almost as if she was stroking his flesh. She was mourning him! In a blinding flash, he knew she was mourning his mortal death. Not the false one etched into the marble, a death presumed when he had put Pointe du Lac to the torch in seventeen ninety-five. Her head bowed, forehead pressing against his crypt, and he saw great drops fall, splatter, and soak into the ground. Blood tears.
“Oh, dear God. Louis,” she softly moaned. It was not to him, but for him she interceded.
Her mind was opened to him and his breath caught, confronted with his own emotions, the loneliness he had not known she recognized. Such sorrow! The death that came before Lestat relieved him of his mortal life, giving up on living, abandoning the control that had been so dear to him. And the pain that had been his alone as he had forsaken his life, the total despair that no one could see, and no one had mourned. Until that moment.
Louis dropped to one knee and held her.
“Two hundred years,” she whispered, her sweet voice agonized. “More than two hundred years you’ve lived with this loneliness? How could you endure it?”
He could not answer her. How shallow it seemed to say that the mind adjusted and went on. How meaningless to glorify his capacity for pain. How very pointless! Louis said nothing, for he had endured nothing.
She rose slowly and held his face between her hands, thumbs moving gently along his temples.
“I have a bone to pick with Lestat. The enormity of his ego is no excuse for such disregard.”
Louis stood. “That feast will have to wait, my love.”
Chérie nodded and sighed deeply. “It would probably not be a satisfying meal at any rate.” She smiled.
How many more gifts was she to give him? His long fingers rested briefly against the tomb beside his own before he returned her smile and gazed up at the stars. His green eyes sparkled as he slid his arms around her waist, wishing them upward.
And the cemetery immediately fell away below them. Up they rose, above the city, the mist stinging their faces as they passed through a gathering cloud and into cooler air. Chérie held fast to him, her arms about his neck, letting Louis guide them as they drifted. Her eyes watched the stars grow brighter. Always looking ahead.
“Have you told Lestat how much you really love this?” she asked, her lips to his ear.
He shook his head, turning them suddenly, happily. Exerting himself against the air currents, they lost forward motion and seemed to hover. It reminded him of lying in the grass along the levee, still though not quiet.
“I don’t need to tell him, my love. He knows. He has always known. I was arrogant to think he was unaware of all this.” He spread his arms wide and the wind pushed them around gently.
Chérie let out a delighted laugh as she hung on tightly.
Louis glanced at the tiny lights below them and then back at Chérie, his face a question.
“Yes,” she said, kissing him quickly. “I suppose we should return. Daniel and Armand are certainly back by now. And I’m sure Lestat is waiting.”
“Let him wait,” Louis said, furrowing his brow playfully, though he began their descent. It seemed to him as one exceedingly high step, the wind rushing upward around them as the glow of the Quarter rose to engulf them. And they were at once standing outside their own gate, alighting faster than mortal eyes could detect, though none were in evidence.
The bolt rasped, the latch clacked, and the gate eased open.
Chérie smiled up at him and all but bounded through the gate, holding it wide for him and bowing grandly as he passed.
He laughed and, securing the gate, followed her into the courtyard, past the overflowing beds of jasmine and lantana. They stepped around opposite sides of the fountain, water flowing out of the cornucopia shell to splash around the feet of the stone nymph, lost in its silent contemplation, the guardian water lilies swayed by the eternal, rippling motion, and she came into his arms. He twirled her, turning to unheard music. She seemed happy.
“I am happy,” Chérie said aloud. “I would enjoy dancing with you all night. But right now, I believe there are two blood drinkers up there waiting for me.” She demurred. “You’ll save me the last dance?”
“Every night, my love.”
They mounted the curving iron stairs to the flat on the second floor.
Light shone under the back parlor’s closed doors, but they continued to his rooms. Daniel rose from the leather swivel chair in front of the computer as they entered Louis’s study. Lestat did not look up from the galleys.
“Passwords, Chérie?” he growled. “You put up passwords against us?”
She smiled sweetly and delicately held his chin as she kissed his cheek. “And you use none on that dinosaur of yours, mon père?” When he would have defended his computer, she held him off, covering his lips lightly with the fingers of one hand, unruffled by his fierce scowl. “No, no, it’s all right. Microprocessors are like anything else. We are locked in time with them as well, I suppose.”
Lestat’s blue-gray eyes seethed as she smiled and gently pushed the hair back from his face. And then he began to laugh.
“Oh, Chérie! Such children I have!” He abruptly checked his laughter and extended his tanned fingers to Daniel. “Now will you help him surmount the ramparts you have thrown up? Watching Louis is one of my favorite pastimes, I’ll admit, but we have work to do and he can’t even change the CD, ma petite.”
“I’ve gotten through three of them,” Daniel said. “Louis, Luis, Luigi...the pattern was not difficult to pick up.” He raised an eyebrow and leered. “Sort of a one-track mind, I’d say.”
She seemed to ignore him, running her fingers through her hair. “Well, I want to change before we get started.” She paused at the door and turned to Daniel. “One hint should be enough.” Chérie grinned. “All of my typos are spelled properly,” she said and left the room.
Daniel shook his head and let out a laugh, ashen strands falling into his face.
“I try every language in creation and I overlook the most obvious one.” He grinned at Lestat. “American.”
Louis laughed as Daniel typed. Louie.
“Of course, I’ll change them all before sunrise.” Chérie returned, wearing a teal cotton shirt over drawstring pants of identical design. Laundry marks were dyed onto the backs of both garments. She was pulling on a white cardigan, a rare concession to her vampiric body temperature.
“Scrubs!” Daniel said, grinning. “I haven’t seen a pair of scrubs in years.”
She shrugged. “Nobody wears them any more, but I got used to them at Berkeley.” She glared at her maker, as if daring him to say anything.
Lestat held up his hands innocently, but his eyes danced. He nodded at Daniel. “Now get my CD out of that thing, will you?”
Daniel pressed a button and, with a whir of servos, the tray slid out and he lifted the reflective disc. He turned it on his finger to read the title.
“The movie soundtrack?” It seemed amusing to him. “Where’s the box?”
“Top drawer,” Chérie said.
He pulled it open and retrieved the jewelbox, returning the disc to its proper place. He looked up at Chérie.
She nodded and held out a hand toward Lestat. “It’s his.”
“Which reminds me,” Louis said. He retrieved the compact discs from his pocket and handed the soundtrack to Chérie.
“Thank you, my love,” she said. She glanced at her maker but said nothing more.
Lestat’s lips curled into a smile.
Daniel was more interested in the other disc.
