The next evening when Louis awoke, he automatically reached over to turn on the lamp. When he lay back down, he was startled to feel a warm body next to him. For a brief instant, he hoped it was Lestat. Then, he recalled the events of the previous evening.

Frankie - or, François, as Louis already thought of him - was still in the death-like day slumber. It may have been his imagination, but Louis thought that the boy looked better than the night before. He found that deeply gratifying, although he could not say exactly why.

He rose, and went into the washroom for his nightly ritual. By the time he'd finished, and dressed, François was beginning to stir. That Louis found very surprising; if, as François said, he was merely a few weeks old, he should not be rising as early as Louis did. Still, it was always different for everyone, and then again, there was no telling who had done the Dark Trick.

Louis patted the boy on the head, and walked over to his computer. He first checked his email, hoping that tonight, perhaps, Lestat would have left him some hint, some indication where he was. He had been gone for the past three weeks, disappeared without a word. No one in the entire coven seemed to know where he was.

He knew that Lestat had been indulging himself, had been stalking the same mortal night after night. Louis had suspected that the human was a criminal, and had followed Lestat one night just to satisfy his curiosity. Lestat had noticed him, of course, and they'd had a terrible row, culminating in Lestat's departure from the Royale Street house. Louis had not seen him since.

It occurred to him that Lestat might have made this fledgling, just to spite him. That thought he pushed away immediately. After what had happened with David Talbot, Louis knew that he was not above working the Dark Trick on a mortal, with or without prior request, but to abandon that fledgling? No, Lestat had never done that. His ego wouldn't allow it. He had to be able to stand back afterwards, and say, "There. Look what I did! You see? I was right. You did want it after all." Childish, of course, but that was Lestat, the Brat Prince. No, Louis could not even entertain the thought that Lestat had done this terrible deed. It was beyond even him.

He skimmed through the messages, stopping to read only those from the other members of the coven.

Armand's, as usual, was filled with addresses of sites he thought Louis would enjoy. But, then, at the end, the answer to Louis's question. "No, Caro, we have not seen the Immortal Fool. Why don't you come and visit us, instead?" And, of course, the ESPN scores from Daniel. "Lou, I have tickets to the next three night games at Candlestick. Here's the dates. Can you come? I'll send the plane."

The others were equally as disappointing. Marius had been searching for Lestat ever since Louis had written of his disappearance, but could not hear him anywhere. David was sympathetic and also concerned, but had no helpful news. Even Maharet could not find him. It seemed as if Lestat had dropped off the face of the earth.

Louis answered them all, thanking them for their concern. He also quickly composed a thumbnail description of François and his story, and explained the situation to them, asking for any clues as to who had done the Dark Trick on the child. He made a point to state, unequivocally, that regardless of who his maker might be, François was now under his protection, and was therefore a member of the coven.

He sent this information to Maharet first. Although she would be the first to eschew any preferential treatment, Louis felt that it was merely what she and Mekare deserved. After all, Mekare was the source of life for all of them, and Maharet her guardian and link with the rest of the coven. On a strictly personal level, Louis had great reverence for the Twins, and great fondness for Maharet. It had been her story that given him the answers he'd so long desired.

Maharet responded almost immediately.

"My dear Louis," she wrote, "I am very grateful that you wrote me with this news. You know we can feel it when a new one is born, but I am afraid I know no more than you do about his maker. Of course, he will be welcomed into our little family. I will make certain that everyone knows this."

Louis was greatly relieved. He knew that Maharet's acceptance of François implied her protection as well; no one would harm him. He would be safe, at least from their own kind.

"I look forward to meeting him," she went on. "If you need any assistance, do not hesitate to ask. I would like to know more about him, and would greatly appreciate it if you would send me a more detailed account of his experiences. Or, if you prefer, I could come to see him sometime in the very near future. I leave it up to you, as I am sure you know what is best for him."

Louis immediately sent off a reply, inviting Maharet to come and stay as long as she liked. Naturally, no one in the coven really needed a formal invitation to pay a visit, but it was a courtesy most of them extended to one another.

He'd no sooner sent this, than he was literally inundated with messages from the rest of the coven. Most, like Maharet, wanted to know more about this fledgling, and all expressed total ignorance of his origin. He found it highly amusing, this reaction, and strangely comforting; unnatural as their relationships might be, they were indeed a family, and François was welcomed into the fold as lovingly as any mortal newborn ever was. Louis debated whether to invite all of them at once, and get it over with, or to expose François to them gradually. Taken en masse, the members of the coven could be, to put it diplomatically, overwhelming. Ultimately, he decided upon the latter. Explaining his reasons, he assured them that all would get their chance to meet François.

"Wow, are you really talking to Armand? The real Armand?"

Louis started. He had been so engrossed in writing, he hadn't heard François awaken. It took him a moment to regain his composure. "Yes, François," he replied. "It is the real Armand, and he is very eager to meet you." Louis slipped an arm around the boy's waist. "As are the rest of the coven."

"You really mean it?" He pushed the hair out of his face, and leaned forward to look at the computer screen. "Are they all real? The ones in the books, I mean. Armand, and Marius, and the Twins?"

"Yes, they are all real," Louis smiled up at him. "Would you like to meet them?"

"I guess so," the boy answered. Suddenly, he stiffened. "They won't try to kill me, will they?"

"François!" Louis was shocked. "Of course not. Where did you get such an idea?"

"The books," he replied. "In the one book, it said that Armand kills all the young ones."

Louis stood, and put his arms around the boy. "That will not happen to you, I promise. That was a long time ago, and it was entirely different circumstances. Here," he pulled up Maharet's message. "You see? She has said it, you are part of the coven, and that means no one will harm you." He embraced the boy again, then held him out at arms length. "You are no longer alone, François. You have an entire family, now."

"Just like that?" François asked, incredulous. "They don't even know me."

"They will, don't worry. In time, you'll meet everyone."

"Yeah?" François gazed up at him, eyes wide. "When?"

"Soon. For now, however, there are more pressing matters." He turned the boy around, and walked him to the washroom, snapping on the light as he opened the door. "Not to be indelicate, P'tit, but even mortals could catch your scent."

