Disclaimer: This is a work of non-profit fiction, the characters contained within belong to Anne Rice and her publishers. No copyright infringement is intended.

Spoilers: TotBT

Dedication: For Pat and Dragonwhelp, who both know the thrill of the written word.


It never ceases to amaze me at the mental deficiency of the mortal mind.

Insecurity and fear of the unknown kept your ancestors alive but now this seems abandoned in the haze of searching for the next ephemeral thrill, something larger, more lethal, to convince yourselves that you are still in a living state.

Long ago I had stopped concealing what I am from you.

I displayed the luster of my flesh to your hungry eyes, and exposed the numbing coldness that throbs from the surface of my skin. But still you came, flaunted your nubile bodies, and begged for any kind of sexual deliverance.

It tires me that you would throw away your fleeting time on this earth for a few hours of carnal pleasure.

Therefore, I adapted my nightly routine, and dressed in my uniform black, adding calf leather gloves to mask fingernails that reflected the light, and leaving my hair loose to swallow up the paleness of my face. Nearly a new century and I behave in the same manner as I did on the eve of the last one. Progress is sometimes difficult to comprehend.

Random thoughts on this mid winter night try to drive me away from my purpose. An irritation builds deep inside, I do not want to be here, but the summons, from Maharet, did not contain a clause for refusal.

The night is polar cold and crisp with the stillness born from a new snowfall. My feet sink into the snow-frosted grass leaving a trail of lonely footprints. Slowly I turn and place one foot, heel to toe, in the last footprint.

"Trying to erase yourself?"

His soft voice floats across from beneath the shelter of a huge oak, its branches stretching witchlike towards the snow pregnant sky.

"Now why would I desire to do that?" I reply to his question with one of my own. It was a habit born from familiarity.

"So what brings you to this arctic land?" Again, another question, as he stands and shakes the virgin snow from his clothes.

I motion towards the Elizabethan manor house with its deep pitched roof, narrow gables and numerous chimneys, sleepily silent and unaware of the turmoil raging in its innards.

We fall into step side by side, strolling around the exterior of the house like two English Lords.

I let him pick up the thought from my mind and his mouth curls up at the edges in a gesture modern society would call a smirk.

He meets my eyes and for a moment a silence hangs in the icy air.

I break the fragile thread that joins us.

"Is this the end for him?"

"Damn it, Santino, lose the questions, boy!" He laughs then, and displays his infectious smile.

Pursing my lips I incline my head to one side, and survey my companion.

"Did I ever inform you that lesser vampires would be a collation for daring to call me that?"

He stamps his feet on the cobbled path that leads to the main doorway and blows on his fingers.

"You are an unmanageable wretch, Santino, but I refuse to argue with you while we both turn to blocks of ice."

He makes his point by heading purposefully for the door.

I watch him briefly before following.

I know he will pause to let me open the door, as his own strength in such simple matters is difficult to coordinate.

A curtain of warm light floods from the house as I open the unlocked door and I hesitate before stepping over the threshold. Comfort is something I do not crave like others of my kind. I find that it relaxes the mind and body, leaving one vulnerable to attack. It has been a long time since I have been inside a dwelling, especially one as welcoming as this. My companion strides past me and enters the vast hallway, his boots echoing on the tiled floor.

I raise one eyebrow at the sound and he waves his hand at me.

"There is no-one in this wing of the house save our asinine relation and his mortal protector."

I bow my head slightly in a grateful gesture as I scan the house for signs of life. I have not survived for so long by believing anyone.

"Our host has a most prolific art collection, and a keen eye for colour." He wanders to a trio of small prints hanging in an alcove by the staircase.

"Our host would be most honoured to know that Benjamin the Devil approves of his taste," I reply, trying to keep the irony of the situation from my face.

"We have met before, Santino, at that accursed concert, remember?" Khayman runs one finger appreciatively across the surface of a muted watercolour.


I freeze in my reply as I pick up another presence from the garden.

Khayman narrows his eyes and comes to my side, placing his hand on my shoulder and focussing his vision beyond the door.

A slight tremble from his body is the only evidence that he has taken the life of the whelp outside.

"She was newly made and weak. The blood sang like a crazed marionette in her veins. We must eliminate the runts for they are our greatest danger."

A little shrug from his shoulders and he leaves me to continue his inspection of the artwork. I admire him for his ability to play God for our breed and wonder on this new side to him. Since the night of Akasha's downfall, this simple vampire has undertaken a new role, to rid the night of the ones who the blood had driven to madness. He does not seek them out but if they cross his path, they are eliminated. Dark thoughts sweep into my mind that this is his way of absolving his guilt from the past. To incite a rebellion against Akasha and Enkil he made his own immortal army of blood drinkers and driven by blind rage, he gave the power to any that desired it.