“What’s that one, Louis?”
“Something a little old, I’m afraid.” He held up the box.
Daniel recognized the cover and nodded. “Good album. Classic.” His brow furrowed. “You’ve never heard it, have you?”
Louis pressed his lips tightly together and shook his head. “No. I only learned of it tonight.” He smiled at Chérie.
“You really should keep up, Louis,” Lestat teased. “Even I knew about that, and I was six feet under at the time.”
Chérie had moved to stand behind him, pulling his blond curls back and tying them off with a green ribbon.
“Sure. And you called it to you like the moles and the kittens.” She giggled. “Come on, Lestat. At least keep it believable. You had already arisen when it came out.”
He whirled on her. “So I didn’t buy a copy for three years! Big deal! I was busy at the time, if you’ll remember. And even then I didn’t get it for his song.” He flicked a hand at Louis. “How often do you hear someone work battlements into a song, after all?”
Chérie smiled. “You know, that song always did make me think of you.” She peered over his broad shoulders as she rubbed them gently, at the notes he had scrawled on a legal pad. “You have the most lovely handwriting, mon père.”
He glanced up at her. “Merci, Chérie. Now, children, we must really get to work.” Lestat’s gaze shifted to Louis. “Are you going to stay and help?”
Louis held up a hand. “Thank you, but no.”
He bowed slightly, turned, and crossed the sitting room to his bedroom, half closing the doors behind him. Louis dropped the compact disc on the four-poster bed and stepped to his armoire. Removing his coat, he hung it carefully and pulled a bulky wool sweater from a drawer. He changed with minimal motions, ran a brush through his hair, and soon emerged, carrying the CD with him to the back parlor.
He heard a few notes sound from the harpsichord and he smiled. Louis had always loved the delicate, metallic music of the instrument and had hunted a long time to find one of exquisite craftsmanship, without modern manufacturing. Lestat, of course, had accused him of hopeless sentimentality, but Louis had merely smiled, knowing his maker delighted whenever he had shown the least interest in restoring the flat.
Louis pushed the doors wide and saw Armand seated at the instrument. He slowly crossed the pale red Persian carpet and approached a large armoire, which opened to reveal all manner of electronic devices. He pressed a master switch and indicator lights winked on throughout the dark cabinet. He inserted the compact disc, activated the player, and closed up the armoire. The music rose from the many speakers concealed about the room.
Armand had moved to the cluster of antique chairs and Louis joined him there, taking a seat close beside the auburn-haired vampire and crossing his long legs.
They sat quietly and listened to the song’s lilting pleading, of freeing those you love.
“It’s not quite jazz, is it?” Louis mused. “But it’s a far cry from Lestat’s rock music.”
Armand smiled. “New Age, my friend. Ironically enough. I prefer Jorge Strunz myself, to this Englishman.” His dark brown eyes filled with amusement. “Your song is not until near the end of the album,” he said, using Daniel’s term for the vinyl predecessor of the compact disc.
Louis laughed silently. “I am the last to hear of this song, I see.”
“Oh, I am certain there is a tribe in New Guinea who has not heard of it,” Armand said, his expression very serious, but teasing nonetheless.
Reaching out and touching Armand’s tanned face, Louis felt the warmth of his flesh. He had fed, very recently. The thirst for blood rose suddenly. Louis allowed it to suffuse his being a moment before pushing it away from his conscious thought.
This did not escape Armand’s attention. “You will go with me tomorrow night, Louis.” It was not a question.
Louis nodded and draped an arm along the back of the chair. “Yes, that is probably wise. I do not wish to be distracted just now.” A tiny laugh. “But you may wish to query Lestat. He has planned every other detail and I would not be surprised if he has thought of this, as well.”
Armand puzzled. “How long since you last fed?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Eight, nine months? Not since you tried to teach me once again, my patient friend.” Louis flipped his hair back over his shoulder and smiled apologetically. “It’s simply not my way, Armand. I must be more pragmatic about the enjoyment I get from my unsuspecting victims.” He seemed lost in his own thoughts for several long seconds and then slowly roused himself. “Without regard for who they are or what they have done, I can give my victims the pleasure of their lives at the moment of death.”
“You feel their ecstasy now, as well as your own,” his friend said, a question that was discreetly not a question.
Louis smiled. “Yes. Though I had always believed this was so, it is only with my last few victims that I have known this sublime pleasure, this...rapture.” His thirst rose again suddenly and he breathed deeply, forcing it away.
The music had changed to something dismal and faintly militaristic, the singer chanting about the futility of war. It was quite moving, artfully demanding recognition of the humanity on both sides.
Armand seemed lost in listening to the song, eyes closed and nodding every so often, and Louis enjoyed having the moment to watch his friend. Yes, it was these discussions with Armand he had missed perhaps most. While he had often found the pretense tedious, boring him almost literally to tears, there had never been a subject he could not raise with his friend. Armand always appeared keenly interested, giving no hint if it were otherwise, in even the most mundane topics.
Louis took his friend’s hand. “You’ve been here two nights and I’ve hardly had the opportunity to speak with you. Tell me how you and Daniel are doing.”
But Armand was examining the pale fingers surrounding his tanned hand. He ran his free hand over Louis’s ridged skin, pressing the unyielding flesh, hardened by the enormous infusion of Lestat’s blood two years earlier, the opalescence heightened by the continual sharing with Chérie.
“So beautiful,” Armand uttered and looked up. “But you should take some sun, Louis, as Maharet does.”
Louis withdrew his hand and slowly shook his head. “Perhaps if Chérie decides to do this, I will consider it. But I know the pain you shared with me.”
“I do not believe it would be as bad as that.”
“Perhaps not. I’m not going to do it just to find out, however. And the timing of such a thing would be more difficult than the Théâtre des Vampires.” He smiled. “Now tell me about our Daniel.”
Armand smiled. “Yes, wasn’t it delightful how they had me saving you in the film?”
“My hero,” Louis scoffed. “I found it more amusing that they had us wandering around after sunrise. Ludicrous.” He regarded the auburn-haired vampire suspiciously. “You keep ignoring me, my friend. You do not believe I have designs on Daniel, do you?”
“Don’t you?” The brown eyes had become hard.
Louis smiled. Questions within questions. He hadn’t done any real verbal sparring in two years, not since telling Lestat, in so many words, that he was too old for such foolishness. Armand, however, was a tempting challenge.
“Of course not,” he said. “Are you saying we’ve ruined him for you?” he teased.
A sharp laugh escaped Armand’s lips. “Do you think it is in your power to do so?”