François wrinkled his nose. "Kind of smelly, huh? Sorry about that." He grinned sheepishly. "I haven't had a place to stay for awhile, and guess it's been a couple of days - I mean, nights, since I had a bath."

"Don't let it bother you." Louis opened cupboards and pulled out fresh towels, scented soap, and shampoo, stacking things on the long marble vanity. "You won't have to live like that ever again." He pulled open the etched glass doors, and pointed to the fixtures. "Now, this plumbing is a bit complicated. Until you are more familiar with it, I will adjust the settings for you." He twisted two dials on either side of a large lever. "These control the water temperature and the heat lamps up here," he pointed to a ceiling fixture. "I have set it at a level that should be comfortable for you, but if you find it too cool or too warm, please tell me, I shall change it." He turned his attention to a series of small knobs on one wall. "These control the amount of water, and the force. It can be a bit too much, if you ask me, but Lestat insisted upon this system. Waste of money," he muttered. "Now, you pull up on this," he indicated the large central lever, "and it turns on the water, you push it down, it shuts off." He pushed the lever in, and pulled up. Water gushed out an ornate faucet. "There, see how that feels," he said, smiling.

François tentatively put a finger under the flow. "That's okay," he said, wiping his hand on the pajama bottoms. "It feels nice and warm. I like warm, I'm always cold, now."

"Yes, I recall how that was," Louis replied. "You have not been feeding enough, that is part of it. It will dissipate somewhat. Now," he pushed the lever off, "you have everything you need. I will leave your clothes out here. When you've finished, you come downstairs, I will be waiting for you. Bien?"

"Yeah, thanks," François nodded. "I won't be long."

"Take as long as you like," Louis said, running a hand through the boy's hair. "Pay attention to the feel of it. Make the most of these new senses." He smiled warmly. "I think you will enjoy it."
He turned and left, shutting the door behind him.

François took in the room around him. The walls were tiled in gold, black and emerald, and a profusion of warm amber light came from numerous lamps set deep into the ceiling. There was a long, low bench of black marble, and a round table of the same material, with some small sculptures made of green stone, probably jade, he figured. Reaching out, he ran a finger along the surface of the table; it was very cold, but smooth, like satin. He spent some time running his hands over it.

He pulled off the pajamas, then realized with a start that he could not recall changing clothes. It disturbed him a bit, the thought that he had experienced yet another memory lapse. Then, it occurred to him that Louis had possibly done it, had given him these clothes and had taken his old ones away. That embarrassed him a little, but after a moment's consideration, he realized that it didn't really bother him that much. After all, Louis didn't seem the type - François had lived on the streets for some time, and could recognize a human predator - and anyway, it wasn't as though anything could happen. He'd learned that early on; watching a very pretty girl in a very skimpy top, he was shocked to find that his body no longer responded the way it had done for the past four years. That, if nothing else, had convinced him of what he had become; reading the books merely confirmed his suspicions.

He shrugged the memory away; no use crying over spilt milk, and anyway, if the books were true, he wasn't going to miss it much. He gathered up the soap and the shampoo, and turned the water on as Louis had demonstrated. The water gushed out of three separate shower heads, which were surprisingly only at his eye level. There were steps leading down from the floor level into the shower, and François realized that there was a large, sunken marble tub. Once inside, he shut the etched glass doors, and stood for a long time letting the water flow over him.

Louis had instructed him to savor the experience, to enjoy it, and François found that this was amazingly easy. He had never felt anything like this before. The warmth was wonderful, and the gentle pummeling of the water eased the aches that had plagued him since he'd begun this strange existence. It felt so good, he could almost forget about the pain on his hands and his neck, where he'd been burned by the sun, and he could almost - almost, but not quite - ignore the gnawing, clawing fire streaking through his veins.

That pain, at least, he knew how to cure, if only temporarily. The prospect of feeding, properly, as he'd done the night before with Louis's help, shook him out of his reverie. He washed his hair first, using too much shampoo so that it took seemingly forever to rinse out all the lather. Still, it felt wonderful to have all that stuff out of his hair; despite washing up in the various hotels he'd used, he'd never quite shaken the feeling of insects crawling through his hair that had come from lying in a tomb.

He vowed to himself that he would never, ever, do that again.

He washed his hair again, savoring the coconut smell, until it began to turn his stomach. Then, he grabbed the soap, and lathered up the face cloth. The cloth was soft and nubbly, and the soap was scented, something kind of spicy and sweet and exotic smelling; it reminded him of those voodoo shops the tourists loved. It was far superior to the nauseating flower smell of the poker-chip sized soaps the hotels had provided, and a damned sight better than the fountain in Audubon Park.

When he'd finished, he indulged himself again, just for a little while, letting the warmth soak into his bones. Then, reluctantly, he shut off the water, and climbed out. The towels Louis had left were as soft as the face cloth, and larger than the blankets in the last hotel he used. The heat lamp overhead was almost as good as the water, and he was dried in no time. Wrapping the towel around his waist - it dragged on the floor, and he had to double it over just to walk without tripping - he went back out into the bedroom.

Just as he'd promised, Louis had laid out his clothes on the bed. He was somewhat surprised to find that his jeans had been freshly laundered, and even the holes in the knees had been repaired. His Saints shirt was missing, but there was a stack of neatly folded shirts beside his jeans. Most were very expensive looking, and none had any manufacturer or size tags; he took the top one, a white tee shirt, and then, because he was still a little cold, added a soft black sweater. They were only a little too large, but felt wonderfully soft and warm. He couldn't find his shoes, either, but there was a pair of black leather lace up boots. There were several pairs of socks on the bed as well, and he found if he wore two pair, the shoes were a tolerable fit. He wondered where the shoes had come from, for surely, they would not fit Louis.

He returned the towel to the washroom, and then, taking a deep breath, stepped outside the bedroom. He found the hallway very well lit, and easily made his way back downstairs to the parlor he'd seen the night before.

Louis was not there, but from the next room François heard the rustle of paper. There he found Louis, seated at an enormous, ornately carved table. There was a newspaper unfolded on the table before him, and two large stacks on the floor beside his chair. Louis was bent over the paper on the table. He looked up when François entered.

"Ah, there you are," he said, smiling. "Come, sit down for a moment," he gestured toward the chair beside him. "You look much better. How do you feel?"

