Disclaimer : All items contained on these pages are parodies and non-profit amateur fiction. "The Vampire Chronicles" and "The Lives of the Mayfair Witches", all books contained there-in and all characters named in those books are the copyright of Anne Rice, Knopf, and Random House. No infringement on the copyrights are intended. These stories are for personal enjoyment only and should be reproduced, electronically or otherwise, only for this purpose and never for profit of any sort.

Spoilers; Interview with The Vampire

Characters; Louis (Mischa) and Morgan (Beverley)

Rating: G

Dedicated To: 'anyone who has ever wondered about the missing chapters of the
Chronicles, we hope this feeds your hunger'


Consorting with Bedlam.

~~Morgan~

It was the custom in these times for well-bred and educated men to travel this vast expanse of land. The lack of money in ones pocket was certainly not an impediment. Doors opened wide and dinner invitations became almost a bore, all a man had to do was utter a sentence or two in perfect English for these Europeans to swoon.

They thought I was quite mad, but still I could always find a meal or a bed for the night if I so wished. They had grown used to the sight of this tall, lean Englishman sitting cross-legged on any available surface, scribbling furiously.

They made little noises of despair as I stayed out in the noon day sun to complete my work, the rays of the sun scorching the skin on the back of my neck where my hair blew free. Truth be I needed the light, and I never wasted a second of its precious gift. This City was a place of magic just as the dawn broke, and wandering the narrow streets with my easel strapped to my back was one of my only indulgences. I loved to see the way the light would fall upon the buildings, bathing the stones in a rich newborn light. It seeped into every pore and crevice on every stone, creating a palette of milky hues.

For an artist such as myself this place was Elysium.

However, I didn't believe in heaven or hell, my faith had been torn from me in one single night. The night my beloved Emily was taken from me, her beauty and gentleness swept from this earth forever.

A vampire killed her.

I told this to anyone that happened to raise the question of family.

I am quite sure that every inhabitant of this island knew that the red haired Englishman who stayed out in the sun was suffering from insanity.

But at least they appeared to think I was quite harmless, and they graciously allowed me to stay in this City of mystery.

Even my paintings had their own appeal, many of my sketches finding their way into distinguished drawing rooms. This was a constant source of amusement to myself, as I considered the public's taste to be severely lacking. My work was done for me alone, to try to ease the ache that hung around my shoulders, without it, I would have gone as mad as my reputation.

This evening was like any other. I was sitting under an archway by the Doges' Palace, watching the constant flow of people across the Piazzetta, scurrying about their business like ants. To my left the two soaring granite columns that served as a welcome for merchant ships stood proudly guarding the shoreline. My eyes fell upon the strange creature atop one of the columns. Many thought it to be one of the City's many stone lions, but it was, on close inspection, a chimera, a hybrid beast. Many things in this City were not as they seemed. I was one of them.

This evening was like any other. I was sitting under an archway by the Doges' Palace, watching the constant flow of people across the Piazzetta, scurrying about their business like ants. The aroma of grilled fish drifted across on the warm evening breeze and I suddenly realised, as my stomach growled, that I hadn't eaten since early morning, when I had purchased fresh bread and cheese from the market by the Rialto.

I put my hand into the pocket of my worn, dark blue coat and found a jumble of coins…yes, quite enough there for a sumptuous supper and at least one bottle of the local red wine.

I screwed my face up in frustration as the thought leapt into my mind that one bottle did not dull the pain as it used to do. The long evenings were the worst, and I hated to be alone, often staying to chat to the owner of the eating establishment as they bustled around.

The language of Italy was nearly second nature to me now, although my clipped English pronunciation was the cause of raucous laughter.

Raising myself onto my knees, I straightened my grimy collar and ran my fingers through my tangled hair. I needed to bathe but that could wait, sustenance was my immediate priority.

The aroma of the fish called to me and I began to wind my way through the mass of people, all seeming to be going in the opposite direction.

"Mi scusi, mi scusi," I muttered as I tried to negotiate a pathway through the throng.

I felt an elbow dig sharply into my left side as a man fell against me in his haste to avoid a fleeing child. An overweight waiter lumbered in the child's wake, uttering curses and I assumed another street urchin had struck gold.

I turned to the man and held out my hand, to show that I bore him no ill will for his clumsiness, and my heart missed a beat.

The emerald eyes that gazed into mine belonged to a phantom from my past.


~Louis~



Armand is gone again.
I can scarcely bring myself to care.
He has taken to wandering of late. Sometimes he is gone for one night, at times for two.
On one occasion, while in Cairo I think, he disappeared for a week.
He goes away, his face painted with anger or sadness, but I find it difficult to raise any concern for his welfare.
I feel very little.

I exist in a vacuum, nothing touches me, as I am adrift in a sea of apathy.
A despair so deep and cold that it numbs my senses.
Not even the beauty and wonder of the sights we have seen together on our travels moves me.
I hold no joy, no tears.

In the short time that has passed since leaving Paris we have journeyed far.
To Cairo, where we wandered about the souks and peered into tombs unopened in a thousand years, to Greece, where we climbed about in the ruins of Empire and held in our hands the fragments of pottery and statuary created by men who understood the enduring power of beauty and creation.

But I look upon the treasures of Europe with vacant eyes.
An abstract awareness of their great age and significance is all that touches me, and then it only slightly impinges upon my melancholy.

This is the condition of my existence as I learned it from Armand.
This is the detachment of which Lestat attempted to teach me.
My eternal, dark inheritance, that I tried so frantically and so mercilessly to deny.

It is this I travelled the world to learn, only to discover that there was nothing to find.
The answer had been lodged in my soul from the moment of my fiendish birth.

It is this that Armand now rails against, that drives him away, tormented and frustrated.
Like a petulant child he wants that part of me which he can no longer have.
The knowledge that he himself brought about this change in me serves only to further infuriate.

The great, sad irony is that I recognise the depths of my coldness.
I feel a distant sadness for his pain, a small measure of guilt that I have so dashed his expectations, but not enough to move me toward redressing the wrong.
The passion and fire that lead my questioning spirit is ashes, and I shall never seek to recapture it.

I am as I should be. A dead thing. This is what was meant by my creation.

Hunger has driven me from my appraisal of the paintings and statues in the little church that stands in the corner of the Piazzetta and the alley that runs behind it down to the canal has yielded a rich banquet.
Two thieves, who sought to relieve me of my purse and my life, now lie face down in the refuse and filth that decorates the cobblestones of their chosen hunting ground.

It did not matter to me that they were evil, I care not for their purpose be it good or bad, I feed and that is all.
Morality and goodness play no part in my choice of victim.
I have learned that my purpose is to be random death and I fulfill that purpose without remorse.

The Piazzetta is crowded when I return to it. I hate crowds, the pushing and jostling for an extra inch of space, the
maddening warmth and blood smell of the people packed together disorients me.
I seek to cross the square with the most possible haste and find the shelter of a quieter street.

Something brushes against my thighs as I wind my way through the throng of people.
I look down and my breath catches in my throat. A child runs by me, an expression of fear and cunning on her dirty features as she dodges between the legs of the people, seeking to escape whomever it is that pursues her.
Brilliant blue eyes take my measure for a brief moment, discounting me as she moves quickly on, disappearing finally behind the voluminous skirts of a Venetian matron. Once again, golden curls are lost to me, the resemblance was tenuous at best, but that does not lessen the pain that rips through me now.

The sudden grief and rage I feel is so powerful and so unexpected, here, in this place, that it becomes a physical thing.
It tears at my chest, as if my heart were still a living thing, causing me to stagger and almost fall.

