Part 2

Memnoch

He whispered the name aloud and was superised at the fearful glimmer in his own voice.

By the name, the creature stepped right through Lestat’s closed bedroom door. The candles that had been light seemed to leap of their wicks, flames reaching up the very ceiling and threatening to light the house on fire. They cast shadows on the face of the two devils of the room, both the literal one and the figurative one, seeming to scream, "I KNOW HIM! MEMNOCH THE DEVIL!"

The same face. The very same. The one Lestat had seen that night, which he had almost passed over, so plain-looking it was. Now it was his tormentor, come back from Hell to reclaim his prize Brat.

After the lump came out of his throat, Lestat tried to speak. He failed, and tried again. "What do you want from me?"

He had tried to sound brave. Unfortunately, he came off sounding more like someone pleading for his life. He realized that there was a bed post pressing into his back, and a pillow had managed to bury Lestat’s hand in it. What a foolish pillow. It was now becoming shredded beneath the strong grip Lestat hadn’t realized he held. And the bedpost was no smarter—cracks could be heard from it where Lestat’s back pressed strongly against it.

"Much," said Memnoch. Lestat heard more splintering wood against his back, and felt more feathers escape the pillow. "But," he added, "different things than before."

Lestat thought suddenly of hollering for Louis, but quickly discarded the idea, knowing that: one—Louis was already asleep, two—Louis would probably get hurt if he tried anything, and three—Lestat didn’t deserve the help.

He also started to wonder if he was imagining this. Maybe this was a dream. Maybe an illusion. Maybe he really was insane, and was hallucinating it. Considering the consequences, insanity seemed a delightful option.

"You are perfectly sane, Lestat," Memnoch informed him. He still hadn’t moved from standing just in front of the bedroom door, and even this small gesture—or lack there of—unnerved Lestat.

Lucky me, he thought. "I won’t go with you, Memnoch," he said, this time sounding a bit more convincingly iron-willed. "I already refused. Nothing will change my mind." The last sentence brought a slight tremor back to his voice.

"I don’t want you to come with me this time. I’ve accepted your choice."

"What do you want then?"

"Why are you asking me?" Memnoch puzzled, thankfully moving now to pace the floor as if he really wondered. "You don’t believe this is real."

"No, I don’t."

"Consider, what evidence do you have of my reality beyond your own senses?"

"I don’t know."

Memnoch approached Lestat and reached a hand out. Lestat braced himself for some kind of physical assault, but was absolutely taken aback when a warm hand gently stroked his cheek. The warmth of it sent a shiver through his body. "Why do you doubt your senses?"

"Because," Lestat said, "little things affect them. You may be the after-affects of drinking from to many drug users when I was younger. That stuff affects you badly, I hear. You could be a dream. Perhaps I miscalculated the time and I am now sleeping soundly in my bed." He pointed at his empty bed. "And as I said before, I may be insane. Armand could be right, and I should be chained up again, or destroyed."

Thinking about those concepts, though, Lestat knew that he didn’t really mean any of it. This was happening. He was just trying to humor himself.

Lestat looked down to see the damage he had done to the furniture. The pillow was now shredded beyond recognition, and there were feathers decorating his hand when he lifted it out of the fluff. He looked up to see one of the posts to his four poster bed bent and splintered in the middle. These actions were meant to stall. Though they made him feel better, he knew stalling would not work. So, he decided to use the time to mentally prepare himself for the kidnapping.

"I want," Memnoch said as if they had been speaking on this subject all along, "you to go with someone else." He smiled. How anyone could find humor at such a time was beyond Lestat.

Someone else… Did God still want him? Funny, that the being that represented evil should be more accepting than the good one. In a way, God may be a worse fate than Memnoch.

"Three people, actually," the devil corrected himself.

Lestat frowned. "This is starting to sound very Dickensian. Now I know I’ve gone mad. Let me guess their names! Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Yet To Come."

Memnoch smiled again, something about the expression bring back some of Lestat’s nerve. "Those were fictional beings."