"Okay," François answered, pulling out the chair and sitting. "It feels good to be clean, and that shower was something else." He pointed to the papers. "You read all those papers?"

"Yes," Louis replied. "They are from other cities. I enjoy reading different points of view. Also," he smiled conspiratorially, "I am quite addicted to crossword puzzles." He indicated the half-finished puzzle before him. "It may be a bit disloyal, but I have to admit, the New York Times puzzle is the most challenging."

"How many of these have you done?" François asked. "Tonight, I mean?" He bent down and picked up a paper from the stack.

"All of them. This is the last." Louis looked back at the puzzle, and inked in an answer.

"You must read fast," François said. "I mean, I wasn't that long, was I?"

"Oh, only about - " Louis pulled out his watch, and flipped open the lid. "Just a little over two hours."

"You're kidding!" François exclaimed. "I wasn't in there that long, was I?"

Louis laughed lightly. "It's alright, François. I told you to enjoy yourself. Did you?"

"Yeah. But it didn't seem like that long."

"That's understandable. Your new senses are overwhelming right now. Enjoy these feelings, lock them into your memory, I promise you, you will never regret it." He glanced at the puzzle, and quickly wrote in another answer before turning back to François. "Aside from that, how do you feel tonight?"

"Um," François took a minute to assess his state. He was clean, he'd had a pleasant, warming shower, he had clean clothing, he'd slept in a comfortable, protected place, and he'd fed well the night before. "I feel pretty good," he admitted, surprised. "I feel better than I have since, well, since I've been - this way."

"You can say vampire, you know," Louis said, smiling. "There's no one else here. Your precaution is very wise, though. That is a very intelligent response, and a good habit to cultivate." He reached over and stroked the boy's hair. "You are a very clever young man, François."

"Thanks," François murmured. "You really think so?"

"Of course," Louis replied. "I wouldn't lie to you. I will never lie to you, François." He reached over, and grasped the boy's hand. "You can trust me, I am your friend."

François looked up into Louis's eyes. "You know, Louis, you're not like I'd thought you'd be."

"I'm not?" Louis frowned.

"No," François grinned suddenly. "You're a whole lot nicer than the books say."

"Those books!" Louis said, trying to sound stern and disapproving, and failing utterly. "I hope you are not intending to keep throwing those damned books up at me constantly."

"No," François said, shaking his head. "But I'm glad I found them, and I'm glad I found you. I owe you my life, you know."

"Now, now," Louis said, dismissively. "There's no need for melodramatics. Anyone would have done as much, given the circumstances." Louis knew it was a lie, he knew that there were some who would kill such a one as François, simply for his weakened state. There were some, even these days, who would kill him now, merely on principle. But François did not need to harbor such fears, not now.

What he did need, Louis realized somewhat belatedly, was to hunt. "Come," he said, putting down his pen and rising. "We must tend to necessary business." He pushed the chair back into the table, and nodded approvingly as François did the same.

"Where are we going?" François asked, following Louis toward the back of the house.

"Now? We have to let Mojo inside to have his supper." Louis opened a door, revealing a moonlit courtyard below. There were high walls on the other three sides, and a large, three tiered fountain, in which François could see large fish swimming about. Every spare inch of the courtyard was overflowing with plants.

They stepped outside, and François followed him down the spiral stairs that led down to the garden. They stopped beside the fountain, and Louis whistled softly. Immediately, a large dark shape came careening out of the shadows, panting and whining, to stop in front of them. Louis knelt, and scratched behind Mojo's ears.

"There," he said, stroking the dog's head. "Mojo, this is François." He gestured for François to come forward. "François, please hold you hand opened, so he can get your scent. Don't be afraid, he won't bite you unless you frighten him." François did as Louis directed, and Mojo snuffled his hand for a few seconds, then licked his hand, and looked up, panting. Slowly, François reached up and patted the dog's head.

"You see?" Louis smiled. "I knew he would like you. Mojo is a highly intelligent animal, and very loyal."

"He's a nice dog," François admitted. "He's so huge, though! When I first saw you with him, I thought he was some kind of wild animal, a wolf or something."

"Well, of course he is," Louis said, turning and climbing the steps. "Mojo is a fierce, dangerous, wild animal. Aren't you, Mojo?" The fierce, dangerous, wild animal pushed his snout under François's hand, forcing François to pet him as they walked through the house to the kitchen. While François continued to play with Mojo, Louis retrieved a large bowl from the refrigerator, and placed it on the floor beside an equally large bowl of water. The instant the bowl touched the floor, Mojo abandoned François's ministrations, and rushed to devour his supper.

"Is he always like this?" François asked, as he and Louis made their way to the front of the house.

"What, friendly, or hungry?" Louis retrieved his keys from the mantel piece. "Yes, to both, usually. Oh, I nearly forgot," Louis held up a hand, indicating that François stay where he was for a moment. He hurried up the stairs, and returned presently bearing two jackets. "It seemed a bit cool just now, I thought you might need a coat. See if this fits you." He handed one to François, and put on the other.

François took the proffered jacket, and tried it on. It was black, looked to be leather, and was lined with a very soft material. The sleeves were a bit long, but otherwise it fit fairly well, and François found it very comfortable. He zipped it shut, and they stepped outside, Louis locking the door behind them.

"Um, Louis?" François reached out, and touched Louis's arm as he started down the steps. "Since Mojo has had his supper, do we, um - "

"Yes," Louis turned back to him. "Now, we will have ours."

"Oh." François shoved his hands in his pockets; the night air was cool, not bitterly cold, and he was appreciative of the warmth the jacket offered. "I was wondering, but I didn't want to say anything."

Louis stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and turned to lock the gate behind them. "I thought as much," he admitted. "But, you may ask anything you wish. I am not offended, believe me." He smiled at the boy, and was gratified to see a lopsided grin in response.

Chapter Three

They walked along the banquette, heading away from the tourist-infested parts of the Vieux Carré, through the quieter sections and beyond, where Louis preferred to hunt.

"Listen to the night, François," Louis said, softly. "Listen to the sounds of the people inside," he gestured to the row of shotgun houses as they passed. They stopped before one house, and Louis put a hand on the boy's shoulder, stopping him. "Can you hear what they're saying?"