Many of these tortured souls were crushed in the war that followed.

Now he takes the lives of these lesser vampires. I muse upon whether it is to end their suffering or to balance the chaos that exists in his child like mind.

This immortal with the skin as solid as bleached bone on a desert beach, did not need to kill to live, but I had accompanied him on hunts where the pleasure was etched on his face when the blood pulsed into his mouth. I did not care for his method of breaking open the bones to suck out the marrow but it was his preference. I contemplate upon whether there would come a time when the blood would be only a stimulant and I would crave the core of my victims.

He breaks into my meditation.

"The termination, did it offend you, Santino?"

I absorb his question fully before answering.

"I knew nothing of her past, of her parentage, but your judgement in my company has never failed. In these cases I strive not to form an opinion, but forgive me if sometimes deeds cause me to reflect."

He nods in approval at my answer.

This is a game we play and had played for centuries. He appears from the shadows when the loneliness plagues him and the questions flow between us like a river to the sea. He is the closest thing to a confidant that I had ever had, but we both would not admit to the chemistry between us. That was a weakness and one displayed by the fledglings of our breed, a trait not known in the days of old when solitary survival was the most basic instinct. The witch hunters and shamans were rife in every village; to survive each night was at best, nearly impossible. Now the fledglings were fat and lazy with complacency, they did not have to fight to stay alive in this era of ambrosia, they forged friendships and lovers like the mortals they fed upon. A recipe for disaster and now the most bold of them lay in agony beside a roaring log fire, the victim of his own deranged notions.
And they all wept. But why?

Part 2

"Could you save Lestat?" More questioning from my head. I am content in my own knowledge until I am in the company of this Egyptian ancient with the hair as black as the Kemet soil of the Nile valley.

He stops suddenly in his tracks, and turns to me with a serious expression on his face.

"If he drank from me he would survive, but I can not offer him my vein. Lestat drank from She who made me; he has all he needs to survive. It is up to him if he wants to continue. I'm not here to offer him the easy option."

I am mildly surprised at his words and I catch a glimmer of irritation in his voice. Lestat is obviously not close to his heart.

"They will come in their droves to worship the fallen Prince," Khayman pauses at the entrance to the drawing room, "for he has shown them that immortality does not mean anonymity. But at what price?"

Khayman settles his hand upon the doorknob and turns it silently, opening the drawing room within. I smile at the concentration etched onto his face.

The room is of modest proportions with the glow of embers in the welcoming hearth. Lestat lay in the library, the room beyond, watched over by his mortal friend, David Talbot.

I survey the trappings of a mortal life around me. The room is small and faces northeast, a single lead mullioned window just visible between the drapes. The drapes of burgundy velvet edged in gold ribbon hang from a dark wooden pole, the weight of the fabric causing the pole to curve in the centre. Oak paneling covers the walls, almost to the ceiling and many prints and photographs jostle for supremacy upon the old wood. Smiling faces on these photographs of David Talbot as a young and middle aged man, faces of his Talamascan colleagues, faces of the dead. He is one of the last remaining, his breed nearly extinct.

I wipe the droplets of snow from the ends of my hair with my fingers and rouse myself from my thoughts.

"Why are we here?" I voice the most critical issue in my head.

"To observe." His reply is swift and non-committal.

"In the house of a Talamascan, we are here to observe?" I am animated by the irony of that thought.

Khayman studies me for a brief moment.

"Santino, I know enough about you to realise that you doubt my answer. If we are not here to observe, why do you think we are spending the night under this roof?"

I meet his gaze, slamming up my shields against his gentle probing. He is my friend but I let no one enter my mind without consent.

"I believe we are here to nursemaid Lestat, to watch over him, yes, and to protect him in his frailty too, against ones that seek to claim his crown. For some reason our kindred needs to protect him, you know that but you don't know why." It was a bold statement but I always speak my mind in issues that matter.

He lowers his head and stares into the bright coals, deep in thought as he forms his answer.

"For better or for worse he will be our salvation or our damnation."

A small shiver runs down my spine at the tone of his voice.

"We are to be invisible I assume?" I pick up an empty glass tumbler, inhale the interior, and change the subject of our conversation, as I know that when he feels pain he will withdraw within himself, like a snail in its shell.

"We are to use our initiative," he smiles at me sagely, dark brows drawn together in good humour.

"You do realise that when he is fully recovered his ego will be utterly uncontrollable." I stretch my body in front of the gleaming coals letting the luxury seep into my bones for an instant.

"Lestat's ego is as much a part of him as the sand in the desert," Khayman continues as he settles on the old Chesterfield, nimbly tossing a cushion from his feet to his hands. "It's going to be a long night, Santino, make yourself at home." He motions with his eyes towards the adjoining chair.