…Said the devil to the vampire.

Despite the situation, Lestat had to laugh at that. It took a lot of his will to keep himself from roaring, and collapsing into a fit. After he had completely stooped chuckling he asked, still rather giddily, "Do tell, if not them, who?"

"You’ll see eventually," Memnoch assured him. He added, before he forgot, the fine print. "The first will come when you awake tonight. The next, and hour later. The final one an hour after that."

Now Lestat was perplexed. "Why did you come then? Simply for the pleasure of frightening me out of my wits?"

Another smile. Strangely, Lestat was starting to feel the mood change very slowly. It now seemed almost as if the two beings in this room were old friends, being reunited after years. "Tradition," Memnoch said simply, as if it explained everything.

"Well, the sun is coming soon. When will this ‘tradition’ be complete? I need sleep."

"Only one last thing to do."

Memnoch walked over the glass doors that lead to the balcony and threw back the heavy velvet curtains. Lestat squinted in the early light, which was still to weak to really hurt him. Memnoch beckoned for Lestat to join him.

When Lestat looked out, he saw basically what he had expected. The streets of New Orleans. Droplets of water sparkled on the rooftops in the pre-dawn light. Walking out onto the balcony and resting his arms against the iron laced rail, he saw that there were a handful of scattered mortals, shimming off to their early morning work. The only strange thing Lestat could see about the view was that the mortals had a strange milky white glow about them.

He didn’t think much of it until Memnoch started speaking again. "You once told one of your fledglings that hell did not want either of you. Do you remember?"

As he spoke, the glow became thicker and expanded. It filled the streets now, as far as the eye cared to look. Subtle patterns began to emerge. It was turning into a white sea of waves. "Louis," Lestat conformed, not really giving much thought to the answer.

The ocean took on bolder shapes. The outline of bodies began to show themselves through the hays. No, that wasn’t right. The white sea was the bodies. The people became clearer, more defined, until Lestat could make out each face. These strange shades wore clothes of every decade since any humans had lived on this land.

"That theory was a half-truth," the voice said behind him. He only half heard it now, though he understood what it’s meaning was. He was to focused upon the new creatures outside his window to do anymore than that.

The spirits seemed to be thicker around the mortals on the street. And, after realizing this, Lestat also saw that each spirit was reaching toward the closest human with what looked like pain on his or her face. It looked as if they were trying to touch the humans, yet the ones close enough seemed somehow unable to. As if some unseen force held them back.

"These are the people," the voice was speaking again, "that neither Hell nor Heaven wanted. They wasted their lives. Never searching for anything, never wanting anything, never working for anything. These are what is left of the people who’s lives were truly meaningless."

Lestat thought he recognized many faces. Victims, he supposed. Why, his victims made up almost half of the immediate crowd. If he only killed the evil, he figured, and many here had died at his teeth, did that make evil meaningless? No, that couldn’t have been. Evil was Memnoch’s business. If that was so, there would be much less spirits in Hell and much more here.

Looking up, perhaps to check the amount of time he had until the sun came, another sight greeted him. Countless more spirits, floating against the sky. They clung to eachother’s limbs in a tight mesh of milky white arms and legs and bodies. The sky was thick with them, each entwined to the others so tightly that even if the sun was out, Lestat wagered no rays would be able to peek through.

Each of their faces was a mask of pure sorrow.

"Why are they all so sad?" Lestat wondered aloud. He identified more of his victims in the sky.

"They are trapped here for all eternity," Memnoch explained. "They must watch this world forever without ever being seen or heard from or touched by the occupants of this earth. They must watch the illness and poverty of this world without helping. If they care to follow the courses of their relatives lives, they must watch them grow old, make mistakes, and do good deeds without being able to congratulate them or scold them or help them. They watch the hungry starve while knowing that, if they were still alive, they could save someone’s life by simply buying a meal."

It bore on Lestat’s conscious that many of these spirits could have been saved, perhaps, had he not shortened their lives. He had condemned them to such an awful fate. Of course, even if they had died naturally they may have suffered the same fate. But then, some of them must have been able to change their lives, if they had a chance.