“Perhaps not,” Louis admitted. “But tell me, my friend. Don’t you enjoy his confidence?”
Armand opened his mouth to speak, but Louis cut him off with a wave of his hand.
“His finer understanding of financial matters? The unabashed love he showers on you?” He smiled wickedly. “Ah! Or does it upset you that Daniel is now your slave only when he chooses?”
Armand was dumbfounded into silence.
Louis grinned and settled back in his chair. “Face it, Armand. You do not like losing your mastery over the boy. You enjoy being the puppetmaster.” His gaze softened. “But now you are freed from constantly working the strings. Let him perform for you, only you.”
“You truly do not want him for yourself?”
He shook his head and shrugged. “You were everything to him and he was lost without you. We only wanted to help him.” Louis sighed. “And you did not see his heart break when he heard your voice on the television. If you had, you would not question how much he is yours.”
Armand nodded slowly. “I have felt this from Daniel. But I have also felt his love for you.”
Louis smiled. “Hasn’t he always loved me, though? His first vampire? I’m afraid that is something we may never escape. I too was unable to shake some of the images he has of me.”
Murmuring his agreement, Armand suddenly touched Louis’s shoulder.
“This is your song.”
They sat quietly listening. He could feel Armand’s eyes studying him, but he tried to ignore that and focus on the sad lyrics, the morose quality of the melody. Louis smiled briefly when his hands were likened to those of a priest. And he laughed aloud when a wolf’s lonely howl echoed after the song’s end.
“The oboe is a nice touch in the refrain, and the saxophone responding to the singer.”
Armand scowled. “The oboe is synthesized, I believe. And do you really wish to critique the composition?”
Louis shook his head. “No, I suppose not.”
A crash of rain interrupted, the last song beginning.
Holding a finger to his lips, Armand whispered, “Listen and tell me who this brings to mind.”
He did as he was bidden. There was indeed some clever verbal imagery, as Lestat’s comment had alluded, but the prevailing theme was of putting up barriers and then finding oneself imprisoned behind them. He smiled.
“That’s Lestat,” he nodded. “Though from the copyright date, it’s probably vanity to presume so.”
“Have you read the liner notes?” Armand asked. “It attributes your book as the inspiration for your song.”
“But no mention of Lestat’s autobiography?”
Armand shook his head and rose. He crossed to the armoire and pressed a few buttons. His song again played.
Louis laughed quietly. Would they never grow tired of watching him? He closed his eyes and let the music fill his senses. Yes, the metre almost matched the pace of his walk in those days before Claudia. And the lyrics painted a picture more resigned than sad.
Retrieving the disc when the song ended, Armand placed it in its case and handed it to Louis.
“Thank you. It’s strange, Armand,” he said. “I knew when I agreed that Daniel would publish our interview, in San Francisco at least, and I was prepared for the exposure. But this.” He hefted the disc before slipping it into his pocket. “This is a surprise.”
“The affection he conveys?” Armand ventured.
Louis smiled. “Yes. I never despised my life, but I tried to tell my story as a warning.”
“It should not surprise you, Louis. You have never been good at deceiving anyone. Other than yourself.” The auburn-haired vampire lowered himself into his chair and leaned across his knees. “You are the most beautiful of us all and words cannot conceal that.”
Louis blushed and shook his head. “No, there is Chérie now.”
Armand smiled. “She is beautiful, yes, but her greatest beauty is her passion for you. It is your own beauty you see reflected in her face.”
“Enough!” Louis said, holding up his hands in defeat. “I will never agree and I’m powerless to win this argument against you.” He laughed. “How is the penthouse? Comfortable enough for you?”
“Yes,” Armand nodded. “Since I took down all those abstracts, it has been quite pleasant. What is the appeal of Mondrian, anyway?”
Louis shrugged. “You ask the wrong vampire. You know I favor the impressionists.” He rose and wandered about the room. “As does Chérie, thankfully, though she has an attachment to photographs of waterfalls.” A laugh escaped him and he turned to Armand. “And then there is her room that contains nothing but framed film posters.” He shook his head. “Someday, perhaps, I’ll understand.”
“Does she still collect them?”
“Oh, yes. She put up a new one just before we came here. I had asked her to move the one from our movie. There was the actor pretending to be Lestat, glaring out at me in the bedroom.” He grinned. “It was too distracting.”
“I can see how that might be,” Armand said, suddenly standing. “There is something I must attend to. Tell Daniel not to wait for me. I may not be able to return before tomorrow night.”
Louis furrowed his brow. “Is everything all right?”
The auburn-haired vampire paused at the door. “Yes. There is nothing to worry about. Make certain Daniel does not worry.”
He nodded and Armand stepped from the room, only to pop back in almost immediately. He held up a finger sternly.
“Nothing more,” he admonished.
Louis laughed and laid a hand over his breast. “Nothing more,” he echoed, bowing slightly. He heard Armand pass out of the townhouse and shook his head. What ever could that be about?
He flicked off the electrical switch and the chandeliers went out. Louis sighed. Blessed darkness. He had no aversion to the light, in fact he loved it at times. But it was never as magical to his vampire eyes as the dark. He scooped up a candlestick between two fingers as he slowly crossed the room. Or the wavering light of a single candle.
He felt the heat gather within him and the wick instantly caught. A smile spread across his face and his eyes danced as he cupped the flame and sat at the harpsichord. From his very first night as a vampire, this simple pleasure had never ceased to fascinate him. The blue-white brilliance as it wrapped itself around the glowing red wick. The constantly changing shades of orange and yellow, each gradation distinct and shimmering like satin.
Perhaps this is what Chérie saw in waterfalls, as well, the ever-changing sameness.
He set the candlestick atop the instrument and let his fingers slowly cross the keys, picking out notes here and there. He had never been a player, really, though his vampiric abilities allowed him to mimic perfectly any song he heard. But knowing he was not creating anything prevented him from taking any pride in his playing. He simply loved the sound of the instrument. He tapped out the refrain of his song, pausing and backtracking occasionally to correct a note. Louis smiled. It matched his natural rhythm remarkably, though the tinny, staccato quality of the harpsichord changed the tone rather dramatically.
“That’s beautiful, Louis.”
He started and turned his head to see Chérie standing at his shoulder, her eyes soft and shimmering in the candlelight. He smiled.
“It’s just a song,” he said, his voice hushed. “I cannot take credit for its beauty.”
“For that song you can, my love.” She sat beside him, facing the room. “It was of your beauty he wrote.” She smiled. “For once, the credit is irrefutably yours.”