I reach out and grab hold of an arm to steady myself. Muttering soft apologies, I straighten and would have gone on, had not the man held firmly to me, his nails digging into my arm through the fabric of my shirt.

Wondering why he sought to hold me, thinking him perhaps a beggar or a tough, I turned, intending to politely demand that he release his grip.

The expression of utter shock in his eyes and on his dirty face hardly registered at first, it was not until I took in the
tangled red hair and blue eyes that recognition came.

I knew this man.

Part 2

Louis - Mischa
Morgan - Beverley


~Morgan~


We stared at each other for what seemed like a lifetime.

I could not tear my eyes away from his face, a face that was etched on my memory from the darkest part of my life.

A flood of images from my living nightmare at the inn screamed into my head, how in my grief and desperation I had clung to this perfect stranger quite convinced that he could be my salvation. I had thought about him many times since then, about his kindness and strength and patience. I felt a flush spread to my cheeks that matched my hair, over my rudeness on that evening.

The slavery to the demon drink had been born that night. I had lost more than just my Emily.

I could not face him, this noble Frenchman from the dark lands of Romania, he represented a part of me that I kept locked away because dealing with it was too much for any human mind to comprehend.

I looked away, muttering an apology, and pushing my way through the crowd, I ran towards San Marco, roughly driving aside any obstructions.

Evening service had finished at the Basilica and a mass of people filled the square. I sought to lose myself amongst them.

How could I explain my memories to Louis…how tortured images drove me to always search for the light, because the darkness was a chamber from hell in my mind.

I fled down a narrow alleyway beside the Torre dell'Orologio, glancing behind me fearfully. I ran until the sounds of the square were a distant hum in my ears and collapsed behind a pile of rotting fruit, discarded from the market.

With my head in my hands I cowered, unable to stop the dreadful memories….

The huge, lumbering creature was upon me in an instant....I remembered the guttural noises from its throat and the stench that arose from its surface as it effortlessly slung me across its shoulder.

The night was as black as pitch, and soon the comforting lantern hanging in the window of the inn was a pinprick in the distance.

After a short time, the beast dumped me on the cold earth unceremoniously. I lay there on my back, winded from the fall. Trying to make out any outline was useless. I was blind, and now all my senses were tuned into any sound from the darkness.

The creature grabbed me by my hair, pulling me roughly onto my knees as I fought and kicked, and then it held me in its arms, like some demonic parent and brought its head down to my neck. I retched as the stench from its breath filled my nostrils.

As it punctured my flesh with its razor sharp teeth, I prayed.

'Let my death be swift, oh Lord, lead me to my Emily.'

My heartbeat pounded in my ears as it quenched its thirst with my blood, and the hideous noises gurgling from its slack lipped mouth haunted me still.

Dizziness took me then and I thought I was dying, but fate was cruel. I had only fainted.

I came around as the creature dragged me roughly through a broken doorway; I could see the faint, pale outline of the wood against the darker stones.

I struggled with the little strength I had left, but it was to no avail, I was like a small fly caught in the web of a spider, each movement seemed to imprison me more. I grabbed hold of the sleeve of its coat, puckering the rotting cloth between my fingers, desperately searching for something to hold onto. The cloth ripped under my fingers, exposing flesh. My hand strayed across the tear and I recoiled in horror at the feel of the skin.

Cold and waxen. The skin of something undead.

The sound of the creature's laboured breathing echoed in my ears as I sobbed uncontrollably.

I knew this thing was a vampire. I knew that it had killed my sweet Emily. I knew that it would kill me the same way.

I wept for my stupidity for bringing my most cherished love to this God forsaken place and I wept because my faith was a lie, and all of the teachings of my childhood were a monumental deceit. Evil walked on this earth and God did not.

However, the real reason I could not face Louis was not this.

I shivered and wrapped my arms around my knees, crouching like a rat in the filth.

The beautiful child that travelled with him, the one with the golden curls and the bright, knowing eyes. She had been there and in my febrile ramblings I had thought she had bitten me too, and fed upon me like a leech.

How could I face Louis when this absurdity still played in my mind?

He had killed the creature and fought valiantly sustaining injuries himself. Through my tortured eyes I had seen a little of the battle, and knew that he had saved my life.

Moreover, I had never tried to find him and thank him. Such discourteous behaviour from a so-called English gentleman.



~Louis~


Even as recognition came, he fled from me.
Staggering away, he pushed blindly at the crowds who surrounded us and vanished down a side street, leaving me standing there alone, my mouth agape in mortal consternation.

It occurred to me that he had fled in terror, knowing me for what I am, for what he knows me capable of. A scarce moment later I realized my mistake.

Even the politest of Englishmen would not first apologize before running from a demon.

Curiosity awoken, I quickly scanned ahead as I moved off. My feet started in the direction he had taken, almost as if they had made their own decision to follow him, without consulting me.

Finding him was simple, even with my small mental gift.

In his anguish, his mind was awash with confusion and misery making him easy to track.
He wove through the streets and alleys in seemingly random fashion, no goal in mind.

I followed behind, at mortal pace; not seeking to overtake him as the thoughts and images that plagued him came to me.

The things I was seeing astonished me. The mindless brutality of the attack surprised me not at all.
A creature such as the one who had taken his Emily and who had almost taken his own life, was capable of nothing less. No, it was the thoughts of Claudia and myself that slowed my pace as I approached the filthy alley where he had taken refuge.

He thought that I had battled to save him. That his memory of Claudia taking his blood was a false one.
And the guilt, the shame that he felt moved me and I in turn felt shame.
For not once in all these months had I spared a single thought for the congenial Englishman who had suffered so at the hands of our kind.

I had liked him then, that even in the pain of his loss he had retained the compassion to care for the fate of another.
That he had warned me of the horror that had found him near Varna and tried to save us from it.

And what had I done?
Left cold and heartless by a horror of my own making, lost in my own concerns, had I care for his fate?
Not once had the Englishman we had left behind, injured, bleeding out his life's blood among the
monastery ruins ever crossed my mind.

I thought myself to be cold and cruel now, but here was proof that I had ever been so, that my true nature had always been a mystery only to myself.
I had believed myself to be so compassionate, so caring, so human and yet, in front of me, hiding in filth and shaken by anguish there was a mortal man, a shining example of all that I was not.

Morgan believed himself to be the wretched one, he thought me patient and noble and strong, he believed the reality of that night and Claudia's assault to be a delusion.

How wrong he was, he who unknowingly consorted with Bedlam.

Morgan sought to aid us and in return was brought down. Plagued by nightmares of death, fallen victim to drink in attempt to numb the pain, to dull the memories, his talent wasting away.
Unwashed and uncaring, racked by guilt that was based on falsities.

I should not care about this. I should just be on my way, leave him to his misery and his guilt without a backward glance. Such things are beyond my concern now. The lives and sufferings of mortals mean nothing to me any more.

But I cannot.

I try to move beyond my humanity, but it drags me back.
Impossible to escape the mortal upbringing that renders me powerless to escape what I know I must do.
I cannot kill him, which would be the ultimate kindness.
Knowing him, having him know me, pushes him behind that barrier where I cannot touch him.

All I can do, what I must do, is bring him to the truth.
The French gentleman who fought to save him, does not exist and never did.
The sweet child, the subject of his horrid fantasies, was no innocent, but a demonic predator, his fantasies no such thing.

The truth is the only thing that will serve. For both of us.


I spot him easily through the alley's gloom. The red hair, although filthy and snarled, still shines like a beacon amongst the broken crates and piles of rotten refuse in which he shelters.