I sit down on the edge of the chair and fold my arms.

"Why am I here, Khayman, just to keep you company?"

"Santino, I swear that if you ask me one more question tonight……" His voice trails into silence.

"You are here to restrain the one known as Louis de Pointe du Lac, if he appears. His emergence could be catastrophic; Lestat may not be able to deal with his arrival. We will both be needed to calm the raging waters if this transpires."

I nod and exhale deeply. I had seen first hand the bond between Louis and Lestat on the night of Akasha's downfall. I did not know of what had occurred between them since, only that Lestat had spurned his fledgling in favour of the mortal, David Talbot. Lestat had gone into the sun without bidding farewell to his Creole fledgling.

A small whimper of pain from the room beyond bleeds through the gap around the door that separates us. I glance at Khayman as I stand and carefully peel back the heavy lace curtain that covers the glass-paneled door.

I absorb the room and its contents. Another small dark space crammed with the past, this one sports keepsakes from David's many travels, carved ivory animals from Africa and silk screens from the Far East. Weapons too, guns and swords hang upon the walls, surrounded by the stuffed animal heads they had killed, staring glassily into space.

Lestat lay, covered in a beige flannel blanket before the fire. One hand rests upon the stone hearth, and the flames glint from his preternatural nails. His pale hair fans out onto the tiger skin rug and I can see his profile clearly from my vantagepoint. My eyes are drawn to his skin, tight against his bones and glowing with a sticky caramel hue. The blisters on the surface of his face are wet and raw with newborn anger.

"Did you ever read Wolfgang von Goethe?"

Khayman's question catches me unprepared.

He continues.

"There is a well worn copy of Faust on the table," he nods with his head towards the library, and I notice the book, and wonder how he knew.

"I remember having a very heated discussion with Armand concerning if we, as vampires, sold our souls to the devil, because in life we had not experienced complete satisfaction, that we crave something more."

I turn to him and carefully choose my answer. "Doesn't that depend on whether the vampire concerned had the choice in his fate? For those of us that were given the Blessing unwillingly how can that be?"

A strange silence hangs over the room as Khayman contemplates his reply.

"I bow to your point, Santino, but I must add that if we had a choice how many were truly satisfied with what mortality offered them."

"Marius." I fling the name almost flippantly across to him.

"Marius has the cleverness and wit that his era dealt him, a certain sophistication, shall we say. He has the open heart of a child, always searching for ways to define and understand the human spirit. I believe that your assumption could be true, dear friend, Marius would have been happy to stay a mortal and to die an old man with white hair and flocks of grandchildren at his feet. But look what we, as a race, would have lost."

I meet Khayman's gentle gaze and hold it somewhat stubbornly.

The name of Marius is a thorn in my side and one that I did not often utter. No doubt my mention of it had freed more questions in my companion's mind.

I am not now of the mind set of the vampire that stormed that Venetian haven and sounded the death knell on the courteous Roman. My reasons then were genuine and formed from what I knew and what I believed in. Time has changed my opinion but I still have to live with the past.

"What of the Talamascan?" Again I change the subject swiftly.

A small spark of amusement in Khayman's eyes shows me that I am forgiven for my outburst.

"David is an exceptional mortal, he does not want our gift even though he knows that his own death is near. He has shown Lestat that immortality can be refused, something that our Prince believed was impossible. The bond between them is uncannily strong. I want to document this night."

I feel my eyes widen slightly at this statement.

Khayman chuckles to himself and puts his hand on my shoulder.

"The Talamasca does not have the only right to watch and observe. Lestat may be presumptuous and highly strung but his existence is legendary." His gaze floats across the room as he chooses his next words. "This may also be the last chance the Great Family has to document his travels. There is talk, from Maharet.."

He purses his lips together and stops suddenly, his face a mask of contemplation. I know better than to further the conversation.

"He will survive the burning," the thought leaps from my mouth like a caged bird.

Khayman nods, "tonight was the crucial time. I have felt his heartbeat grow stronger with each passing hour. The others come but hover far away, too ill at ease to come closer. No doubt they sense your presence, Santino."

He grins at me and I return the gesture openly.

"I am but a witness," I reply, and let him see the mirth in my eyes. "Let them attend to their Prince and converse of his endevours in hushed tones. Maybe we need a hero?"

I let a smile play on my lips as to the absurdity of this statement. "Lestat is, without a shadow of a doubt, a vexation without explanation."

What I had conceived in my fevered mind during those dark nights in Rome, of what a vampire should be, was laying motionless a few feet from me now.

Centuries pass and I am not as I was then, but my words resound in my ears, as my memory torments with images of a desecrated dwelling, fingers of flame reaching towards the Venetian night.

Khayman is blessed with his ability to forget, I wish it were that simple for me.