Suddenly, all at once and without warning, the spirits on the streets turned away from their mortals and all empty eyes were on Lestat in his townhouse. He began to hear faint far off sounds. Hisses and shouts from this ghostly audience. Different voices shouting different things, but all seeming to lead to one thing. This is your fault, Lestat.

It was like the acoustics of his screaming fans during his rock carrier. Though this was in no way praising him. There were many faceless voices shouts, trying to make him hear what they had to say. "We could have changed if you had let us!" "Why did you do it?" "Why did you pick me?" "You should have left me time to change!" And the crowd seemed to pick up a universal chant.

"WE COULD HAVE CHANGED!"

Slowly, as was the manner of large crowds all trying to get to one place, the spirits progressed toward Lestat’s home. The chant grew louder and louder as the bodies became thicker at his door, banging against the first floor walls hard enough the whole house shook. Silently, some of the spirits from above broke off of their haunting net and floated down slowly to settle themselves very gracefully on the shoulders and heads of the ever-thickening crowd below. The mob below barely took notice. Soon there were two layers of spirits arranged at his door, all chanting and banging and blaming Lestat for every wrong ever done to them. A third layer was established soon, of more spirits from above, and a few of the more unruly from below.

Lestat pressed himself against the back wall of his balcony, as the spirits had now grown tall enough to reach through and above the iron lacing. They were reaching to him, arms like writhing worms trying to capture him. In a panicked days Lestat realized the Memnoch was no longer there. He was now alone with these crazed, tortured spirits that were thirsty for his blood.

Then a group of ambitious mounted atop the ones reaching through the lacing. There was a loud, ear-splitting creak, and the laced bars fell to the ocean of the crowd. Now that there was nothing keeping them back, the creatures vaulted to the balcony-proper.

Time seemed to slow.

The chat grew ever louder, now more of a screaming hum, words melding into one another and creating an incoherent screech. There was a blinding pain in his head, and Lestat clutched at his head as blood began to pour out his pierced eardrums. He doubled over in pain, but still could not cease the screaming.

Now white fingers were reaching for him. Twisted, bleached twigs on the limbs that were these monster’s arms pulled at his clothes roughly and tried to pry his body out of the fetal position. Strong hands, not what he had expected from ghostly wraiths, punched him at all sides. Several hit his spine, and he could begin to feel sharp broken shards of vertebrae come out of his back.

A punch hit his temple with blinding force and he felt his scull crack.

His vision dimmed. All the terrible screams and sounds of his bones breaking stooped. A glorious numbness filled him. He no longer felt any pain or any fear. Only warmth and a knowledge that it was all over. This moment of pure peace felt eternal.

He began to dimly realize that someone was screaming again. His pulse quickened. He was no longer warm, but extremely hot from a panic that seized him. Thankfully, he still felt no pain.

But that screaming was annoying. Only one person screaming this time. A voice he knew, but couldn’t place the owner or what it was saying.

A sudden awareness hit him and he sat up quickly. His pulse was racing, making him both chilled and uncomfortably hot at the same time.

He was in his own bed. There were no spirits trying to get their revenge. Memnoch had not come to visit him.

And he was screaming hysterically.

"LLOOOOOUUUUUIIIIIISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! LOUIS! LOUIS! LOUIS!

By the feeling in his throat he had been screaming the same thing for a long time without even knowing it. He tried to stop but could not.

"LOUIS! LOUIS, HELP ME! LOUIS!"

His door slammed open and Louis was immediately at his side, asking what was wrong, giving words of comfort—and taking Lestat’s breath away with his beauty. But that was beside the point.

Louis was with him now. He was safe. He could stop screaming. There were no ghosts trying to blame him for their own misfortune. There was no Memnoch. It was only a dream.

But one more problem arose. Now that he wasn’t shouting, he felt sobs catching in his throat and tears welling in his eyes.