His hands cover his face so he misses my approach and is still oblivious to my presence when I crouch down beside him, the pounding waves of self-recrimination in which he is lost blotting out any external sound.

Even in this degraded state, he is beautiful to me.
The nobility of spirit, the sorrow that mirrors my own, all these things draws me to him.
Armand, for all his martyrdom on the altar of his own incomprehension can not bring me to the state of compassion, not as this one desolate mortal can.

Still, he does not become aware that he is no longer alone. I seek for the words that will alert him.
Steeped to the lips in my own misery, all I can do is take refuge in the mundane and say softly,

"Hello, Morgan."

Part 3

~Morgan~

Louis' soft voice cut through the waves of self-pity that were threatening to drown me.

He had sought me out and I could not be a coward and flee again. I owed him a debt of gratitude for saving my life.

Hurriedly I ran the back of my hand over my wet face to conceal the tears, holding out my other hand in a gesture that said clearly, 'come no closer'.

I cleared my throat and hauled my body into a standing position, brushing the gutter dirt from my coat.

"Good evening, Louis,' I began, "I trust you have been well."

A fine introduction for an elegant dinner party.

However, I was facing him here in the back alleys of Venice with the ripe smell of the days' market on the breeze, and he was waiting for my reasons as to why I had run from him.

I plucked a lame excuse from the air around me, and stepped forward, trampling a basket of withering flowers in my confusion.

"Forgive me for my conduct, Monsieur, but as you can see," I gestured to my unkempt appearance, "I am suffering from a little ill fortune. I held out my hand and quickly withdrew it as I witnessed the ingrained dirt under my fingernails.

I had become a slovenly wretch, what in Heaven's name had made him follow me in this condition.

"I have a room," Louis said quietly. "If you wish you may bathe there and borrow some clothing, although I cannot vouch for the quality of the cloth. I purchased it in Cairo."

He smiled at me and I saw the kindness in those emerald eyes. He had sensed my discomfort with great perception and as befitted his nature, was offering compassion.

But something was troubling him, I could see that, carefully hidden behind his cordial words. I prayed that no mischance had fallen upon the child he adored. My deranged delusions about her only intensified my feelings of guilt.

Bowing my head with respect, I fell into step beside him, acutely aware of my dishevelled reflection as we passed by the shop windows.

We walked, mainly in silence, with small awkward pauses in the conversation. Louis commented on the beauty of the fine velvet that hung in shop doorways and I gave my opinion on the politics of the new doge. It was small talk but it served its purpose as we strolled.

I needed to apologise in the proper manner for my caddish behaviour, and I could not do that whilst dressed like a beggar. Louis knew this; after all, he was a gentleman of impeccable breeding.

Our steps brought us over the mouth of the Grand Canal to the quiet sestiere of Dorsoduro. As we walked the air around us took on a much more serene quality, a certain tranquility that unnerved me. It was an area I did not venture into on a regular basis, as I preferred the noise and bustle of the main square. There was too much space for contemplation in this little pocket of Venice.

Louis had taken lodgings in an unassuming house in the shadow of the magnificent Baroque church of Santa Maria della Salute.

He took the key from a beady-eyed little Italian woman, who had been roused from her sewing by our entrance. She looked me over with an air of distaste and I am sure I was only saved from immediate eviction by sweet words from Louis and the handful of coins that he placed into her lap.

I blushed as I saw the expression on her face. She must take me for a gigolo, and my purpose here to be of a sexual nature. I hung my head as I followed Louis up the two flights of narrow, tiled stairs that led to his room.

~Louis~

I sat in the tiny parlor, waiting, while Morgan washed and changed his clothing in the privacy of the bedroom.
Pleased to see that he has regained his composure somewhat, I do not seek to read his thoughts again, preferring to look out of the tiny window while I gather my own, scattered wits and attempt to gain some measure of order and calm.

I watch the comings and goings from the church, envying the folk who scurry to and fro beneath it's benevolent shadow, the faith and simplicity that rule their lives.
Not for them these difficult questions, the agonizing morality that undercuts my existence.
An easy notion of good and evil, that I once shared, brings to them a security of spirit that has forever vanished from my life with the knowledge that there are no easy answers to even the simplest of questions.

Morgan emerged from my un-used bedroom and it is clear that he feels much better, more in control of himself.
His hair is tamed, brushed and tied back neatly, his face scrubbed clean.
My clothes fit tolerably well, the jacket being a little too short in the sleeves and the pants likewise too high in the leg. He is taller than I am, but still, these garments are an improvement on the stained and worn out rags that are puddled in a dirty heap next to the door.


He moves to join me at the tiny dining table and the embarrassed expression returns to his ruddy face.
To put him at ease, I gesture to the bottle of red wine resting upon the table and offer to pour.
He flinches as if I have struck him and instantly, I realize my mistake.

"Morgan, I meant nothing by it. Please, forgive me."

But he waves aside my apology and the flush that came to his cheeks subsides a little.

"It is I who must beg your forgiveness, Louis.
My behavior in the Piazzetta earlier was inexcusable and much less than you deserved.
This," he waved his large, long-fingered hands to indicate the wine, " was a natural conclusion
to draw, and unfortunately, the correct one."
He smiled ruefully. "I have taken to the demon drink of late, I fear. The loss of my…"

His voice trailed away as he choked afresh and I could not help but reach across the table
and take his hands in my own.
Grateful for the two thieves, who had warmed my skin with their lives, I gently stroked the pale hands
and felt the tremors that ran beneath the surface.

His need was so great. For comfort and in the forgiveness of his imagined sins that I found the obligation
of telling him the truth rested easier with me than I would have believed.

The confession could only ease his pain in the long term.

I expect that he will look upon me with horror and revulsion once my story is done.
I am prepared for this, as best as I can be. Even immortal devils, it seems, still care to be liked.

But I must disregard this need of mine and, as carefully and as completely as I am able, shatter the
illusions he entertains about the nature of his supposed ' rescuer' and correct the impression that
his memories are delusions, so that he may resume a small measure of his former life.

Finding a gentle way to begin is not easy. My first attempt to open the delicate subject is cut short.

"Morgan, "I begin, "We need to talk. That night in the village…"

Part 4

~Morgan~

"Louis, please, permit me to speak first, I beg you," I interrupted him.

I glanced at his face as he held my hand, and slowly I pulled away. It had been so long since my skin had touched another in this way. It was strange how I craved the warmth and kindness he showed me, but was ashamed of it too. He had no way of knowing my delusions, how in my nightmares I sullied the character of the girl child.

I rushed into my apology, desperate to tell him before the lure of that accursed bottle became too much. Often my eyes strayed across to its contents, but this was far too important a conversation to share with that vice.

"Did you follow me, Louis, when the creature took me? I don't remember the details very clearly." My voice sounded peculiar to my ears and the words jumbled and nonsensical.

I stood and paced to the window, adjusting the catch on the shutters as I continued, not giving him time to answer.

"It was a vampire, Louis, a monster….it fed from me," I shivered at the memory. "I saw you struggling with it, saw you wrestle it to the ground and pound its head, over and over....I called to you but you did not hear me…" I trailed off searching for the correct words, wondering why even the crowd outside seemed suddenly silent, as though they were listening too.

"Monsieur, you saved my unworthy life and risked your own to save me. I am forever in your debt. Forgive me for not seeking you out sooner, but after that night my recovery was slow and you had long since departed."

I saw Louis raise his eyes to mine. "May I ask how you survived the attack?" His lips moved again but the words were mute.

"I was found at dawn by a Brother from an abbey at the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains. He was travelling to another abbey to study under a learned one there, and had stopped by the ruins of the monastery to pray. At first he assumed that a wild animal had attacked me and he bound my wounds with cloth and tended to me. I fear I must have appeared half crazed as I mumbled about vampires but nevertheless he took me with him to his destination."