"Um," François cocked his head to one side, his expression intense. "There's a woman saying 'If you don't give me that remote, you're gonna pay,' and a man laughing, I think." He looked up at Louis in surprise. "Hey, how can I hear that from out here?"

"It's your new senses, p'tit," Louis smiled. "You are capable of many things now, things that you couldn't do before. Now, come along, you've eavesdropped enough. It isn't polite, and we don't want to attract attention."

"Wow," François looked back at the house, and smiled himself. "That's so cool."

"I expect you'll discover that you can do many more 'cool' things," Louis said, taking his arm to pull him along. "Right now, though, I think a more practical lesson might be more appropriate. Now, we re going to run, and you must keep up with me."

In an instant, Louis was gone, and François looked up to see him standing perhaps a quarter mile away, waving him to follow. Taking a deep breath, François ran as fast as he could, and before he could even exhale, he ran straight into Louis, who caught him easily.

"There you go," Louis laughed. "You see?"

"Yeah!" François was grinning ear to ear now. "That's so awesome! It's like, the Flash or Impulse, or something!"

"It is amazing," Louis agreed. "Now, this time, I want you to stay beside me. Do you think you can do that?"

"Oh, yeah!" François nodded enthusiastically.

Louis sprinted off, and in a heartbeat, François was at his side. The foot traffic was very light at this time of night, and the few mortals they passed took nor more notice of them than a shadow. Cars and buildings passed by in a blur, and in a few minutes, Louis reached out, and tapped François on the shoulder. They stopped, and François looked around to find they were at City Park.

"How do you feel now?" Louis asked. François, panting a little, just grinned at him. "Good," Louis said, slapping him lightly on the back. "I'm glad you understand. There is just one more thing I want to show you." He led François to the corner, where a newspaper box stood. "Grasp the handle, here, and twist it off," he demonstrated with a quick motion of his wrist.

François hesitated for a moment. "Louis, I can't -"

"Yes, you can," Louis insisted. "You are stronger than you know, François. This is what I wanted you to understand, this is what I have been trying to teach you tonight. You have immense power, incredible power, unlike anything you have ever known. Now, please, do as I asked." He smiled warmly at François, and nodded.

François paused, then nodded in return. He wrapped his fingers around the handle, and took a deep breath. He twisted his hand, and with a brief, tooth-gritting screech, the handle broke free. He stared down at the metal loop in his hand, then looked up at Louis, incredulous.

"You see?" Louis said, pointing to the wreckage of the paper box. "You did that. I bet you didn't even believe me, did you?" François shook his head sheepishly. "It's alright, I didn't expect you would." He relieved François of the handle, and tossed it away.

"I'm sorry, Louis," François said, following him into the park proper. "I was afraid it would hurt my hand. I mean, I knew you wouldn't tell me to do something to hurt myself, but I just - well, I was just afraid." He looked at the ground. "I guess you think I'm pretty stupid, huh?"

"François!" Louis said, sternly. "I don't ever want to hear you say that again!" He put his hands on François's shoulders, and pulled him around to face him. "Of course I don't think that! Mon dieu, what an idea!" François looked about to burst into tears, and belatedly, Louis realized that he had frightened him. Gently, he pulled him close into an embrace. After a moment, François returned the affection just as warmly, wrapping his arms tightly around Louis.

"Hush, now," Louis said, softly, as François snuffled into his shoulder. "I only want you to realize, you have nothing to be ashamed of, you are a very intelligent, clever young man. You figured out what had happened to you, didn't you, without anyone to tell you?" The boy shrugged, and nodded. "You learned to hunt, to hide from the dawn. No one taught you that, you learned it on your own."

"Yeah, I guess so," François sniffed, and nodded again.

"And do you know, I only just realized something," Louis said, turning loose of François to kneel before him. "You said you read all of Lestat's silly books, is that true?"

"Yeah," François said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "I read all of them, a couple of times."

"Do you recall, Lestat asked me how it was that none of the rogues had ever found me in my house on Divisidero Street? Do you recall that?"

"Yeah," François said, sniffing a little. "So?"

"François, you recognized me, you not only knew what I was, you knew who I was." Louis gazed at him in amazement. "You did what all those rogues couldn't do, you . . . you found me."

François was silent for a moment. "Yeah, I guess I did." He smiled at Louis. "I guess you're teaching me a lot of stuff tonight, huh?"

"Yes, I suppose so." Louis rose to his feet, and put his arm around François's shoulder, leading him into the park. "All I had planned to do was to teach you to recognize your strength, to teach you to hunt. You can, you know," Louis said, reaching into his pocket and removing a large white handkerchief. "Here, you should use this, not your coat sleeve. A gentleman doesn't use his sleeve." François took the neatly folded square, and wiped his eyes with it.

They walked along for a time, saying little, occasionally stopping to watch the wind blow through the trees or to listen to the sounds drifting in from around the city. Presently, they came upon a lone man, walking along the peripheral of a school fence. Louis pointed him out to François, and they stopped to watch him.

"You see him?" Louis said, so softly that a mortal standing next to him could not have heard. François nodded. "There is no one else around, that is of the utmost importance. First part of the lesson: no witnesses." François nodded. "Good. Now, the man." He clapped François on the shoulder. "He is the one, p'tit. Come along, and watch closely."

In an instant, Louis had sprinted across the street, François at his heels, to stop just around the corner from the man. As the man turned the corner, Louis stepped in front of him, and before the man could cry out, Louis had him pinned against the school building, teeth at the man's throat.

As François watched, enthralled, Louis killed the man quickly, and dropped the body to the ground. He leaned against the building, breathing hard, his eyes gleaming. François, worried that he was ill, ran to his side. After a moment, Louis bent to the body, looked to François, and smiled, fully displaying the fang teeth still limned with blood.

"François, you must watch. I prick my finger," he touched a finger to his fang, and a drop of blood oozed out. "Here, look closely." François leaned over, and watched, amazed, as Louis let fall a few drops of the blood on the wounds in the man's neck. Instantly, the wounds disappeared. "You see? No sign. And, now the difficult part." He looked about the area, and located a large loose brick. "We must make it appear a robbery gone bad." He took the brick, and struck the dead man on the back of the head. The neck snapped with an loud, sickening crunch. François flinched.