All he wanted to do, and all he did, was hug Louis as tight as he dared and weep long and hard upon his beloved fledgling’s shoulder as Louis whispered sweet endearments and comforts to him.

"Shhh, Lestat silencieux. Je suis ici. Vous êtes bien. C'était seulement un rêve. Je vous ai. Je vous aime. Il est bien."

Eventually Lestat decided he would stay in that position all night. It was such a comfort to be able to touch Louis again, and Louis was very kind in not demanding a description of the dreams. Only comforting him.

They were both so distracted by Lestat’s problem, neither noticed the pale figure leaning in the corner.

Part 3

Lestat had quieted considerably, but was still holding tight to his fledgling as if they would both vanish the moment he let go. Louis had begun rocking Lestat gently in his arms as a mother might do to quiet an upset child. He was still whispering his quiet endearments and, when those ran dry, he hummed an old Creole lullaby.

Lestat’s mind was racing between two realities. One in which he was debating with himself over whether the dream was real or not, the other which he was scheming to fake enough trama to get a kiss out of Louis. But every time he ventured far enough to make a plan to achieve this latter goal, his mind flew back again like a strong spring released to it’s first position, and presented the same problem to be worked through, “was it a dream or not?”

He thought and thought and thought it over and over and over again, and could make nothing of it. The more he thought, the more perplexed he became, and the more he ventured not to think, the more he thought.

Eventually Louis’ lullaby slowed then ceased, followed shortly after by his rocking movements. Lestat listened as his fledgling’s breathing slowed to the melody of a mortal’s sleep.

Now Lestat was stuck with the problem of detangleing himself, which he succeeded in with only a yawn and an eyelash flutter from Louis. Lestat, then, set to work on arranging Louis in what looked to be a comfortable position on the bed.

When his fledgling looked peaceful enough—and Lestat took the liberties of kissing every inch of his exposed flesh—he slipped on a navy blue satin robe and tried to make more plans.

He needed something. What did he need? A shower. Yes, Lestat hadn’t showered in quite a long time, and he now needed it badly, being doused with sweat and tears of blood.

But first—Louis’ sleeping form was just begging to be prancked upon.

Lestat needed to get him back for… What had the last one been? Oh yes, Louis had torn out all the pages of Queen of the Damned which concerned Jessica or the twins and glued them to the master bathroom wall, with a note that read,

“Lestat,
Call David quickly. I believe we are being haunted. I’ve just seen spirits on the walls.”

Lestat had made up for it by taking them off and framing them each individually, telling Louis they were “trophies of his genius” and scolding him for defacing a masterpiece.

Lestat was just about to begin switching the contents of his and Louis’ closets when the figure he hadn’t noticed became impatient and fidgeted in the corner.

From the being’s point of view Lestat looked just like a dear caught by a hunter and awaiting the bullet. He had his head cocked slightly to one side, eyes wide, jaw slacked but not open—the whole affect looking rather like a frightened kitten.

“Lestat,” the figure whispered so as not to wake the sleeping one, though Lestat mistook it for a hiss.

Lestat wasn’t really afraid anymore. If he was, it was a different fear that was hard to describe. He was trying to figure it out. Perhaps he was in shock.

It didn’t seem like fear. He didn’t seem to have anything to fear, really. Spirits couldn’t hurt… Well, this spirit wouldn’t hurt him. Would it?

Or had Nicholas de Lenfent remained insane even after death?

The figure, Nicki, fidgeted again. “Lestat,” he said again, this time clearer, “come outside the room with me. Our conversation will wake your sleeping one.

Nicki’s white hand flashed out of the shadows invitingly, and his figure turned it’s back on Lestat and walked out the bedroom door, opening and closing it silently instead of walking straight through as Memnoch had.

Nicholas’ whole manner seemed surprisingly inviting, not bitter as Lestat remembered it. It reminded Lestat vaguely of how the two had acted when they were still young, drunken mortals dreaming of violins and wolves and Paris.

It was completely unnerving.

The doorknob twisted, the door opened, and Nicki peeked his head back in. “Come,” he said, “we don’t have all night, and we’ve lots to see.”