He longed to hold her, to kiss her silky lips, but the longing was itself intoxicating. He contented himself with running his fingers gently over her cheek, the candlelight gathering in her iridescent flesh. Glowing.
“First Armand, and now you. I do not see myself as you see me, and I’d much rather gaze upon you.”
“Have you tried, Louis? To see as we see?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oedipus before the glass?”
“As you live and breathe.”
“Zut,” he muttered, his expression ashen.
Chérie giggled. “Yes, Lestat told us of the little incident on the balcony.” She leaned over to kiss his cheek, but he turned quickly, pressing his lips to hers, wrapping his arms around her, and drawing her onto his lap. His hunger rose again and he pulled away slowly.
“I’m sorry, my love. Lestat was throwing that idiotic ‘living legend’ remark in my face again and, well....” His cheeks flushed.
She grinned. “Well, you certainly shook him up. He may never stop laughing.”
“Good. Then he can’t repeat it.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that,” she said sympathetically. “I doubt you’ll ever live this one down. At least he’s not writing a book just now, so you’re probably safe from that.”
Louis swallowed hard. “But he is working on a book, my book.”
Chérie emphatically shook her head. “No. There’s no way he can slip that in. It has no tie to the story.”
“And his foreword?”
“These are the final galleys, Louis. Everything is in there and only typos have been changed since you did your read-through. And we still have sign-off on the blue lines, which are from an actual test printing. Relax!”
“Yes, please relax,” Lestat said from the door. He strode over and squeezed Louis’s shoulder. “I’ll save it for my next book, if I ever write one.” He leaned down, his lips against Louis’s ear. “I’ll lie, of course, and you’ll come off flippant and whiny, as usual,” he whispered.
Louis groaned. “Come on, Lestat. Haven’t we moved past that?”
His maker nodded. “For now. But I’m sure you’ll do something to piss me off between now and then.”
“Play nice, you two!” Chérie scolded, climbing off Louis’s lap.
“As you wish, my love.” Louis tipped his head, puzzled. “But I thought you would be working until dawn. Why are you both out so early?” He furrowed his brow. “You’re not making Daniel do all the work, are you?”
“And why not?” Lestat asked. “His name goes on the royalty checks, so why shouldn’t he package up the galleys?”
“And run them up to the shipping office,” Daniel grumbled as he entered, a cardboard box under his arm. “Where’s Armand?”
Louis swiveled on the bench and rose. “He said he had something to attend to but didn’t say what.”
“Maybe I should wait for him.”
“No. He said he might not make it back until tomorrow.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, Daniel. We were talking and he jumped up as if he’d forgotten something.”
Daniel nodded and started for the door. “Well, I’d better get this out to the airport.”
“Wait! I’ll give you a ride,” Lestat said, trotting to catch up with the young vampire. “Do you have gloves? You’ll need them.”
“Your car has a heater, doesn’t it?” Daniel asked.
“Car? No. No car. Scoot.” Lestat grinned and turned up his collar. He slapped a pair of leather gloves across Daniel’s chest. “Here, use these.”
“Scoot?” Daniel glanced back at Louis. “A motorcycle?”
“Harley-Davidson,” Lestat corrected.
Louis smiled and waved. “Don’t worry!”
Chérie shook her head and laughed when they had gone. “I hope he survives.”
“I’m certain he will,” Louis said, walking to the armoire. He opened an interior compartment and selected a compact disc. As the music filled the room, he crossed and stood before Chérie.
She took his extended hand and he guided her to the middle of the room.
“As I recall, I owe mademoiselle a dance,” he said, bowing, drawing her close, and placing his free hand gently in the small of her back.
Panic filled her face. “I don’t...they haven’t taught ballroom dancing in a long time, Louis.”
He smiled down into her frightened eyes and pulled her a little closer. “Like this then. Take tiny steps, three or four if you like, and you’ll be fine. It comes quickly.” Removing his hand from her back momentarily, he guided her free hand to his shoulder. “There.”
As Louis led them around the floor, Chérie’s lips parted and she glanced down at their feet.
“Up, my love. Keep your eyes up. You do not need to think about your feet when you walk beside me. It is the same now.” He smiled. “We are only walking in circles.”
She laughed and it was music to him. Even in her apprehension, her blue-gray eyes were filled with trust. He turned her gently and her eyes grew wide, pleased when her feet didn’t falter. Slowly, he increased their pace and gave her more room to maneuver. By the time the piece finished, she had the steps mastered and curtsied in her scrubs in response to his bow.
“Again,” she said, delighted, as the next piece began.
“Never two in a row, my love,” Louis instructed as he led her to a chair. “This is New Orleans, after all, and these traditions are still practiced.”
“And I am indeed fortunate to have a true gentleman teach me these things.” Chérie smiled and beckoned him into the chair beside her. “Really, Louis. I’d be lost without you. All I know of manners and Southern traditions are what I’ve read in books. Beyond keeping our elbows off the table, which is more or less moot at this point, not much is taught. Now, shunning two consecutive dances is easy to understand. It’s unseemly to come off the dance floor sweating.” She shrugged.
“Correct,” Louis said, smiling. “A lady should not be seen perspiring. And ignoring this shows a lack of discerning thought, a preference for frivolity and one’s own needs.” He laughed.
Chérie smiled, puzzled. “What is it?”
“I haven’t done this since I taught Claudia.” He smiled. “Lestat complained endlessly, but he was always proud of her.”
“Good memories?”
“Oh, yes.” Louis sighed and then clapped his hands together. “This doesn’t need to be so formal. Why don’t you go change into a dress? Something casual, I’m only in a sweater after all. And heels, so you can get used to dancing in them.” He smiled and raised an eyebrow. “I will make you dance at your wedding, you realize.”
“Oh merde,” she muttered, and stood. “I am glad I shaved my legs that last day.” She touched his shoulder quickly and scurried from the room.
Louis laughed. He had been terribly remiss in preparing her for her first meeting with Lestat, two years earlier. But she’d known what she was getting into and had made sure her hair was right and even her nails, which she’d later confided were usually at odd lengths, broken on her keyboard. She had been thrilled when she had lost weight, citing the loss of something she called “comfort foods,” which he didn’t pretend to understand. Her shape, though slighter, was the same, for which he was glad.
He strolled to the armoire and fed the changer several compact discs, selections he suspected Lestat would make. He might as well prepare her for the worst. He turned as he heard her step back into the parlor.
Chérie had slipped into a simple black dress of straight lines, modest neckline, and no sleeves. And matching pumps. She walked toward him and Louis sighed. When she came within reach, she crooked a finger under his chin, closing his mouth.