"Yes, I know, it is horrible." Louis said, noting the flinch. "Remember that, p'tit. You must never allow yourself to become accustomed to it, for if you do, if you become inured to the violence, you lose touch with humanity."

He tossed the brick away. "There. Another John Doe. Ah, mon dieu, I nearly forgot. Very bad of me," he shook his head. He took the man's wallet, and removed all the money and charge cards from it. "It is entirely up to you at this point, what to do with the money. You may keep it if you like, although not the plastic, of course." He pocketed the money, and dropped the plastic into a storm drain, along with the empty wallet. "I usually give it away, I have no need. But whatever you do, you must make it look like the motive for the murder.

"Above all, you must never forget that. Never forget, François, that what we are doing is indeed murder. It is necessary for us to live, but it is murder, nonetheless."

"I understand, Louis," François said, solemnly. And, he did understand. He looked at what had been a living, breathing human being just moments before, and in that instant, he thought he understood the meaning of life. He had killed, yes, he'd managed to survive, as Louis had indicated. He'd not even really thought about it, the first few times, some instinct had taken over, and he'd not made any conscious decision. But now, he understood what Louis meant. They had to live, and the only way they could live was through the death of someone else. "Life is really . . .something, isn't it?"

"Yes, François," Louis agreed, smiling sadly. "It is the most precious thing in the world." He leaned down, and looked straight into François's eyes. "I am very glad that you understand that. Many of our kind don't ever learn that." He smiled, very warmly. "I'm . . . proud of you."

They left the body there, and walked several miles in silence. Finally, François took a deep breath.

"So," he said, "that's how you do it."

"Yes, that is how it is done, François," Louis said. "You must kill swiftly, and as painlessly as you can make it. Their deaths will cause suffering to those who loved them, that is unavoidable, but we can see that they do not suffer needlessly. Also, do not intentionally terrify them. Do not - " he paused, searching for the word. "Do not toy with them, do you understand?" François nodded again. "It is enough that we must take their lives. That is necessary. We have no need to cause pain or fright." He made to reach in his pocket, then stopped abruptly. "Ah, if you don't mind? My handkerchief?" He held out his hand, and after a brief, puzzled look, François pulled out the handkerchief Louis had given him. Louis took it, nodded his thanks, and dabbed at the corners of his mouth. "That's better. Another lesson, that; not only is it proper behavior for a gentleman, but it is a matter of safety. You don't want any mortals to see you with blood on your lips."

"That makes sense to me," François admitted. "That reminds me. How do you keep your clothes clean? I mean, what if you, you know, spill some on your shirt?"

"You will learn, neatness comes with practice," Louis replied, handing the handkerchief back to François. "Now, it is your turn. First, listen." François did as instructed, turning his head slightly. "Do you hear that?" Louis asked. The boy nodded. "Good. Now, what do your ears tell you?"

"I hear somebody walking," he answered. "Walking fast, and over . . . that way," he pointed.

"How many?"

"Um . . . One. No, two - no, just one."

"Good." Louis smiled at him. "Now, we walk that way, and eventually, our paths should cross, yes?"

François nodded, and Louis indicated that he should lead the way. They set off toward the cemetery, and in a matter of minutes spotted their prey, a few blocks away. It was a young man, perhaps twenty or twenty-five years old. He wore jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, and carried a dirty backpack. He was smoking a cigarette, and seemed to be waiting for someone; he walked to one end of the block to the other, then back again.

"Now," Louis said, "you must first do what?"

François thought for a moment, then looked up and down the street. "No one else around. So, now I run over there?"

"Yes, you remember. Very good," Louis nodded. "Now, show me. Remember, be swift and painless, try not to frighten him. You can do this, François, I know you can. You know you can. You are stronger and faster than any mortal. I have shown you how to do it. The hunger will do the rest. Now, go."

François bit his lip, and took a deep breath. He ran to the corner, and waited until the boy was nearly ready to turn around and start his return trip. He leaped out in front of the boy, and before the boy even took notice of him, François had him pinned against the wall of the cemetery, and had sunk his fangs into the boy's throat.

The blood poured into his mouth, and he gulped it down, each swallow bringing a sensation of warmth and well-being, a feeling of exquisite pleasure unlike anything he'd ever known. He was gradually aware of a loud noise, a thumping, rhythmic sound. Idly, he wondered why he hadn't noticed the boy's boom-box, and thought it was funny that Louis was increasing the volume. Didn't he just say that they had to be careful, not to let anyone see them? So, why was he cranking up the bass, that was sure to bring somebody out. But, François didn't care, it felt so good to keep drinking, to feel the warmth spreading out, taking away the chill that was always on him anymore, taking away the sting from the burns on his face and hands. He never wanted to stop this feeling.

Suddenly, he was thrown to the ground, and the wonderful blood was no longer pouring into his mouth. He cried out, and searched around wildly, groping and clawing against something in his way, trying to find the boy again, trying to get more of that liquid fire.

"François!" Someone was shaking him. "François, you must listen to me." It was Louis, he was gripping his shoulders, painfully actually, and shaking him. "You must stop fighting me, please, I don't want to hurt you." Slowly, François came back to his senses. Louis stopped the shaking, but did not release him.

"What's wrong, Louis?" François asked. "What happened? Why did you stop me?"

"He was dying," Louis said. "You cannot keep drinking until they die, it is very bad."

"I didn't know, I mean - " François felt very stupid. "I guess I forgot. That was a pretty big thing to forget, hush?"

"It is not your fault, p'tit." Louis turned loose of François, and then reached out to stroke his hair. "I neglected to tell you. I should be apologizing to you, I put you in danger. I am sorry."

"It's okay," François said, looking down at the boy's body at their feet. "It felt so good, though. It was so different from before, it was so . . . good."

"Yes, I know." Louis pulled him back into an embrace. "He was strong, and healthy, and the hunger was great. It is intoxicating." He smiled down at François. "How do you feel?"

François thought a moment. "Better," he said. "I feel really good."

"Good, I'm glad," Louis replied. He let go of François, and stepped back to look at him. "You look much better already."