The draw of the bottle became too much and I strode across to the table, poured myself a large measure, and swallowed half of it in one draught.

"The Brother and his teacher saved my life, treating me with balms and ghastly tasting natural medicines. Sometimes I was far from a model patient but they were generous and godly men from an ancient Order called the Talamasca."

I paused and swallowed the wine in my glass, reaching for the bottle as I gave Louis time to respond.


~Louis~

His words shocked me slightly. I had heard of those called the Talamasca.
Armand had mentioned them to me in connection with the coven beneath Les Innocents.
That they knew of the existence of vampires and other monstrosities that walked the earth in darkness and studied them. Was it mere coincidence that one of their number had come upon Morgan or had we been observed?
There was no telling from a quick scan of Morgan's mind and I could see that he was waiting for me to speak as he poured himself another glass of the wine, so I put aside my concerns for another time and replied.

"They believed your story, these Talamascans?" His brow furrowed as he thought and he resumed
his seat opposite mine, one hand coming to rest on the neck of the bottle, as if in anticipation.

"They did not seem to disbelieve," he replied finally. "Being as they were… being men of God, I had expected they would try to disabuse me of the notion and speak to me instead of the devil."

He took another draught from the bottle.
It was almost empty, a good thing.
Having his wits dulled any further by the wine would not serve either of us this night.

"But what about you, Louis? I have told you that the creature you fought that night was a vampire and you make no comment about my assertion. It was the same fiend who took my Emily and drained her life away. Are you not surprised to hear this?" He squinted a little as he looked across the table at me. "Or, did you know?"

Here it was. The opportunity had presented itself for me to begin my tale.
My decision to tell him the entire truth of my existence was tempered somewhat by the thought of these Talamascans. What if I told him it all and he encountered them again and repeated my tale?
Or perhaps they had followed him for some reason of their own and even now, lurked close by and knew of our meeting.

I decided to tell him what I could to ease his mind. The motives and whereabouts of the Talamasca could not be my first concern. My allegiance was bound to this man and, if only the whole truth would serve, then that is what he would receive.

"I knew it was a vampire, Morgan." I spoke as gently as I could "We had come to the village to seek it out. I regret that we did not arrive sooner."


"You hunt them, then? You and the child."

It was the politest way Morgan could think of to enquire without actually asking me.
Drunkard, perhaps. Fallen into difficult times, certainly, but the polite traits of an English gentleman's upbringing remained, even when all else failed him.


"We were hunting them, yes." I answered. "But not for the reasons you imagine."

I leaned forward across the table and captured Morgan's hand once more.

"She died, Morgan. In Paris, a few months ago."

My voice had choked just a little, and Morgan lurched forward to grasp my hand, covering it with his own. Offering what small comfort he could.

"A vampire?" Again I nodded.

"You don't need to speak of it. I can see that it pains you. Of course it does. Would you like some?"

Morgan proffered the bottle, not noticing that it was empty. He was confused and the wine
he had just consumed was buzzing in his head, making rational thought more difficult.
I could see that my assertion had puzzled him. He had jumped to the rather obvious conclusion that I
was some kind of vampire hunter and was wondering why I would take a child on such a quest?
What possible reason could I have?

I could not allow his delusions to go on, the decision was easy to make.

"Morgan, wait."

I interrupted his attempt to pour me a glass, waving aside the bottle.

"There's more that I must tell you. About Claudia and myself.
It will be difficult for you to understand, but I beg you, please…hear me out before you judge us."

Morgan stilled himself and waited. The tone of my voice had penetrated his muddled mind
and forced him, at last, to attend to the seriousness of what I was trying to say.

"That creature, that vampire, was not a fully formed thing.
Rather it was an abomination, some misjudgment or abandonment took place during its creation
and so it was made as some mindless, half-rotted demon.
With no more sentience than an alligator in the swamp or the sharks of the ocean it was not a vampire in any real sense."


"Vampires are nothing like that creature, Morgan, nothing at all."

Now, I can only wait. I have created the opening for the question I know will come.
The time has come to let the cards fall.


"Then what are true vampires like?" Morgan asked.

"Like me."

Part 5

~Morgan~


I pulled away from him so swiftly that I knocked the empty wine bottle to the floor.
It clattered onto the bare wooden boards, rolling and coming to a halt by the door.

"Sir, your humour is not in good taste," I informed him, with all the severity my slightly inebriated voice could muster.

Sitting bolt upright, I studied his face, waiting for an apology or an explanation. Suddenly I felt as though I were gazing upon a marble statue. This fair City contained far more than its share of still art forms, and just now, one appeared to be sitting but a few feet away from me.

A lock of coal black hair fell across his eyes, so dark against his pallid skin.

A dryness lodged in my throat as my heart began to beat a little faster.

"I fear you are jesting me, my noble friend," I said irately, as I stood and strode to the window, throwing open the shutters roughly. I needed to feel the night air on my burning face.

The crowd below milled and jostled, innocently going about their evening business, like minnows in a pond. I raised my eyes to see the great curved dome of the church, sharp against the clear midnight blue sky.

Louis was silent behind me.

Throwing my head back, I started to laugh, banging the shutters on the outside wall with my hands, desperate for noise to take away the sticky silence that clung to every pore of my skin.

"Good people!" I proclaimed, and some lifted their eyes towards me. "My friend says he is a vampire, should I believe him, or no?"

A rotund bearded man, selling fruit from a basket on the other side of the narrow street, muttered curses under his breath, and a group of women, fresh from the church service crossed themselves and hurried past.

"Perhaps you should come back and sit down." Louis' gentle voice was at my shoulder and I spun round fearfully. I had not heard him move from his chair.

With my back against the cool wall, I fumbled for the small silver cross that I wore around my neck. It had belonged to my Emily.

Snapping the delicate chain in my haste, I grabbed the cross, holding it in front of me at arms length, and slowly backed towards the door.

"Keep away from me, do you hear!" I cried, my voice shaking.

"Morgan, I will not harm you, please let me explain, it is not as you think.."

"Not as I think!" I spat back at him. "What is there to think about? You sit there and inform me that you are a…vampire....knowing that my beloved wife lies cold in the ground because of one!"

He glanced away, lines of pain and frustration written in his eyes.

"We have nothing more to say to one another, Louis. I bid you goodnight."

With a mock bow I exited the room and then ran as if the hounds of hell were pursuing me, bounding down the stairs and past the old woman, still sewing in the entrance.

Louis' words battered to and fro inside my head, 'She died, Morgan. In Paris, a few months ago.'……'Like me.'..

I held my hands to my face as I ran, scattering people as I blindly fled for the second time, not knowing where I was heading just needing to run.

How could I believe what Louis had confessed to me…how could he and the child be ruthless monsters like the beast at the monastery…

But all the while these thoughts swamped my brain, a little voice deep inside asked me why would he lie about such a thing.

Through ever narrowing alleyways and across wooden bridges I ran, away from the eyes that accused me, until finally desperately out of breath and sweating profusely, I collapsed at the edge of a small fountain in a dusty, neglected courtyard.

Still gasping for breath, I immersed my head into the cool water, spluttering and coughing as some entered my nose.

It was then that I felt a rough hand on my shoulder and the knife blade flashed across my eyes.




~Louis~

I considered letting him go. Let him run to where he was staying and sleep off his drunk.
Allow him to waken in the morning, sober and clearheaded. In the clear light of day, he would dismiss what I had told him as a cruel joke or the ravings of a madman and would go on with his life as best as he was able.