“Monsieur Louis! You’ll catch flies,” she teased. “I see I must wear this more often.”
“You look stunning, Chérie,” he said.
“Merci, merci beaucoup,” she said. “And what are you packing the changer with?” She scanned the discs and clucked her tongue. “Lestat’s favorites? But you forgot one!”
She pulled another disc from the racks.
“‘The Vampire Lestat?’ I don’t think he will, not with this group. Even he only rarely listens to it.” Louis shook his head. “There are too many bad feelings from that time. He wouldn’t have the--”
“Audacity? Of course, he would. And if I must be prepared for the worst, so must you.” She grinned and wiggled the disc until he took it and placed it in the changer as well.
“You win, my love,” Louis said. He set the changer to play randomly and extended his hand. “May I have this dance?”
“For the rest of my life,” she whispered, taking his hand.
Louis breathed a sigh of relief when a waltz began. He turned her and her feet remembered. He smiled.
“Very good, Chérie.” He quickly brought them up to full speed, turning gracefully with the music as they made their way around the room.
“Now, to be doing this properly, I should be mirroring your steps, is that right?” Chérie asked, her eyes locked to his.
“To some extent, yes,” he said. “There will be times when you cannot, but you will recognize those. Think....” He grinned. “Think Fred and Ginger.”
“Oh, honey,” she quietly cried, her voice taking on an urban quality. “Fred Astaire could only wish he moved as gracefully as you.”
“Such flattery.” Louis laughed aloud. She had a talent for dialects, switching from Scottish to British to Latin at will. She knew the difference between Georgia and Tennessee, Brooklyn and Rhode Island, claiming it was due to years of working by telephone.
“Truth,” she said, looking up at him with so much love he nearly wept. “The honest-to-God truth.”
The piece ended and he pulled her against him, drawing her hand around his back, freeing his hand to hold her face as he kissed her.
“I love you, Chérie.”
“And I love you.”
As they sat, another piece began. Her brow furrowed, puzzled but with recognition.
“A tarantella,” he prompted. “Faster, more lively than the waltz, but nearly identical. In fact, some variation on the waltz suits most of the European composers.”
She laughed quietly. “I can imagine you at some ball, all the young ladies swooning at your feet for a dance.”
“Oh, dear Lord,” he said, his expression lighting. He shook his head. “If they were, I was unaware of it. I don’t remember a soirée or ball where I didn’t dance, of course, but that’s simply what you did then. There was an entire season set aside for it.”
Chérie raised an eyebrow. “And the unseasonal balls?” Her smile widened when he blushed. “Don’t look so shocked! I’ve read enough torrid romances to know they existed.”
“Yes, but not when I was mortal. Later, and by then they had little bearing on me, other than they were a favorite hunting ground for Lestat.”
“Of course.” She looked somewhat embarrassed. “My sense of the history is atrocious, I’m afraid. You even told Daniel of the differences.” She furrowed her brow and stared at her hands in her lap.
“What, my love? Truly, you may ask me anything, regardless of how I might blush.” He lifted her chin and smiled warmly.
Chérie’s gaze was sad as she searched his eyes. “You owned slaves, Louis.” She looked away. “It has been very difficult to reconcile that the Louis I love so completely began life as a slaveowner.”
Another piece had begun, but he ignored it and settled back in his chair.
“No, I began life as a child, Chérie. And children then obeyed, without question, or they were beat. I was never beaten. Yes, I grew up playing with the black children and I learned of lovemaking in the slave cabins, but as the eldest, I was prepared from my earliest memories to own it all.”
A tear streamed down Chérie’s face and he handed her his handkerchief. He longed to hold her but did not. That must be her choice. He continued as before.
“Whatever moral questions I may have pondered, I don’t recall. The immediacy of balancing one year’s crop against the next took precedence over everything. Every life on the plantations depended upon it, and every life that fed on its fortunes. Slaves as well as freemen must be fed.”
“Like cattle,” she whispered.
“To some extent,” he conceded. “But more like vital tools, that if left unattended would rust and break. Our slaves were never wont for food, their clothes never neglected, and their quarters were well-maintained. This was not generosity my part, make no mistake. It was the prudent protection of an investment. As paltry as the sums sound today, slaves were an enormous expense then, and replacing them, costly. To let even one weaken unnecessarily was unthinkable.”
“And Lestat killed your overseer.”
“Yes, a bright, intelligent man despite any doubts I may have harbored from time to time.” He laughed wryly. “It was probably the kindest thing Lestat has ever done. No, think on it,” he said when she looked puzzled. “Here was this invaluable part of the plantations, someone I could scarcely afford to be without, and Lestat takes him without a care. How much more could he have shown me of what my life would become? He could not have made it any clearer. He knew I valued the lives of my slaves, and the freemen in my employ, higher than that of any maid he could have lured from the grandest ball.”
“He gave you understanding.”
Louis smiled. “Yes, with that one act he let me understand the depth of the changes my life would undergo. And I embraced this freedom from responsibility. I didn’t care one whit about getting away from being a slaveowner. That was but one of my responsibilities. They would become someone else’s slaves.”
He sighed. “I can’t tell you there weren’t beatings on Pointe du Lac, my love, nor can I say that I didn’t barter with human lives. I ordered these things and conducted such business with my own hands.” He stared at his long, hard fingers. “Do I regret that these things were necessary? With what I know now, certainly. Do I think I could have changed the way things were? Not for a moment.”
They sat quietly, neither speaking, until the piece ended and one of Lestat’s songs began, his requiem to his mother.
Chérie rose slowly and stood before him.
“Dance with me, Louis,” she said quietly.
Gently, he gained his feet, feeling as if he towered over her. She was suddenly so delicate, so seemingly fragile, yet he knew she was not. Still, he did not touch her. Was she smiling?
“Like this,” she said, slipping her left hand into his right, drawing it slowly to her shoulder, and holding it there. “Like the waltz but much closer, so I might feel the beating of your heart.” She slipped her right arm about his waist and leaned against his chest. “Hold me, Louis. Please.”
He raised his left hand and as his fingers touched her back, she sighed and drew him closer, and he knew what he had needed to know. That she could still love him despite what he had been, an abhorrent thing in the current age.
Louis pressed his lips to the top of her head and then leaned his cheek there, relieved. Their feet barely moved with the music, ignoring their maker’s frantic wailing and following a tender undercurrent in the harmony. Slow dancing. He smiled as he recalled the term. How very apt!