This time Lestat followed obediently, but kept insisting silly things such as, “But—,” and, “You—,” and, “Nicki, please—,” and eventually,”—I’m sorry!”

The door safely closed once again, Nicki turned back to Lestat and gave him a dazzling smile. “I forgive you,” Lestat’s old friend, lover, and fledgling said. The breath that Lestat hadn’t realized he’d been holding was let out with a long sigh of relief. Nicki went on. “Lestat, it wasn’t even your fault. Well, it was as much yours as it was mine—let’s just say that. The coven kidnapped me and drove me insane to get to you. You did everything you could have done to help. None of it was your fault! And then you were trying to help me, and that didn’t exacly work out the way anyone had planned it. But, the point is, you have absolutely no reason to fear me.” He tapped a beautiful index finger to his temple as if to prove a point, “Everything has been fixed.”

Lestat was delighted to see this fire back in Nicki. Why, he looked as if Lestat would disagree with him and he was prepared to debate his point farther!

Still, despite the change of his moods, Lestat felt as if he should continue stammering. So, instead, he set his mind to absorbing every sight of Nicki while he still had the opportunity.

Nothing in his appearance had changed drastically. He still had the same dark hair, and Nicki’s unmistakable deep chocolate eyes. His skin was much lighter, though. Parchment white, actually, as pale as Lestat’s or one of the ancients. And when he smiled—and he seemed to now have an easy smile—his teeth were a normal vampire’s fangs.

He stood as gracefully as ever, feet not to far apart, toes pointing outward. The common stance for a fencer or professional actor or dancer. His hands were where most 19th century gentlemen’s were found when they were simply standing around with nothing better to do than look elegant—clasping each other behind the small of his back.

His clothes were his regular finery. A red frock coat embroidered with tiny gems, handmade stalkings, satin high healed slippers, a gem incrusted belt about his waist for his rapier, though no such weapon to be found.

Now in the light of the hall, Lestat almost expected Nicki to be translucent if he looked close enough, but, quite the contrary, Nicki seemed more precise an image than the soundings themselves. Perhaps it was that he was a twice dead vampire the made him stand out so boldly. Perhaps it was because Lestat was still slightly attuned to the nineteenth century styling, so modern thing looked imaginary compared to this classical man.

The classical man extended his hand quickly and snatched at Lestat’s. The sudden movement startled Lestat, and made him retreat a step, but when he saw the helpful but confused look on Nicki’s face he relaxed and let him clasp hands.

“Come,” Nicki said again, “as I said, we do not have all night, and I have much to show you. Are you ready to see it?”

He asked the question as if it really mattered one way or another. As if he cared. But before Lestat had a chance to answer, the room began to dim around him, like a smoky veil dropped over his head, leaving only the vision of himself and his spirit familiar clear. Almost as if a heavy fog had settled, the room’s shadows became denser and denser until only the dull yellow glow of what had been the light of lamps was left.

Just as quickly has it had left, the yellow glows became once again brighter, shortly followed by the rest of the scene. A new scene.

Now, instead of electrical lamps, the beacons were the tiny flames of candles, all strategically placed on the tops of immaculate bookshelves. A maze of bookshelves, Lestat observed. A labyrinth of books which two plain men in dull brown robes, just as immaculate, made their way through slowly, occasionally righting fallen books or switching the positions of volumes, as if it were their soul job.

“Do you know this place?” Nicki asked. He was now standing behind Lestat—perhaps for a more ghostly affect.

“Of course I know it,” Lestat almost snapped. He was slightly upset to be brought back to this place, at this time. He knew this scene as well as if it were an act in a play, had gone over it so many times while lamenting in his sorrow over what was about to unfold. “I could walk this great maze of books blindfolded if I want. You should know it too, Nicki. You were here at the same time I was.”

Nicki gently squeezed Lestat’s shoulder for an affirmative gesture. “I just wanted to see if you remembered too, that’s all.”

The room fell silent again.