But that was the coward's way, an easy escape.

I followed him, deciding to escort him home without his being aware of my presence, to see him home and safely in his bed.
I could seek him out tomorrow night and make him listen to me.

Staying a respectable distance behind, I followed his stumbling flight as he wove through the alleys and streets.
Watching as he shoved aside those who got in his way as he ran from me and from the truth that I had presented.

I lost him for a moment in the twist of alleyways that run behind the better streets of Venice.
It was the sound that alerted me, rough, demanding voices, thick with the gutter language of the streets, then Morgan's deeper, refined voice replying, his English accent a clear contrast.

I found them in a disused courtyard, the windows and doors of the surrounding building boarded up.
Blind eyes that would see nothing.
Two ruffians, bent on thievery and murder. One held Morgan from behind, pinned by a dirty arm across his chest, a wicked knife at his throat. The other stood before him, fist waving in Morgan's sweating face as he demanded money, a malicious smile of no good intent lit his coarse features.

They did not see me move. Coming up behind the first tough, I swiftly broke his neck, dropping him to the ground and taking the knife from the second before he could react to what he had seen. Reaching out for the hand that held Morgan, I pulled him to me, holding him easily despite his struggles.

I debated what to do next. I could break the man's neck as I had the first, I could release him and watch him run, or I could feed. Morgan was slumped against the side of the fountain, one hand propping himself up on the edge, staring stupidly as my rapid appearance and actions took root in his befuddled mind.

Still trying to come to terms with what I had told him and with what he had just seen, his mind was in turmoil, frantically trying to find a rational explanation for the things he had just witnessed.

Proof then, was needed, before we could continue.
Acceptance, and the reassurance that no harm would befall him at my hands.

I turned the still struggling ruffian in my arms, exposing his neck.
I watched Morgan, his eyes widened as I revealed my fangs and drove them into the warm, trembling throat, draining him.
When I released my victim, he slumped to the ground, still breathing, still alive, a beatific smile on his face.
Morgan's eyes followed him down, watched as the breathing stilled and death took him.

He raised his eyes to my face, still black with shock. He did not move as I stepped toward him and assisted him
to his feet. His body shook with tremors and his expression was vacant, empty.
For a moment I feared that it had been too much, that what he had seen had taken too great a toll on his mind, but a quick scan reassured me, his mind was in turmoil, but no sign of hysteria or madness.

He allowed me to lead him. Slowly we walked back to my lodgings, my hand on his arm to guide him
around objects in our path that he would otherwise have fallen over.
He needed time for the shock to leave his system, to allow coherent thought to return.
I could not leave him alone in his present state. I could only hope that reason would return.
Dawn was still a few hours away, in that time I had a lot of explaining to do.

For now, I stopped briefly with a street vendor and purchased another bottle, a loaf of fresh bread and some ripe cheese before leading him up the stairs, back into the room he had so recently fled.
Perhaps some food or a little more alcohol inside of him would steady his nerves and lessen the shock of what he had witnessed.

Part 6

~Morgan~

The proof had played out before me, as clear and as believable as the cool water that ran across the back of my hand, and as solid as the stonework of the fountain. The drink had dulled my senses but reality hovered, like a wraith in the shadows, waiting to claim me.

I had watched my polite, well-bred French friend slay my attackers.

I could find no words to utter or noises to make as he dispatched the first ruffian with one sharp, bone snapping movement. The next scene that met my eyes chilled me to my very core. What I witnessed was horror in its purest form and he wanted me to see it. Needed me to process and absorb, because he was not going to leave me in denial.

He led me back to his room and I let him take control. The touch of his hand on my arm did not alarm me, if he had wanted to kill me he would have done that deed by now.

No, there was something he wanted me to know, wanted me to understand, possibly even something about Emily and her fate, that I had not known.

In her memory I let the vampire, Louis, lead me back to his room.

These thoughts, mixed with a black lava of other darker emotion, burnt a slow trail around my head. I could not have voiced an opinion if my life depended on it.

I wondered if it may in the end come to that.

Seating myself on the chair I had so recently vacated, I watched as the vampire I knew as a friend, firmly closed the door. The loud click of the doorlatch fastened me into this cage of my own making.

Louis leant back against the door and clasped his hands together, stretching out his slender fingers and staring straight ahead.

He was deep in thought and hypnotically beautiful.

It overwhelmed me, that I could think like this, of a creature that had committed murder before my eyes, but alas I am an artist and see beauty in every living thing. Now I saw beauty in death. In my mind, I sketched the angles to his cheekbones, memorised the way the candlelight softened the tone of his skin, capturing his image to let it live again through my brush and colours.

Clearing my throat, the raw words tumbled from my lips.

"How did you come to be, Louis? I want to know it all."

~Louis~


This was much better. The scene he had witnessed appeared to have shocked Morgan into sobriety.

I could feel his eyes upon me as I leaned against the door, gathering my thoughts.
He was fearful of course, but I expected that. But also curious. Wanting to know anything and everything about the events that had changed his life so profoundly and cost him his bride.

I could only pray that having all the information that I could provide would aid him, help him to recover from his loss and turn him back from the downward path he had taken.

Retrieving my purchases from the table by the door, I joined him in the alcove, gratified to see that he did not flinch at my approach, despite his obvious fear.

I settled myself in the chair, fingers steepled in front of my face, endeavoring to appear as inoffensive and as unthreatening as I could.
Clearing my throat was unnecessary, but I did it to pull him back from his musings, amused and ever so slightly embarrassed by the thoughts that I found running through his mind.

I motioned to the food on the table and encouraged him to eat something.
Reluctantly, he complied, tearing off a small piece of bread and chewing it slowly.
Then another piece, then some of the cheese, as the demands of his body to be fed took hold.
I sat and watched quietly, ordering my thoughts.

When he finished he wiped his fingers on his pants leg and turned his attentions once more to his situation.

"Tell me," he said again, leaning forward and pushing the bottle aside so as to better see me, ignoring its contents. Another good sign that he was recovering from the shock that I had dealt him.

"It is a long story," I began "One that took place in a very short amount of time."

I smiled briefly. He needed to be constantly reassured that he was in no danger.
The fine lines around his eyes were drawn with tension and slight tremors still rocked his body.

"I am Creole. You know what that is?"

He nodded.

"I owned a plantation in the territory of Louisiana, not far from New Orleans.
My father was dead and I had inherited the house where I lived with my sister, my mother and my younger brother, Paul."

Even now, I found saying his name caused me pain. But I continued, ignoring the pangs of sorrow.

"It was seventeen ninety-one when it happened…"

Morgan started a little, he realized that this indicated that I had not been as I am for very long. I smiled again

"Yes. Not very long."

"Paul died. He fell down the main staircase of the house following an argument between us.
I was beyond consolation and it did not help that my own mother accused me of contributing to his death."

I paused to gather myself again. Morgan made to speak, but I did not pause for him.
The words and the memories that accompanied them were never far from me and now they flowed.

"I was in despair, wishing for nothing more than my own death. I acted carelessly.
With reckless abandon, I threw myself into the seedy life of the city, gambling, whoring; I was drunk all the time.
I used them all in my efforts to escape my pain. I wanted someone to end my life for me.
Perhaps over a gambling debt, or a woman. I did not care. A vampire ended it for me."

I stopped and looked at my companion. I wanted to see that he was drawing the correct parallels between his circumstances and my own. I was gratified to see that this was so. His expression pained and even a little sympathetic.
This gave me the hope that perhaps this recounting of my own desolation could do some good service for another soul in like peril.


"How…how was this done?" Morgan asked, his face ashen.