It was true. The burns on his face and hands had all but disappeared. He was still very pale, paler than Louis, but his face looked far less gaunt, the cheekbones not quite so prominent. For the first time, Louis could see what he actually looked like.

There was no telling what his original skin tone had been, but judging from his present coloring, Louis guessed that he had been blessed with that lovely café-au-lait color that was the legacy of the many cultures that had mixed so freely here. He had a roman nose, a little large but overall well-proportioned to his face. His hair was light brown, almost blond, about collar length and just slightly wavy, the humidity causing it to curl around his ears and his face. He had large grey eyes, tinged with flecks of green and blue, and heavy, straight brows that canted so as to give him a slightly intense look; were it not for his almost perpetual warm, open smile, and that lop-sided grin that Louis found so appealing, he would have looked positively sinister. This visage, taken together with his actual youth, gave him the appearance of utter innocence.

It was an asset which would serve him very well, Louis realized.

François was already rummaging through the dead boy's possessions, putting aside anything that could identify him. Suddenly, he gasped aloud.

"What is it?" Louis asked, kneeling beside him.

"Look at this!" François held up a thick roll of bills. "This pack is full of these!" He reached in, and pulled out more cash. "I bet he was a runner."

"A runner?"

"Yeah, you know, for a dealer. Drugs."

"Ah, I see. I expect you are right," Louis agreed. "However, that matters little to us, you know. It's more important that we dispose of him, the quicker the better."

"Oh, yeah," François said, "I forgot." He shoved the cash back into the pack, and stood up, swinging the pack onto his own back. "Here," he held out a driver's license and a stack of plastic charge cards. "This is everything. Where do you think we should put him?"

"You tell me," Louis replied. "But you must think quickly." He stood, and leaned against the wall, pointedly tapping it with his fingers.

"The cemetery!" François grinned. "Duh!" He tucked the boy's identification into his pocket.

"Very good," Louis laughed. "Now, I will show you. You pick him up."

"Okay."

François lifted the body by the arms, but Louis stopped him, demonstrating how to throw the body over his shoulder. Then, he jumped straight up, and landed lightly on top of the wall, gesturing to François to follow him. Without a moment's hesitation, François hefted his burden, and jumped up, landing beside Louis, albeit more heavily.

They jumped down inside the wall, and Louis led the way toward the back of the cemetery, to a neglected tomb half hidden between several taller monuments. He showed François how to unfasten the marble plaque, and with a single blow, knocked loose enough of the plaster and bricks to open a large hole.

"Now," Louis said, brushing the dust off his clothing, "you may put him in there."

François did as instructed, although it was a bit difficult as the opening was at his shoulder level. Then, Louis showed him how to re-stack the bricks.

"That works real well," François commented, as they fastened the plaque back in place. "You can't even tell from the outside, except for the dust." He stared at the plaster dust and brick fragments, then pulled off his jacket. Using it as a mop, he quickly cleared the area of all but the most innocuous bits of residue. "There," he said, looking to Louis for approval. "How's that?"

Louis beamed at him. "Tres bien!" he said, ruffling François's hair. "That was very clever of you. I've never thought of that."

"The rules, Louis," François explained. "From the Night Island. 'There must be no evidence of the kill.' Isn't that right?"

"Yes, of course," Louis agreed, smiling. "Tell me, François, do you have the entire text of all four of those books memorized?"

"Not exactly," François said, as they made their way back to the wall of the cemetery and climbed back outside. "But I tried to remember the parts I thought were important. I wrote them down in my notebook, I went through all the books a few times."

"Ah, that's what you were writing," Louis said. "So, tell me, before tonight, how did you dispose of them after you were finished? You must have done something, I haven't read in the news about any mysterious deaths."

"Oh, you know," François shrugged. "I dumped them in the river. I found most of them down by the Riverwalk, and around there. Drunks, mostly, and then I dragged them over to the river."

"That was well enough, but you can only use that so many times," Louis said. "From now on, we will hunt in a different area each night, and use a different method to dispose of things."

"Okay," François said. "But, don't you run out of places?"

"New Orleans is a large city," Louis replied. "There are many places that are suitable. Cemeteries are quite useful, especially the older ones. As for hunting, as I said, it's a large city, and sadly, there are many whose disappearance garners no notice."

They headed back towards the Quarter, pausing only long enough for François to drop the boy's identification into a sewer grating. Gradually, as they came closer to the more famous areas and landmarks, the crowds became thicker. They passed tourists draped in Mardi Gras beads, cameras around their necks and go-cups in their hands; one couple, obviously well on the way to intoxication, stopped them and posed beneath a street sign while Louis obligingly took their photograph for them.

Despite the warm jacket, and the hot life coursing through his body, François began to shiver. Louis noticed, and hurried them over to the Café du Monde. Securing a table, he purchased two cups of steaming coffee.

"Louis," François whispered as they sat down. "I thought we couldn't, you know," he made a face. "Won't it make me sick?"

"Yes, very ill. But you needn't drink it," Louis said, picking up the warm cup. "Just hold it, and it should warm you. It feels good, and helps us to blend in."

François picked up his cup, and held it, sniffing it cautiously. He was surprised to find that he was not nauseated by the scent. He found it pleasant, although not appetizing, its appeal more akin to the scent of flowers than to the aroma of food. It did warm his hands, and the closeness of so many other warm bodies also took away some of the chill.

"Let me show you a little trick," Louis said, after they had sat for several minutes. "Watch closely." Surreptitiously, he lowered his cup until it was below the level of the table. Glancing to either side, and satisfied that no one was paying the least attention to him, he dumped the contents of the cup onto the ground, then quickly rubbed his foot over the puddle a few times, spreading the wetness into a large damp splotch. "You see?" he said, placing the cup back onto the saucer. "Empty. Now, you do the same, and then we shall go on."

François repeated Louis's actions, and they rose to leave. Louis reached into his pocket, and pulled out a crumpled wad of bills, leaving several on the table.

"It's a tip," he explained to François. "I come here often, and I've found that if I tip well, the staff tends to allow me to sit as long as I like, without bothering me. It comes in handy."

"You come here a lot?" François asked. "I thought you hung out in a shack somewhere Uptown."