His hand crossed her smooth back, fingers trailing upward until he grasped the roundness of her shoulder. She felt snug in his arms as he pulled her back, dropping his other hand to encircle her waist. Her face turned up to meet his, eyes tear-stained and warm, and his mouth closed over her mouth, his hair tumbling forward, separating them from the world. Breathing as she breathed, loving her.
Within the veil of darkness, he opened his eyes onto hers and saw them shimmering as a rain-cleaned sky. Oh, for one brief moment, he remembered the sky, or perhaps only an image from a movie. He smiled, lips still pressed to hers. It didn’t matter where, the color was hers.
He felt her return his smile, her eyes sparkling in amusement. As their lips parted, they laughed quietly.
“Blue sky,” he admitted, raising an eyebrow slightly.
“Green grass,” she said.
“Amazing,” he whispered and she nodded her agreement.
“Nauseating, is more like it,” came Lestat’s voice.
They turned toward the armoire to see that their maker had stopped the changer. Louis drew Chérie upright and pushed the hair out of his face.
“Back so soon, Lestat?”
Lestat unfurled two fingers at him delicately. “Don’t sound so annoyed, Louis.” His boots thudded softly as he approached them, taking Chérie gently by the hand and turning her. “Spectacular, ma chère. The Dark Gift certainly agrees with you. I don’t know why I didn’t notice until now. Perhaps it was the elegant lines of the dress as Louis had you bent over backwards.” He made an impatient gesture. “No matter.”
“You are interrupting, you know.”
Their maker glanced back at Louis. “Am I? Past table silver and up to dancing already, are you?” He winked at Chérie.
“I know my table silver quite well, thank you,” she said. “Now stop being such a rascal! Louis is a marvelous dancer.”
“Rascal, is it?” Lestat raised an eyebrow. “I would have thought I’d warranted more than that by now. And as for Louis’s dancing, I’ve hardly ever had the pleasure. You may want a second opinion, ma petite.” He bent, kissing her hand and looking up at her from under his brow. “Will I do?”
Chérie smiled wickedly. “An opinion from the Provinces might be amusing,” she teased, extricating herself and wandering to stand beside Louis. “All my dances are yours, my love. What do you say? Should I hold out for Armand?”
“Armand!” Lestat spat before he could stop himself. His gaze narrowed. “Better to seek David’s opinion if not mine!”
“No, David will not arrive before tomorrow and Armand may not return before then,” Louis said, thoughtfully. “Best not to wait until the last minute. Take his offer.” He smiled broadly and kissed her cheek, whispering, “Brava, Chérie.”
“Merci,” she said brightly and stepped quickly back to Lestat. She laid both hands on his crossed arms and peered up at him, into his indignant frown. “S’il vous plaît, mon père. Dansez avec moi.” He seemed unmoved. She smiled sweetly. “S’il vous plaît, mon cher Lestat.”
Amusement crept into his scowl. “You are ruthless, ma chère.”
“Would you accept anything less from the daughter of such a fine Créole father?”
Lestat, eyes alight, snapped his fingers at the changer. His lips parted, delighted when the Bach filtered through the speakers.
“Insufferable show-off!” Chérie scolded, laughing.
“Aren’t I, though?” He grinned smugly as he kissed her hand and bowed before taking her in his arms and gliding her smoothly around the room.
Louis sat and watched, smiling as she flawlessly followed their maker’s lead, picking up Lestat’s little flourishes and remembering them when the music came around again. At one turn, she glanced up and held his eye, a secret smile.
Lestat whispered to her continually, the music loud enough to block Louis’s hearing, and she would smile and laugh and whisper a response. They moved well together, all in black. Lestat’s shirt sleek and billowy, freed of the leather jacket. Her long white legs effortlessly matching her maker’s steps.
As the piece ended, he bowed to Chérie’s curtsy and guided her to Louis, placing her hand in her betrothed’s.
“Delightful, Chérie,” he said. “And you truly had never danced like this before tonight?”
She shook her head. “Not a step.”
Lestat clapped Louis on the shoulder. “Marvelous, Louis! Exquisite.” He shook his hair free and sighed deeply.
Louis smiled. “And you, Lestat? When did you last dance?”
“Like this? Mon Dieu!” Their maker splayed one hand across his chest and puzzled a moment. “Dancing had changed when I’d arisen. And before that, well,” he gestured to the air, “let’s say I wasn’t inclined toward dancing. No,” he said, sucking in his breath, “I haven’t danced like this since...Claudia.” Lestat waved a hand at the carpet and turned away from them.
Chérie’s eyes grew wide. “That was in this room? Wasn’t that buried in one of your books?”
Lestat nodded, his back to them as he retrieved the discs from the changer.
When she would have gone to Lestat, Louis held her hand and shook his head gently. But she raised a finger and freed her hand. Her heels tapped lightly as she approached her maker and gingerly laid her hands on his shoulders.
He shook his head. “Don’t, Chérie.”
“If that is your choice, Lestat,” she said softly. “But I have also read in your books how often you have yearned for such solace. You have only to turn and claim it.”
His shoulders rose and fell with his breathing.
“You passed it off, you were only making a plaything for Louis. But that’s the lie, isn’t it? You’d made three fledglings and still you hungered. To be a father.”
“Stop it, Chérie,” Lestat said.
She ignored the tension in his voice. “A human desire, but I’ve felt its power. She was a true daughter to you, the only child you’ll ever have.”
“Enough!” he snapped. “You do not know, Chérie!”
“But I do,” Louis said quietly at his side.
Lestat turned, hair tumbling into his eyes.
“I know, Lestat.” Louis reached out and gently pushed the hair away from the fierce blue-gray eyes, so determined they seemed to hold onto this anger. But his maker did not protest when Louis drew him against his shoulder, into his arms, and calmly smoothed those lustrous yellow curls. He sighed as Lestat’s arms crossed his back and clung to him. He rested his cheek against the blond head and held his maker tighter as the sobs shook him. It was a long time before Lestat could speak.
“Why, Louis?” he whispered. “How could she do that to me?”
Louis shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. I cannot conceive of anyone wishing you dead. Not then, and more so now.” Tears gathered in his eyes. “I failed you so completely,” he said, the words so low they were very nearly inaudible.
“Children rebel against their parents, Louis,” Chérie said, quietly. “Most leave it at wild clothing and harsh words. But Claudia was a killer.”
“A splendid, cunning killer,” Lestat whispered.
“A child, demanding more,” Louis said. “Regret, any human feeling, was alien to her. Lestat, your love for her was just as foreign. When I could no longer stand her presence, she knew only that whatever had held us together was gone. Nothing more. She spoke of love but it meant no more to her than words she recognized were dear to us.”