Two whispered voices, then the sound of a pen quill scratching paper across the room.

Lestat moved toward where the noise had come from—knowing quite well what he would see—with Nicki close in toe.

An old priest stood over a table in the middle of the room, leaning over the child who was seated and focusing intently on his writing.

The priest was as unnoticeable as the others had been. Long, plain brown robe, sandals, wooden cross tied loosely about the neck.

The child he leaned over, though, seemed out of place somehow (of course he did, considering who he was!) He wore a tunic made of the same course brown material as the men in the room, which looked much too small for him. It only came up to just above his knees, which left his bare feet and legs dangling in the coldness of the air. He looked very young, couldn’t have been older than ten. His feet didn’t quite reach the ground in the high chair, so they kicked and dangled randomly, sometimes moving the youth’s whole body along with them with their force. His light blonde hair was cropped short, just enough to reach the tips of his ears, but it still effectively covered his lovely face.

He scribbled very slowly and precisely on his parchment, seeming eager yet unable to go any faster, and wanted to learn more but was disabled in the way of patience.

The little one looked up over his shoulder once, beamed at his teacher, and went back to his persistent scratching.

A loud muffled thump was heard a long way down a hall outside the vault. All the beings in the room—men, child, vampire, and spirit—raised their heads and watched the calculated progress of the sound of pounding bare feet on stone..

Another thump, closer this time, and a new child was collapsed right in the doorway, apparently not bothering to slow his pace long enough to actually stop, so, consequently, running into the doorway which he had been seeking.

He didn’t seem to badly hurt, because he almost instantly fell into a panting heap on the ground. He became a tangle of mostly bare flesh, a regular school boy’s tunic, and dark brown hair.

All the beings in the room continued to watch very calmly, as if this were a day-to-day occurrence, as the lad caught his breath.

At one point, the child raised his head to the other young boy, tried to say something that came out as more of a gasp, grinned between pants, and dropped his head again to commence his labored breathing.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the dark haired lad stood up and leaned against the doorway almost casually.

The priests searching the catacombs went back to their work without farther notice of the situation unfolding.

The little boy in the doorway raised a hand in greeting to the little boy at the table and grinned again. “’Stat,” he smiled at the boy, then turned to the priest above his schoolmate and took on a formal look. “Hello Father Conner.”

The blonde child looked puzzled for a moment, trying to remember the other boy’s name. They weren’t really friends, though by far not enemies either, only kids that went to the same place for schooling, so Little Lestat wasn’t really sure why they were suddenly acting to chummy. “Hello Nicki,” he said finnaly, sounding for all the world like just another little boy in a monastery, not at all like the future Vampire Lestat.

Young Lestat nodded politely but did not stand up.

At this, the dark haired lad broke into a series of babbles. “Lestat! Wonderful news! Your father has sent for you to go home, to get out of here! You can leave! You don’t have to do boring things like reading any longer—you can go home to your family!”

To his family…

Young Lestat took on the look of a blow up doll as someone slowly and cruelly deflated it. If the Lestat watching the scene looked close enough, he could pinpoint the exact moment of his childhood that he learned how to retreat into himself to kill the pain.

A tall figure appeared behind the child messenger at the door, who was followed by three other smaller figures. The Father Superior, known as Father Moreau, and Lestat’s young friends.

They all crowded into the room, children huddled together at the Father’s feet, all grinning except for the preist who had a solom look on his face.

“Lestat!” exclaimed one of the boys, “They’ve come, your brothers have come to bring you back home!” The others quickly joined in, voices overlapping each other in their excitement for the let down youth.

The Father Superior scuffled noisily up to the table, followed like a cloud by the ankle-biter children, still rambling on about how great it would be to go home. How could they not understand the boy’s pain? How could they want to go back to their pointless, dirty, uneducated lives when they could live in the priesthood?

“Young Lioncourt,” Father Moreau addressed the boy, “your father has requested your immediate return to your home. I am sorry you could not stay with us.”