"Does it truly matter?" I chided him gently.

"The fact remains that I am a vampire now, as my maker intended me to be. For his own reasons, he made me.
For my own reasons, I accepted what he offered.
I was human once, but now I am not.
I retained much of my human sensibilities, I think, I feel sorrow and joy.
I have my beliefs, my reasons for going on as I am.
The creature that killed Emily and attacked you, did not."

Part 7

~Morgan~

I slumped forward in my chair, my elbows on my knees, and found that my heart was racing at the mention of Emily's name. His gaze seared into me and I turned my head, raising my hands in frustration.

"Are you trying to convince me that you are any better than the creature? You sit there and reason with me, but underneath you kill to sustain your existence. How can you do that?"

I did not care that I might anger him or that I might be placing myself in peril.

For what seemed like an eternity there was a heavy silence between us, only broken by the faint peal of a church bell from beyond.

"I carry the consequences of what I am. I came to Europe with questions to which I now know there is no resolution, and through my own selfishness, I lost the one true light in my life. You grieve for your wife, Morgan, that she was taken from you in such a heartless manner," he hesitated, forming his next words carefully. "I feel your pain."

He was talking about his daughter, the golden-haired girl that had journeyed with him.
That a pure child could be a vampire too was almost too much for me to comprehend. I felt as though the world were tipping on its axis, jumbling all of my conceptions together and creating a nonsense muddle of new principles.

"We are bound by the same threads of despair, Monsieur, riddled by the canker of guilt…"

My eyes drifted towards the bottle again… liquid false courage…. I closed my eyes
and prayed for the strength to resist.

"You say you were searching for others of your kind, did you discover them, how many of you exist?" My mind was suddenly filled with itching questions, all desperate to be voiced.

"And what of me, Louis? After this night is concluded, will you slay me or make me a killer too?"

He stood and moved to stand behind my chair, and then I felt the gentle touch of his fingers on my neck, stroking the skin until they came to rest on the pulse point on my throat.

Biting my bottom lip hard, I waited.



~Louis~

"You feel that?" I asked him as I caressed the soft skin.

I felt him swallow, could scent his sudden fear.

My approach had evaporated the courage, which had sustained him through his questioning.
The primeval awareness of the prey had risen at my touch and he struggled to speak.

"Yes." he ground out, shivering with reaction.

I had no such reaction. More than sated, the blood lust lay quiescent, dormant for the moment as my mind wrestled with other concerns.
This however, he did not know and I wanted him to taste the fear of death.

"This is life, Morgan, your life.
Whatever misery you have, whatever suffering or joy that comes to pass, this life is all you have."

I knelt on the floor beside him, my hand traveled down from his throat to his chest.
He would not look at me, his head down watching my fingers as they rested above his heart, his hands loose and slack in his lap.

"I am here, with you tonight, because I want you to live that life as best as you are able.
To not spend it in useless regret and to not waste it in drink and 'what ifs.' as I did.
I am here because I felt that I could perhaps aid you in some small way in regaining a little of the joy that has been drowned by your loss."

"No more waste, Morgan. Especially not of that which is so precious, your life."

I stood, removing my hand and watched as he further slumped in his chair, his body relaxing with the passing of immediate danger.

But I was not done. I cupped my hand under his chin and raising his head, looked into his eyes.

"I tell you these things for a purpose. So that you may come to know, there was nothing you could have done.
You feel guilt and this is what chokes you.
Grieve for your Emily and then move on but the guilt you feel is misplaced."

"How so?" He asked, valiantly struggling to regain his composure.

"Because it was a vampire that took her."

He shook his head, not understanding.

"If it had been an accidental death, if she had fallen, if her life had been snuffed out by some more ordinary means, the guilt would have come, as it always does with the loss of a loved one.
But it would have faded, in time, as such things do. Can you not see…"

I crouched again, earnest in my desire to have him understand.

"Because it was a vampire, a thing outside of God's creation, outside your ken, it lingers.
It festers within you, in here."

Again, I touched the place over his heart.

"It grows like a cancer, sucking the life from you, more completely, more viciously than I could."

I stood back and watched the comprehension grow in his eyes. At least now, he understood what it was I was trying to say, whether it helped him or not remained to be seen.

"I am a killer, Morgan, as you said. I take human life to sustain my own.
For this, I know myself to be condemned. But I was human once and I suffered then as you suffer now.
I do feel, Morgan, but more than that, I remember."

Again I crouched down by his side.

"I remember the guilt that crushed me, drove me to reckless excess when Paul died. I remember how I sought oblivion and did not care how I gained it. I remember how it led to my death."

"This death." I said, indicating myself.

"I don't want your guilt to lead to yours."

Part 8

~Morgan~

He knelt before me as if in prayer, this man who walked with death, but the words that fell from his lips came from a considerate heart. Compassion lived within him and I saw in a lightning bolt of realisation that he was not pure evil.

Possibly nothing in the world was pure evil. Living within everything was decency; it was just sometimes swamped by the dark hand of fate. The creature that took my wife had not asked for his part in this madness. He was a victim. We were all victims.

I opened my arms to him and as he embraced me I felt a tremor run through his body at this intimate contact. I wound my fingers through his long, black hair, laid my head on his shoulder and I wept.

Tears of anger, frustration and madness. For my loss and for his.

He was the one that pulled away first, offering me a fine white handkerchief from his pocket.

"What you ask of me, Louis, to be able to forgive myself enough to carry on with my life," I wiped my face slowly, "I can not promise to meet your expectations."

"I am not asking you to part company with your guilt, Morgan. Only to comprehend that if you waste your life blaming yourself, then you will be letting down Emily too. Do you think she would want this for you?"

I tuned my head away, balling my fist and pushing it into the palm of my left hand.

"If you can not live for yourself, do it for her, Morgan," he said softly. "Do not waste your talent or your short time on this earth."

Louis walked to the window and pulled the shutters closed, the breeze from outside wafting strands of his hair over his cheek. He swept the hair away with one hand, tucking it behind his ear.

"If I accept what you tell me and try to create a new life, will you support me?" I asked, trying to keep the plea from my voice.

He smiled sadly, "I have my own path to travel, my own crusade. To promise you that I will stay would be an iniquity. I am no guardian angel, Morgan, simply a man who sees in you a reflection of himself."

I studied his face as he spoke, noticing the faint lines that furrowed his brow, and the shadows that played in his eyes.

"Forgive me, Louis. I was only considering my own selfish needs." I hung my head in shame, humbled by this man who had transformed my whole perception on life in one single night.

"Will you tell me who made you what you are?"

I wondered how anyone, man or vampire, could bear to let him out of their sight.



~Louis~

The simple act of holding him had so unsettled me that I stayed by the window where I was safely hidden amongst the shadows. It seemed that success was within my grasp, Morgan's eyes were brighter, his entire demeanour had changed from one of rank defeatism to cautious optimism and, with care, it would strengthen through the days ahead.

And I could not be here to aid him. Already, I regretted slightly this venture into the realm of mortal emotions and dreams. My dreams were dead.
It would be too easy, in the company of this charming man, to lose sight of that and to allow myself hope.
When this night was done, I would be sure to distance myself, the lure of his company was already proving too tempting. I could not afford to let myself slip back into caring. It was too dangerous, a peril to the newly won detachment required by my existence.

But this night was not yet done. Morgan had asked more of me and courtesy required that I answer.

"His name was Lestat." I began, surprised by the pang of sorrow that I felt at the use of his name.

"He made me a vampire. Together we hunted New Orleans for more than eighty years. And together we made the child you met, Claudia."