"You mean, my little house that Lestat burned?" François nodded. Louis shook his head. "No, I have not stayed there for some time. Besides," Louis clapped him on the shoulder, "you know where I stay, you followed me there, right?"

"Oh, yeah," François laughed. "What I mean is, I thought you just sat in the dark, and wrote in a book. Stuff like that."

Louis sighed. "Do you remember what I said about the books being mostly true?" François nodded again. "Well, 'mostly' is a very relative term."

"You mean, it's all lies?"

"No," Louis replied. "Not entirely. But Lestat does tend to exaggerate. Especially where I am concerned."

"Wow," François said. "So, you guys don't like, get along?"

"Oh, no," Louis said. "I care for him very much, and he cares for me. I am sure of it. He just, well . . . that is, we can't seem to . . ." His voice trailed off, and François thought it best to leave the subject for the present.

They walked along in a comfortable silence for a space. Louis found it a pleasant change, to have a companion who felt no need to fill quiet gaps with mindless chatter. He found himself becoming increasingly fond of his young protégé. Perhaps it was because François was an avid student, eagerly accepting any instruction given. Perhaps it was because he had bluish eyes and yellowish hair, and Louis had always been a sucker for that combination. Perhaps it was because he was so earnest, sweet-natured, and youthful that Louis was reminded, nearly to the point of tears, of Paul. Or - and this was what Louis told himself, sternly - it was because François needed him.

Chapter Four

For his part, François was content to walk along side Louis, feeling safe for the first time in many nights. He thought he was just about the luckiest guy on earth. He had no doubts that had he not seen Louis walking Mojo that night, or if Louis had not responded to his plea, he would have perished within a week, from exposure or starvation or simply despair. Louis saved his life, and gave him a home. Who could ask for more than that? He was smart and patient, so kind, so generous. He seemed equal parts brother, father, and friend, none of which had ever been a part of François's brief mortal life. François adored him.

After a half hour's meander, they found themselves at the Riverwalk Mall. It was past closing time, but Louis walked up to the doors, anyway. He motioned for François to be quiet, and after scanning the area for any stray passersby, walked to a clear area, and began climbing the wall. After a heartbeat's hesitation, François followed him.

Apparently, Louis was very familiar with the setup of the building, for he made straight for a window on the second floor, and it opened with little difficulty. He climbed inside, and dropped soundlessly onto the floor. François joined him, his heavy boots making an echoing clatter on the tile floor. Louis shut the window behind them, and held a finger to his lips, listening. In a moment, satisfied that they were alone in the building, he smiled at François.

"I will have to teach you to walk more quietly," he said. "But for now, come along. We need to get you some clothes of your own."

"But, the stores are all closed," François protested. "How can we get through the gates?" He pointed to the heavy metal chain gates over all the shops. "What about the security?"

"That is no problem," Louis replied. "Trust me, François. I won't allow you to be harmed. We're in no danger here." He began walking determinedly down the dark halls, and François followed closely at his side. Louis stopped before a clothing store, and with the merest tug, lifted the heavy gate, breaking the tiny alarm device with one blow of his hand. François gaped.

"A little something Armand taught me," he commented. They stepped inside the shop. "Here you are, François," Louis said, spreading his arms. "Take whatever you like. Do you know what size clothing you wear?"

"Um," François shook himself out of his stupor. "Yeah, I think so. What should I get?"

"Whatever you like," Louis replied, making his way toward the rear of the store and the cash registers. "Pants, shirts, stockings - socks, you call them now - under linens. We'll stop at another place for boots."

François looked about to say something, then reconsidered, and remained silent. In a determined way, he began rummaging through the racks of clothes. He found a pair of jeans that fit, and grabbed several pair in that size, along with some shirts, sweaters, underwear, and at Louis's suggestion, a suit in dark blue, with the accouterments to go with it. "We can have a suit tailored for you later," he explained. "But it is a handy thing to have, and this will do for now. We can have it altered elsewhere. And of course, you'll need evening wear," he added, more to himself than to François.

They shoved the clothes into the back pack, and when it was full, Louis located another similar pack for the rest, which he carried. François insisted upon leaving three of the rolls of bills on the counter to pay for the clothes and the damage. They left the clothing shop, and visited a shoe store next, where François indulged his fancy in a pair of black western boots, along with new sneakers and a few dozen pairs of socks. Again, he took Louis's suggestion, and found a pair of plain, black oxfords that would "Suit any formal occasions," as Louis put it. They left more of the drug money at the counter, and made their way back to the window where they'd entered.

"You do this a lot?" François asked, once they were outside and safely on their way back toward Royale Street. .

"God, no!" Louis laughed. "Only when I truly need something, which isn't very often. Of course, Lestat does this sort of thing all the time, and sometimes I come along. Strictly to keep him out of trouble, you understand. Not that anyone can do that," he added.

They passed by Jackson Square again, and Louis walked around to side of the cathedral. "Just a brief stop, and then we can go home," he explained. He climbed a short way up the wall, and reached over to pull open one of the large stained glass windows, pulling gently so that it made only the slightest noise in protest. He held down his hand, and helped François to climb up beside him, then they both slipped inside.

"Lucky thing that window was unlatched," François whispered, following Louis up the side aisle toward the altar.

"It isn't exactly luck," Louis answered, also keeping his voice low. "Some time ago, I . . . made arrangements."

François waited for Louis to explain more, but no explanation was forthcoming. Louis made his way up to the front of the church, and François followed, genuflecting as he passed the altar and the Presence Light. They stopped before the row of votives, and Louis paused to light a candle.

François knelt before the small shrine, also lighting one of the small candles. It occurred to him that the situation was bizarre in the extreme. He was a murderer; he had just killed a human being, and not just killed, but had drunk his blood, stolen his money, and hidden his body in someone else's tomb, and here he was in a church, lighting a candle before the shrine of the Blessed Virgin. Murder! It was a heinous sin, a mortal sin of the very worst sort. It was an act which, a few weeks before, would have horrified and shocked him. Yet, he felt no revulsion, but instead gratitude; gratitude for Louis's kindness and concern, for having found a friend, a teacher, and a protector, gratitude for an end to the burning, gnawing hunger that had tortured him for so long. He knew, in his heart, that he ought to feel guilty, but he was overwhelmed instead with this gratitude; oddly, this lack of remorse gave his conscience more trouble than the actual act itself. Still, unorthodox as it might be, he felt that he ought to give thanks for his good fortune. He bowed his head for a few moments. Crossing himself, he rose and looked around for Louis.