The blonde child looked immensely innocent, watching the priest with big, sad eyes. “I don’t want to go,” he said simply in his clear boyish voice.

“You must my son,” Father Moreau assured, “your family has ordered your immediate return.”

“Why?” the boy asked, “he doesn’t want me at home, and I want to be here.”

“You must,” the priest repeated, “your family has ordered your immediate return.”

“I heard you the first time,” the boy assured, “and I asked why. Is it because I am of aristocratic blood and will not be honorable? I don’t mind. I like it here. Let me stay?”

So clear and sure the boy’s eyes looked when he made the request. He knew exactly what he wanted, but neither the priests nor the boys could figure out why. He is too young to know what he wants, they all thought, but anyone who was not blind could see the child knew exactly. Funny, that. His father ordered this—his father was blind.

Father Moreau visibly stiffened. The Little Lestat had shaken some of the priest’s composure, but he regained it quickly enough. “you can not stay,” he said quickly and without feeling, “Go with my blessing, Little Lioncourt. God be with you.”

He quickly retreated back the way he had come, dragging all four boys with him before Lestat could get another word in.

Part 4

The world once again abruptly faded. Once again, the scene darkened and the candles were left as dull yellow blotches against the blanket of black. But this time the young figure of Lestat was left suspended in the void.

He seemed to glow with an unearthly light, as if he were some angel illuminating himself with clear white light from the inside. As Lestat watched, his former body slowly changed. The child grew taller, his hair grew to shoulder length and got thicker and darker. It was still very light from being in the sun too long. His skin, though, was neither pale nor tanned. His face turned from angelically innocent to a well-breed teen, to a stunning young man. His colbat eyes sparkled with a supreme curiosity that Lestat hadn’t held for a very long time. His face was a touch sterner than the child’s had been, and was thinner than either the young or old Lestat.

The glow about him faded as Lestat watched, and the room began to fill in again as the now sixteen-year-old Lestat arranged his limbs in a sitting position and blended into his surroundings.

It was a very small room with wooden walls and floor, crowded with other young mortals. Seven, by Lestat’s count—four girls and three males. They all sat on rickety wooden stools, or worn luggage chests, or the dirty wooden floor. Though they were spread out around the room, they all seemed to gather at a large chest on the floor which was covered in what must have been a gallon of wine in bottles.

Each person held their mismatched goblets proudly, in good spirits, as if they drank from the best silver finery, which was filled to overflowing with the finest wine. Though, in truth, most of the cups were cracked or chipped, and the wine was the cheapest available.

Still, they took gulps often and refilled frequently.

The troupe was a bustle of voices, all trying to speak over the next, but still in good cheer. Occasionally one of the occupants would holler something of grand humor, and the room would roar in the laughter of seven drunken kids.

Upon closer inspection, Lestat found that it wasn’t a room at all, but more of a cart that could be changed into a stage with a few simple movements of planks, much like one would expect a traveling gypsy to posses. Realizing this, Lestat knew exactly when and where he was. Backstage, the night after his acting debut as Lelio, celebrating their popularity with all the other actors.

His former self sat on an old chest far in the shadows of a corner, shy but grinning widely with obvious joy. A frail looking woman who was sitting next to him on the bench placed herself beneath his arm and smiled. She was beautiful, but thin and figureless like a 20th century model. Dark hair coifed in many braids cascading off her head, pale skin still covered with thick white greasepaint and stage makeup. Her tiny form was trapped in the dark blue dress she must have used a costume earlier that day, because it exaggerated her figure even more than most dresses, and was more extravagant than a girl without noble blood might wear from day to day.

She was bolder than the young Lestat. She was usually the one to yell the comment that made the others explode into laughing fits—But then she would lean in close to Lestat and talk quietly to him, so no one else in the room could hear.

Part 5

“You remember this, I hope,” Nicki asked, closely inspecting the closest drunken man, “because I certainly don’t.”

Lestat responded lamely, “yes, these are the actors I ran away with. I think I told you about this once. Remember? Lelio.”

