The Tale of the Body Thief (The Vampire Chronicles 4)

I watched him as he put on, over his pajamas, a long black dressing gown with black velvet lapels and sash that made him look very much like a cleric, though it was far too ornately patterned to be a cassock, especially with the white silk scarf tucked in at the neck.

Then he made his way down the stairs.

I entered by my favorite door at the end of the passage and came up beside him in the library as he bent to rake the fire.

Ah, you did come back, he said, trying to conceal his delight, Good Lord, but you come and go so quietly!

Yes, it's very annoying, isn't it? I looked at the Bible on the table, the copy of Faust, and the little short story by Lovecraft, still stapled, but smoothed out. There was David's decanter of Scotch also and a pretty thick-bottomed crystal glass.

I stared at the short story, the memory of the anxious young man coming back to me. So odd the way he moved. A vague tremor passed through me at the thought of his having spotted me in three distinctly different places. I'd probably never lay eyes on him again. On the other hand . . . But there was time to deal with this pest of a mortal. David was on my mind now, and the delicious awareness that we had the night to talk to each other.

Wherever did you get those handsome clothes? David asked. His eyes passed over me slowly, lingeringly, and he seemed not to notice my attention to his books.

Oh, a little shop somewhere. I never steal the garments of my victims, if that's what you mean. And besides, I'm too addicted to lowlife and they don't dress well enough for that sort of thing.

I settled in the chair opposite his, which was my chair now, I supposed. Deep, pliant leather, creaking springs, but very comfortable, with a high winged back and broad substantial arms. His own chair did not match it but was just as good, and a little more creased and worn.

He stood before the flames, still studying me. Then he sat down too. He took the glass stopper from the crystal decanter, filled his glass, and lifted it in a little salute.

He took a deep swallow and winced slightly as the liquid obviously warmed his throat.

Suddenly, vividly, I remembered that particular sensation. I remembered being in the loft of the barn on my land in France, and drinking cognac just like that, and even making that grimace, and my mortal friend and lover, Nicki, snatching the bottle greedily from my hand.

I see you are yourself again, David said with sudden warmth, lowering his voice slightly as he peered at me. He sat back, with the glass resting on the right arm of his chair. He looked very dignified, though far more at ease than I had ever seen him. His hair was thick and wavy, and had become a beautiful shade of dark gray.

Do I seem myself? I asked.

You have that mischievous look in your eye, he answered under his breath, still scanning me intently. There's a little smile on your lips. Won't leave for more than a second when you speak. And the skin-it makes a remarkable difference. I pray you're not in pain. You aren't, are you?

I made a small dismissive gesture. I could hear his heartbeat. It was ever so slightly weaker than it had been in Amsterdam. Now and then it was irregular as well.

How long will your skin stay dark like this? he asked.

Years, perhaps, seems one of the ancient ones told me so. Didn't I write about it in The Queen of the Damned? I thought of Marius and how angry he was with me in genera!. How disapproving he would be of what I'd done.

It was Maharet, your ancient red-haired one, David said. In your book, she claimed to have done the very thing merely to darken her skin.

What courage, I whispered. And you don't believe in her existence, do you Though I am sitting right here with you now.

Oh, I do believe in her. Of course I do. I believe everything you've written. But I know you! Tell me-what actually happened in the desert Did you really believe you would die?

You would ask that question, David, and right off the bat. I sighed. Well, I can't claim that I did really believe it. I was probably playing my usual games. I swear to God I don't tell lies to others. But I lie to myself. I don't think I can die now, at least not in any way that I myself could contrive.

He let out a long sigh.

So why aren't you afraid of dying, David I don't mean to torment you with the old offer. I honestly can't quite figure it out. You're really, truly not afraid to die, and that I simply do not understand. Because you can die, of course.

Was he having doubts He didn't answer immediately. Yet he seemed powerfully stimulated, I could see that. I could all but hear his brain working, though of course I couldn't hear his thoughts.

Why the Faust play, David Am I Mephistopheles? I asked. Are you Faust?

He shook his head. I may be Faust, he said finally, taking another drink of the Scotch, but you're not the devil, that's perfectly clear. He gave a sigh.

I have wrecked things for you, though, haven't I I knew it in Amsterdam. You don't stay in the Motherhouse unless you have to. I'm not driving you mad, but I've had a very bad effect, have I not?

Again, he didn't answer right away. He was looking at me with his large prominent black eyes, and obviously considering the question from all angles. The deep lines of his face-the creases in his forehead, the lines at the corners of his eyes and around the edges of his mouth-reinforced his genial and open expression. There was not a sour note to this being, but there was unhappiness beneath the surface, and it was tangled with deep considerations, going back through a long life.

Would have happened anyway, Lestat, he said finally. There are reasons why I'm no longer so good at being the Superior General. Would have happened anyway, I'm relatively certain of that.