Chérie ran her hand over her maker’s shoulder. “Lestat, in this one thing you were powerless. There was no amount of love you could have lavished upon her to give her understanding.” She smiled lovingly and leaned close to him. “I could give you a lesson in genetics and human development, if you like.”
Louis felt it long before the laughter escaped Lestat’s lips.
“No,” he said, drying his eyes before facing her. “Thank you, but no.”
Chérie regarded him solemnly. “You cannot be a father, Lestat. Not really. If it were but a rule, you know you would have broken it.”
He nodded and cupped her cheek in his hand. “I know.”
She caressed his hand and kissed his palm. “But I will always love you as my father. And as my brother. And as my dearest friend and lover.” Her eyes shifted to Louis and she smiled. “Just as Louis loves you.”
Lestat glanced over his shoulder at Louis and leaned against him, peacefully, for the barest moment. The next he was backing away, wagging a finger at them both.
“You’re ruining me, you realize!” He balled both hands into fists. “I can’t believe I’m actually listening to such simpering sweetness!”
Louis laughed. “Enjoy it, Lestat! How long can it last before you find some way to endanger Western civilization again?”
Lestat came scurrying back, ignoring Louis and taking Chérie’s hand, sighing. “Thank you for the dance, ma petite. It was magnificent!” He pressed his lips quickly to her fingers. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a burning need to go pull the shell off a snail. Pour table salt over it. Watch it bubble.”
And he was gone.
Chérie leaned against Louis, both laughing quietly.
“He exhausts me!” she said.
Louis nodded. “He does have that effect.” He slid his arm around her waist. “Thank you. I have watched him agonize over Claudia dozens of times but could never comfort him until tonight.”
“It was time,” she said, giving her shoulders a shrug. “You know I have an hour with him every evening before you rise.”
“And exactly how was I supposed to know that?”
“Good point,” she admitted. “Oh, don’t look so worried! We usually just sit and watch the sunset. But sometimes he’ll just start talking. A striking color in the sky may remind him of something and he’ll go on and on about it.” She smiled. “It’s actually quite lovely to sit and listen to him ramble like that.”
Louis’s eyes receded from the room, misting. “Yes, it is.”
“Well, I’ve been documenting these little chats.” She shrugged. “For my own reference, mainly. I want to index your books so I can get all these ragged details straight. But then I noticed Claudia’s name coming up more and more. Especially after we came down with Glennie and everything.”
“Another C-sandwich,” Louis murmured.
“Huh?”
He smiled. “It was something Daniel said. Two L’s surrounding a C, and he mentioned a filled cookie.”
Chérie nodded. “Right. I know the things. I’ll point them out sometime. Essentially, they consist of two silver-dollar-sized chocolate biscuits held together with a mixture of refined sugar and shortening.”
He made a face.
“Yes, revolting, I agree,” she said, smiling and crinkling her nose. “Even when I was mortal, I couldn’t stomach the things.”
Louis knitted his brow. “But wasn’t chocolate one of your comfort foods?”
She absently twisted the ring on her left hand. “Yes, but I was a discriminating compulsive. Delicate Swiss and Belgian chocolates. Sublime French truffles. Dutch cocoa. Not this American trash.”
He laughed without making a sound.
Her cheeks flushed and she squeezed his hand. “Yes, I was a chocolate snob, I suppose. And that’s more than you want to hear about my mortal obsessions.”
Louis shook his head playfully and kissed the tip of her nose. “Talk all you like, my love. Your mortal memories will fade far too quickly and I want to hear them all.”
Hurriedly, she backtracked. “So why did Daniel bring this up?”
“He was wondering if any rivalries had arisen between Lestat and myself.” Louis pressed his thumbs to his lips and his eyes sparkled with amusement.
“Over me?” Chérie exclaimed in disbelief. “Good Lord! Or between you and I over Lestat? Or Lestat and I over you!” She turned and tucked her warm brown hair behind one ear. “Wait. This may sound ridiculous to me--”
“As it does to me,” Louis quickly agreed.
“But is it so absurd to Lestat?” She crossed her arms. “He has more than a bit of the coven master in him.”
“Yes, he believes we are his. His children, his coven. But we have let him know we do not object to his believing so.” He tipped his head, lost in his own thoughts. “No, Chérie. I do not see any rivalries to be concerned over.”
She nodded slowly, walked to the armoire, and put a disc in the player. The satiny blending of violin, strings, and harpsichord filled the parlor. She noticed his gaze on her.
“Thinking music,” she said, shrugging.
Louis smiled. “Haydn’s Double Concerto for Violin and Harpsichord. How long have you had this?”
“Not very. I couldn’t tell Bach from Haydn from Mozart, I’m afraid. And I knew I’d better learn before Lestat brought in tutors.” Chérie let out a single laugh and shrugged. “This was the first disc I bought. Haydn and harpsichord, after all. Who could resist? Call it beginner’s luck, but I love this more than any other I’ve purchased.”
Inviting her to sit with him, he mused quietly. “My sister often played a Haydn harpsichord concerto. It was very popular, as I recall. I loved listening to her play.”
“The Harpsichord Concerto in D major?” Chérie asked.
Louis looked up, puzzled. “Yes, that is the one. How did you know this?”
Her voice was hushed. “It’s on the disc.” She shook her head and studied the carpet. “This is too weird, Louis.”
He regarded her quizzically, half-smiling as he ran his long finger over his brow. “And I thought you believed in karma.” His eyes softened as his smile widened. “What do you always tell me? Relax, Chérie! Terrible things will happen of their own accord and when they do we will confront them together. For now, we are happy and we can enjoy this time.”
She laughed, eclipsing the recorded music with her own. “And I plan to. But, Louis. Don’t you ever wonder when the other shoe is going to drop?”
“Worry about how long it can last, as Lestat keeps asking?” He shook his head. “No, not really. Time is different for me, two years but an instant. I can’t help thinking we could easily have a hundred years or more of this.”
He smiled as her eyes grew wide, at once filled with pleasure and astonishment. Time for her would remain disorienting for decades yet.
“‘To feel this much satisfaction is to burn.’” Chérie pushed her hair back over her shoulders. “I think I’m feeling a hint of what Lestat meant by that.”
Louis covered her hand with his. “Despite still being for the most part within my mortal lifetime, and possessing an admittedly dreary outlook,” he smiled, “we were happy for sixty-five years, Lestat and Claudia and I.”
“And you think you can recapture this with me?” she blurted.