“Ah yes!” the spirit roared happily as if the mere reek of alcohol had intoxicated him. He moved to gawk at one of the women’s overdone costumes which she had not bothered to change out of.

“You were a hit!” he confirmed. “But, plans got canceled, so Gabriele bought you new pets, correct? Ha! Some consolation! Mutts for a life’s goal!”

He grinned at Lestat to show the words weren’t meant to sting.

“They weren’t mutts—they were purebred mastiffs,” Lestat half mumbled, half pouted.

Nicki ignored him and strode over to the shadowy couple in the far corner. He knelt down, waved a hand in front of the girl’s face, and looked amused at her lack of response. He looked back to Lestat, and pointed a blind finger in the direction of the girl.

“And who is this lovely child?”

Lestat joined Nicki near the two and stood proudly to the side of the couple.

“That is Corrine.” He couldn’t help but smile wistfully at the warm memories that accompanied her name. “She was my Isabella on stage.”

His smile grew, thinking of his time on stage with her. He couldn’t remember a word said, only the laughter of the audience, the affection he had for this girl, and the overwhelming feel of happiness. There really is no word for that feeling. Truly nothing compares to it.

“You loved her?” Nicki asked, almost cautiously.

Lestat wantonly watched his former self and the beautiful Corrine in the depth of conversation, looking for all the world like two young lovers. He hadn’t realized before that Corrine had been flirting with him. She acted as if she had to whisper into his ear, so that no one else could hear them, and in the process she would lean against him, pressing her front against his and bringing her lips so close to his ear it could be mistaken for a kiss.

He would smile wider and hug her to himself all the more.

She laughed at his wit, but not the measure of a flirtation. When she responded to one of his jokes, she had a habit of straightening her back, and letting her rich brown eyes flicker from side to side for a moment, then respond with her own sharp tongue.

Her wit was quick and sharp, but she didn’t poke fun at anyone behind their backs. When she did insult someone, it was straight to their faces.

For example, when one of the young men of the group noticed her flirtation and yelled, “Lovely Isabella! Come! Sit on my lap and whisper sweet nothings into my ear!” she straightened up, placed her hand on Lestat’s chest, and hollered back happily, “quiet Michel, you’ve had your ‘sweet nothings’ with every girl here and both the horses!”

The room roared.

She, of course, hadn’t said it to offend. Simply to get the subject elsewhere. It had worked.

She was now whispering to Lestat about going to Paris, and acting. Him and her. Alone, for King Louis. And how wonderful it would be to shed the rest of the troupe, and perform for royalty! And they would be rich, and they would be married. They would become the king and queen’s favorite performers, and her wedding dress would be of the finest lace and satin, embroidered with thousands of tiny, perfect pearls. King Louis would attend the wedding, as would Marie Antoinette. They would be wealthy, and famous, and, most of all, happy.

“Lestat,” Corrine whispered to him, “I love you. Do you love me? Will you stay with me forever, and be My Lelio?”

Lestat’s knees grew weak as his younger self only smiled broader and hugged the girl closer. Lestat knew what was about to be said.

Tell her you love her, you fool! he wanted to yell. she will stay with you if you do! She won’t abandon you with the others.

“Of course,” his younger form said, nonetheless.

“SAY YES!” Lestat screamed, though it was useless.

“She can’t hear you,” taunted Nicki’s voice from somewhere in the room.

“You know my answer, Mon Isabella.”

“He loves you, Corrine,” Lestat continued to whimper, “Even if he won’t say it, he loves you! Don’t… He’s just… Just, please, kiss him and love him and don’t leave!”

Lestat found himself kneeling on the cold wood floor, no longer finding enough strength to stand. He was shaking, overcome by this—of many—mistakes of his past.

His gaze traveled to the ground, trying for the second time in one night to hold back tears.

“Lestat?” he heard his name whispered by the familiar voice, now more tender and caring than it had ever been before. “Lestat, what is wrong?”

“Yes, Nicki,” he sighed, trying to gather his thoughts back together, “I loved her.”