I rushed on, determined to speed through the sorry tale without giving pause for questions or pain.
I would tell it all, without garnish or excuse.

"Claudia and I murdered him." I continued, ignoring his expression of shock. "Why we did such a thing is not important to this telling. Suffice it to say, we had our reasons, be they valid or no.
We took ship for Europe in search of others of our kind.. That is how we encountered you, Morgan.
During our search for vampires, all we had found to that point was the kind of creature that attacked you.
I fought the revenant that night, not to save you, but because it came after us.
It was near to dawn, as you may recall when it was overcome. Neither Claudia nor myself had fed.
She… fed on you and wanted me to do the same; for we need to hunt every night of our lives."

I looked at him, sitting there so calmly absorbing all that I was telling him without a murmur and my heart filled with hope.
Could it be this simple? Could the acknowledgement and sharing of mutual sorrow and guilt heal two hearts?

"After… After we left Romania, we travelled to Paris, where we found our own kind.
But we knew nothing. Lestat had told us nothing.
Not of other vampires, not of the rules by which they exist. She was forbidden, you see.
To make one so young, a child, into a vampire was against every rule."

I closed my eyes and dropped my head down, shielding my face behind a curtain of hair.
I could not look at him as I spoke the next words.

"They killed her. Left her out for the light of day to claim and locked me away so I could not prevent it."

The rush of emotion that came over me as I spoke those words was fast and furious in its intensity.
Rage beat against my temples, seeking an outlet. I thumped the table with my fist.

"Rather that they had left me with her. To burn in the dawn's rays than to continue on alone. She was my child!"

My voice had risen, almost to the point of shouting. But even in the midst of that small madness, I retained enough sense to know that my preternatural voice would cause my guest great pain. Even so, I heard a muffled shout for silence issuing from the rooms below.

Morgan was sitting perfectly still, his eyes wide and attentive. I was pleased to see the bottle of wine still untouched upon the table. My outburst had not frightened him then. For this I was grateful.

I continued on in a more moderate tone, my anger spent.

"And that is all there is to tell. Claudia died and I haunt the world without her."

I turned to him.

"Is there anything you would like to ask? Anything else that I can say that will further aid you, help you?
Ask me now if you will. For the dawn approaches and soon you must go."

Part 9

~Morgan~

Such words he spoke, of passionate horror, of dead things that still had a heart to question
and search for answers. But this was no tale spread by word of mouth and passed down
from generation to generation, each time becoming a more distorted version….
he spoke the truth, I knew that.


As the anger in him rose like a serpent from the grass, my heart wept. His distress at losing his child was almost too much for me to witness. I knew the torrent of raging guilt that burnt away deep within him, blistering a never healing path.

"Louis, I would ask of you one small favour, if you would permit?"

He raised his eyes to meet mine and gently smiled an encouragement.

"Let me come here tomorrow eve and allow me to capture your image forever. It is the one gift God graced me with, my ability to portray the wonders in this world. In years to come when I am but dust in the ground, I would like you to look upon your portrait and remember this simple soul."

My heart was beating wildly and I knew a flush had risen to my cheeks…. if he denied me
this… I pushed the thought away quickly.

His brow furrowed momentarily, and my heart lurched as he covered his face with his hands. "You must leave, Morgan, the dawn is but a few minutes away. Danger lives for you here if you stay."

I did not question his dismissal, but stood and straightened my cuffs, deep in thought, as to whether to propose the subject again. He had not moved as I hesitated by the door, the heavy latch in my hand.

"The answer is yes, Morgan," he said softly.

I closed the door behind me and exhaled deeply.

*

The sun awoke me, streaming in through a crack in the shutter and I lay there luxuriating in the warmth of the solitary beam. As the sun rose, I had found my way back to this small room I had taken days ago, my head full of notions of good and evil, sacrifice and atonement, and had fallen asleep fully clothed, completely exhausted.

Stretching my hands out above me, I shook out my hair then knelt to throw wide the shutters. A glorious day, the sun glinting on the water of the canal and the sound of children laughing as they played upon the wooden bridge. Glancing at the sun, I calculated the time to be mid afternoon…hours to dispose of before sunset.

After bathing and dressing in clean clothes I ventured outside, as staying in those four walls was driving me to distraction. Now that the seed had sowed itself in my mind, I was desperate to see him again, to capture the very essence of his spirit for all to see. I had decided to sketch him, an oil painting could
come later. I wanted the simplicity of lines on parchment, black and white, shadow with light.
He deserved nothing less.

I walked the length of the Riva degli Schiavoni, watching the merchant ships as they docked, laden with wares from the East, and listening to the many tongues of the men who served the sea. With one eye on the setting sun I ambled back to my room, slung my easel over my shoulder and set out to meet my confidant.

I knocked on the door, clearing my throat and smoothing back my hair nervously with one hand.

Silence.

Again I rapped, a little harder.

Finally, I tested the door latch, opening the door and peering inside. The room was in semi darkness, the shutters still closed, but I knew that the room was unoccupied.

For minutes I stood, leaning back against the door, trying to control the acute disappointment, and the ache in my heart.

The realisation that he had taken leave hit me suddenly like a knife between the ribs. I felt physical pain as I paced the room, blindly hoping that he had possibly gone on an errand and would return, expressing apologies for his absence. As my eyes became more accustomed to the darkness, I beheld a folded sheet of white paper on the table under a glass candleholder.

My fingers were trembling as I picked the letter up and noticed my name elegantly scrawled upon it.



DearestMorgan



Forgive me for breaking my promise to you.

When we encountered each other in the Piazzetta, it seemed as if the fates had brought us
together.
I pray that what transpired between us last night has helped you in some small way.
I know that it has eased my own soul.
I pray also that you find a lasting peace, that your strength and talent will sustain
you in the days to come.

The grieving is not over, my friend. It will return. A sharp pang of misery and loss that
eats away at your heart and fills your mind with feelings of regret for what might have been.
I beg of you, do not allow it to triumph.

The beauty of the human spirit is in its ability to hope, to see possibilities in the direst of
circumstance.

You have that beauty within you, Morgan.
An artist's soul and the strength of character to carry you through the darkest of nights.
Allow it to guide you.

I cannot aid you in this. The burdens I carry, that blacken my own soul and taint
my heart could only bring you further pain and the crushing of that hope.
You are a living creature; heir to all the boundless possibilities that life can give.
I am dead and can only take from the living.

The danger to you does not lie in the base need to sustain my existence.
I would never harm you, my friend.
It lies in the imperilment of your soul that further contact between us would bring.
I would not, for all the world, deny you the eventual reunion with your Emily.

Yet I wish you to know, that our encounter, be it forged by God or chance, has given
my soul respite.
The pressure of guilt has eased with our conversation and I leave this place stronger
and more at peace.
I am not meant for the world of men.
My continued existence is reliant on the distance and detachment I require in order
to exist among you. I do not speak of the danger to my physical self.
You awaken in me longings and desires for those simple pleasures that all of us
must have to feed our souls.
I must seek these things among my own kind.
We are the damned and fit company only for each other.


I will think of you often, Morgan and perhaps, one day I will hear your name spoken of,
as a great artist who overcame personal tragedy and forged himself a place in the world
that will be remembered for all time.

Whose works touch the hearts of all those who see it as the man himself has touched mine.

Louis

Epilouge

The Painting;




London, England: Present Day.




Pushing his way through yet another group of overdressed socialites with shrill voices and plastered-on smiles, Lestat wondered for the fifteenth time why he had agreed to come tonight.

Running into Jesse in London had been a pleasant surprise, so had the fun the two of them had had over the following few nights. London was not a place Lestat normally associated with a good
time. To him London was cold weather, dripping eaves and stuffy boardrooms.