He laughed aloud. “Mon Dieu, no!” So here was her secret fear. Louis regarded her seriously. “No, my love. I do not see you as a mature version of Claudia. I wish you could know just how differently I feel about you, how different it was then, that I was skilled enough to show you.” He sighed.
Her eyes seemed fixed on something that was not there. “I suppose I have no choice but to take your word.” She turned and held his gaze. “I do trust you completely, my love. But part of me wants to know.”
Louis nodded. “I understand. Similarities are unavoidable, Chérie, because Lestat and I cannot help remembering. While the three of us then were happy, both Lestat and I knew there was something wrong, that this cloud of doom hovered. Your other shoe, waiting to drop.” Louis smiled softly. “The three of us now are simply happy. And in an utterly new way. Neither Lestat nor I harbor any apprehension that I can determine. This is right.” He searched her eyes. “At least for us. I cannot speak for you, of course. I am not stuck in the middle, smeared with shortening.”
“A pleasant image.” Chérie smiled and took his hand, studying his long fingers. “Lestat wrote so vividly of the wall that fell between maker and fledgling that I was taken completely off guard by the power of the connection I felt with him.” She shook her head. “He’s inside me, you know? Feeling as I feel. And when I touch him, it’s eerier still, as if I know what he feels. Almost a primal memory of his blood shaping me, the intimacy of the act, his giving the Dark Gift. Lestat poured everything he had into me and it’s as if he fed me his very heart.” She smiled in amazement. “He is my father. Every time I feel my heartbeat, I feel him. I cannot imagine being apart from Lestat.”
Louis saw the tiny, almost embarrassed shake of her head and a smile grew on his lips. “I feel him within me as you do, more so now than ever before. Yet he and I fought this connection for centuries, as mortal father and son might, battling a mortal dependency, and I hated it.” He squeezed her hand. “I have lived apart from him, Chérie, and the isolation is smothering. I can no longer be his slave, bowing to his every whim, but I never want to be separated from Lestat again. Not now that he and I have realized we can celebrate this bond.”
Chérie nodded slowly, understanding lighting her eyes. “Yes. It doesn’t destroy who we are, does it?” She quickly kissed his hand. “Or how complete you and I are together? That’s the fear, the loss of individuality.” She laughed. “Oh, Louis! We are happy, aren’t we? All three of us, together?”
Louis laughed. “I believe so, my love.”
Sadness suddenly flooded her eyes. “It will be difficult to leave him,” she said quietly.
“Yes,” he said. “I do not look forward to that moment and will admittedly miss his company. Even so, I long to spend time alone with you.”
She was smiling as he rose. He tossed his hair back away from his face and reached for her hands. As she gave them to him, he saw her eyes on his throat, and the predatory look they all got cloud her gaze. Louis drew her to her feet and into his arms, nuzzling his cheek to hers.
“I feel it as well. Let it build, my love.” His lips trailed across her face until they found hers. “For our wedding night,” he murmured, tasting those silky lips.
“Yes,” she whispered, her fingers entangled in his hair, her body pressing to him with a passion he had known in no other lover. He lifted her from the floor, held fast in his arms, and turned her lightly before setting her back on her feet.
Louis let the shimmering chocolate of her hair, his obsession now, run through his fingers before slipping a hand into his pocket.
“The night is almost ended, Chérie, but I believe there is time for a last dance.” He withdrew the compact disc and smiled.
He interrupted the Haydn symphony that had been playing and replaced the discs. No music sounded, however, as his arms reclaimed her. She glanced at the player and back to him.
Louis closed his eyes, envisioning the player’s controls perfectly. As his lids rose, his green eyes blazed and the song, his song, began.
Chérie broke into a fit of laughter. “So! There is a little competition between you two.”
He laughed and furrowed his brow playfully. “Of course. But it is only, how do you say? A guy thing.” He gave her a quick, happy turn before settling into a slow rhythm, pulling her tight against his chest as the song wove its quiet spell.
His memory filled with the lush scents of the Quarter, the crush of brocade and lace, the warm flicker of the gaslights and he gave this vision to her. He felt her breath catch through his thick sweater.
“This is my New Orleans,” he whispered.
“Oh, Louis,” she said in quiet awe.
“This is how I feel when we walk the Quarter, even now.”
They danced slowly, their minds leading their feet over damp flagstones, under intricate wrought-iron rails, and past fragrant gardens.
The song faded and before the next could begin, the disc ejected. Chérie on his arm, he retrieved the disc and pressed the button that darkened the armoire. They circled to the harpsichord and he held the candlestick before them as they left the back parlor and walked silently along the dark hallway, wallpaper glistening in the candlelight.
She motioned for him to continue as she disappeared into his study.
Stepping into his bedroom, Louis set the candlestick on a table and began removing the pillows from atop the wide walnut chest, low against one wall. The chest was a recent addition to his rooms and its wood had the warm luster of the oil carefully rubbed into its surfaces. For all appearances, it served only as a seat from which to remove his boots. Indeed, he sat and used it for this purpose.
The interior bolts slid open and then, touching the concealed release, he lifted the heavy lid, revealing the thick lining in shimmering deep blue silk. He had turned and was opening his armoire when Chérie entered.
“Oh, don’t change,” she said. “I want to fall asleep with you smelling as you do now.”
He laughed silently. “As you wish, my love. What do you have there?” His long fingers took the stationery from her hands.
“Just a little something,” she said coyly.
Louis read the note aloud. “‘Kiss your children. Tell them you love them. And have all the wonderful dreams they wish for you.’” He smiled.
“Well, don’t you think he watches us as we sleep?” she asked.
“Oh, I have no doubt of it,” Louis said. “Do you have a pin?”
She held up a bronzed safety pin and smiled.
He helped her out of her pumps and they descended into the pillowy blueness. She pinned the note to his sweater and snuggled in against him as he pulled the lid closed. They kissed and laughed quietly until Death’s sleep held them, locked motionless in each other’s arms.
They could not hear when several minutes later the bolts again slid back and the lid lifted, dim candlelight stealing in to highlight their peaceful faces. They could not see as a delicate hand smoothed the note and a sigh escaped its owner’s lips. They could not feel when the blond head moved close over theirs, the determined lips pressing to each in turn.
Nor could they hear the quaver in their maker’s faint French accent as the lid slowly closed.
“I love you.”
Visitors (since Thursday, October 26, 2006):
Established: Tuesday, November 10, 1998
Last modified: Saturday, November 1, 2008
Your comments are welcome! Please use the Feedback form provided.
Page design: Copyright © 2006