This trip had not, until he had encountered his redhaired friend, been any different.
Only pressing business could drag Lestat to England these days. David was no longer a resident of the country, preferring to spend his time in Rangoon, or wherever the Hell they were living these days, with Maharet and Mekare, digging through piles of boring, dirty old documents and discussing their finds over endless cups of untouched tea.

Jesse was usually to be found there as well, but she was in London to pick up some artwork
and relics that Maharet had her eye on.
In this exhibition as it turned out.
She'd dragged him along, a mischievous glint in her eye, promising him that he would enjoy
the exhibits, but so far he'd seen nothing of interest.

Eighteenth century paintings of long dead lordlings with their accompanying horses, hounds
and pastoral scenes, complete with haystack and the odd milkmaid, didn't grab him at all.

If he could find Jesse and persuade her that it was time to evacuate the premises then maybe they'd still have time for some real fun before he had to leave.

New Orleans was calling; it was time to go home.

He hated it, if he were gone to long and this trip had definitely gone on too long. He wanted to be in his own house, with his own things. He missed them; he missed Louis, whom he hadn't seen in quite a while.

Louis came and went as he always had, as he always would. Some nights he appeared in the doorway,
a quiet smile on his face and would stay for weeks. Other times, his visits were brief, involving a little conversation, a rented video and a quick peck on the cheek as he left. No matter if the visits were long or short, Lestat treasured every encounter with his beloved fledgling and wished himself back home right
now, instead of in this room full of stuffy, well-bred wannabes.

At last he spotted a halo of bright red hair across the other side of the room. Diving through the crowds without apology for trodden toes or tipped drinks he honed in on her, determined to corner the wench and to drag her out the door by her crowning glory if necessary.

"Ah, there you are." Jesse said brightly as he approached the corner where she stood, nursing a drink.

"Can we go now?" Lestat said plaintively, his irritation with this crowd growing, as Jesse's enjoyment of the evening became apparent.
She didn't look like she'd be easy to shift.

Jesse tilted her head and looked at him…strangely.

"You haven't seen it, have you?"

"Seen what?" He tapped his foot, hoping that perhaps this would be the hint she needed.

"What I brought you here to see," she said, shaking her head at his obvious impatience.

"Come on, I guess I'll have to stick it right under your nose."

Reluctantly, Lestat followed Jesse's shapely form as she wiggled her way through the crowd, which parted for her like the Red Sea.

Maybe I should wiggle, he thought. If that's what it takes to get these people to move!

Jesse had led him into an annex, a small room off the main showroom, filled with paintings that were all; it was obvious from first glance, by the same artist.

The colours in these works were phenomenal.
Rich layers of purple, gold and blue, the hues of the night, wove magical spells of form and texture that grabbed at his attention like the pallid tones of the English country scenes in the next room never could.

These paintings spoke to him. They were representations of his world.

He said as much to Jesse who agreed.

"They are, aren't they? It's haunting, somehow. Almost like he knows."

The smile on her lips was secretive, amused.

Exasperated with her games, Lestat wandered away, coming to a halt before one particular work.

A castle at night, somewhere in Europe he'd guess. It was a brooding piece, but not menacing.
It was as if the castle itself were deep in thought, ancient and calm.
The battlements were scarred; reminders of war, but the bricks themselves seemed to emanate a
hard-won peace and tranquillity, as if many years of pain and suffering had gone into their formation.

"Who's the artist?" he asked Jesse, not taking his eyes from the painting.

"An Englishman by the name of Morgan Harwood. He was born in London in 1836 and died in 1891 in
Hamburg. Not much more is known about him, except that he spent many years in Venice, from where
he toured the rest of Europe, painting. And that he was thought by his friends and peers to be
eccentric, if not slightly insane."

"He was marvelous." Lestat whispered, lost in the painting.

"You haven't seen the kicker." Jesse spoke from directly behind his shoulder.

Reluctantly, he dragged his eyes away from his perusal of yet another wonderful work.

"Kicker?" he asked, allowing her to drag him by the hand across the room toward the opposite corner.

"The reason I wanted you to come tonight.
You have to see this."

She came to a halt in front of another of Harwood's paintings.
Lestat straightened his cuffs before looking up.
His hands fell slackly to his sides, his mouth open in astonishment.

"It's…." He found himself unable to speak.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Her voice was low, reverent almost.

This painting was of a man seated at a small table in an anonymous room.

The focus was not on the room's contents; they were little more than sketchy outlines. The subject was the sitting figure and the scene through the window over his left shoulder. Painted in rich, dark hues of burgundy, cream and blue, the portrait was of Louis.

Lestat moved closer, straining to believe what his eyes were telling him.

It was Louis. And it was beautiful: capturing precisely and with obvious affection that mixed expression of sorrow and soft humour that was so typical of him.

He knew him. Lestat thought with growing wonder. He knew my Louis..

Other details in the portrait began to impinge upon his consciousness. The scene through the window, painted with such detail, Lestat recognized as being of Venice in the eighteenth century.

In it, the figures of the shopkeepers and town dwellers were doing battle with the forces of evil. Demons and witches held scythes and spat fire. A cathedral burned and children were impaled on spikes from its bell tower.

But in the midst of all this chaos some figures moved through the scene unharmed, untouched by the
evil surrounding them. They were not, however, looking to the heavens in supplication as was common in works of this era.

These souls were not looking to God for aid.

Rather they seemed to be merely walking alone, inviolate and self-assured, they trod over the bodies of those less fortunate on their way to whatever destiny awaited them.

And there was Louis. Sadly knowing, yet calm.
A compelling oasis in the midst of the madness.

Lestat found he could hardly breathe.
This was his Louis, in more ways than anyone could ever know.

The soft, green eyes, the full lips and swathe of ebony hair that he loved so well. The graceful way he held himself, even in repose, was captured by sweeping brushstrokes. The expression that spoke of great sorrow and loving patience immortalized in oils.

Yes, this man had known Louis.

Reluctantly, he stepped back. He wanted this painting. To have it, to be able to cherish all that it represented for him. But the single red dot on the corner of the frame told him that someone else had already seen the tranquillity this piece promised and had purchased it for themself.

Well, they would not have it. One way or the other it would come to be where it belonged, with him.
He would find out the name of the person who had purchased his painting and, if they would not sell it, then they would give it up another way.

"Jesse," he breathed. "I have to have this."

Jesse stepped forward and her arm about his waist. He hugged her tightly in mute thanks.

"I thought you'd say that." She said.

"How do we find out who bought it?" he asked.
"I want to make them an offer."

"You don't need to, Lestat. It's yours."

She was grinning now, a triumphant smile that said she knew how incredibly happy she'd just made him.

"You bought it for me?" He couldn't believe it.

"Uh-huh. Couldn't let anyone else get their sticky fingers on it, now could I? I spotted it the first night I was here, before the opening.
I persuaded the manager to make an early sale."

"I somehow knew you'd want it," she teased.

He turned back to the painting,his painting.

This portrait was intended for him.

For someone who knew and loved Louis as much as the artist did.

That was the point of its existence.

He wondered at the story behind it. If Louis would tell him and, if he chose not to, did it truly matter?

He didn't think so.

The love behind such a creation needed no explanation, not to someone who shared that love.

"What is it called? Does it have a title?" he wanted to know.

"Consorting with Bedlam." Jesse replied.

Ah yes, he thought.that's it.
That's it exactly.

And in the midst of Bedlam, there we find peace.

************************
Fin
Beverly and Mischa
April, 14, 2000.