Louis had taken a seat near the front of the church, and was gazing up at the altar and the painted ceiling, his arms comfortably spread out along the back of the wooden pew. François joined him, and pulled out the kneeler, propping his feet upon it and sitting back.

"You come here a lot?" François asked. He spoke softly, but in the immense silence of the church, his voice seemed harsh to his ears.

"Yes," Louis said, pulling one knee up and wrapping an arm about it. "I find it a pleasant place. The familiarity is comforting." He pointed to the altar piece. "I can recall when that was new, how amazed everyone was at the work." He shut his eyes, and smiled slightly. "I can still see the families filling the rows, back when it was the old church, before the fire. The scent of the candles, the beeswax, the incense . . . very little has changed." He sighed. "My family built that church, you know, we and the other planter families. My brother's funeral mass was here, it was actually quite beautiful, really. And of course, my mother's also, and then much later, my sister's. I couldn't attend those," he said, "I was as I am now, and funerals were always in the morning in those days. That was very difficult for me. At any rate, I suppose that is in part why I come here. I always light candles for them. Always." He was silent for a moment, then opened his eyes. "My funeral was here, as well. For obvious reasons, I did not attend." He smiled wryly, and rose to leave.

François said nothing, but genuflected and followed Louis out to the foyer. Louis took out his wallet, and removed all the bills from it, folding them one by one and placing them into the poor box. François watched him, and then swung his pack off his back. He reached inside, and pulled out the last of the rolls of money.

"Are you certain you want to do that?" Louis asked. "You don't have to, you know, just because I did. You may keep it, if you wish. I don't mind."

"I know," François replied. "But, I guess we don't need it, do we?"

"No, we don't," Louis agreed. "We have all that we need."

"That's what I thought." François looked at the tiny slot in the box, then back at the rolls of money in his hand, then up at Louis. "They won't fit." He walked over to the shrine of St. Therese, and lit a votive. "I shouldn't keep it," he said somberly. "It was drug money, anyway, blood money." He paused a moment, and then laughed softly. "Blood money, that's pretty good." He looked up at Louis again, and grinned.

"That was terrible," Louis said, laughing himself. "Daniel would love that, he makes the most hideous puns."

"Sorry," François laughed again. "Anyway, I don't want it." He lay the rolls on top of the poor box. "Somebody will find these tomorrow, I guess."

"Yes," Louis agreed. "And we should be getting home, anyway."

"Why?" François asked, as they went back inside the church to the window where they'd entered. "It isn't anywhere near dawn, is it?"

"No," Louis said, pulling François up and out the window, "we still have several hours. But there are things I need to do, and it isn't good to stay here too long."

Louis carefully shut the window, and they walked down the dark alley. Louis paused at the back of St. Anthony's Garden.

"Last night, you didn't think you could climb that fence," he said, pointing to the iron fence. "What do you think now?"

"I think I'm pretty lucky you showed up," François replied. He threw his arms around Louis, and embraced him tightly. "I don't know what-" his voice broke off.

"Oh, p'tit," Louis said, returning the embrace. "You mustn't even think of that, not now." On impulse, Louis kissed the top of his head, and smoothed his hair. "Now, hush, dry your eyes."
François dug in his pockets and found the handkerchief, and quickly dried his face. "Good, that's much better," Louis said. "Now, let's go, Mojo is probably wondering what has happened to us."

They were back at the townhouse in no time, and were met at the door by Mojo. François dropped the back pack on the floor, kneeling to throw his arms around the dog.

"I've never had a dog before," François said, scratching behind Mojo's ears. "Does he know any tricks?"

"Oh, yes," Louis replied, picking up the back pack, and taking it and the bag he carried over to the table in the dining room. "He can shake hands, and roll over, and he loves to play ball." He disappeared for a moment, and returned with a basket of dog toys. "These are his," he explained, setting the basket down beside François. "If you'd like to play, you should go into the courtyard. He tends to get a bit rambunctious."

"I think I'll wait a bit," François said, standing up. Mojo looked up at him questioningly, then began to rummage his snout in the basket, pulling out a huge rawhide bone and chewing on it. "I'm a little cold," François said, joining Louis at the table. "It feels good to be inside."

"Would you like a fire?" Louis asked. François nodded, and they went into the parlor, where a fire was already laid in the ornate fireplace. Louis put a match to the kindling, and within minutes
a pleasant blaze was going.

"This is nice." François sat on the hearth, knees drawn up, watching the flames. "All we need is some marshmallows."

"Marshmallows?" Louis asked, dropping into the armchair opposite him. "I don't understand."

"Oh, it's just something you eat," François replied. "I mean, I used to eat."

"You cannot eat mortal food now, you must realize," Louis cautioned. "It will make you very ill. Your body, your entire make up, has changed now."

"Yeah," François grimaced. "I found that out the hard way, early on." He looked up at Louis. "That's how I figured it out, you know. I couldn't eat food. Not even my favorite stuff, not even a Coke, not even water." He made a face. "It all came right back up. It was really gross, disgusting."

"I can imagine," Louis nodded. "Tell me, please, how did you know to - drink blood?"

"I don't know," François shrugged. "Something just told me. I think it was the smell." He looked thoughtful, remembering. "I saw this guy who'd come out of a bar, he'd been in a fight. He was covered in blood, his nose, you know?" Louis nodded again. "And I could smell it, and it was like -" he paused, his brow furrowed. "Okay, it was like smelling hamburgers cooking, or french fries. Only, not like that. You know?"

"I understand the concept," Louis said. "We didn't have such things in my day, you know."

"Oh, yeah," François said, smiling. "Anyway, I knew that smell, I knew it was what I wanted. It made me hungry." He rose from the floor, and sat in the matching chair opposite Louis. His feet did not reach the floor, and he again pulled his knees up, wrapping his arms around them. "I'm not sure what happened next," he admitted.

"What do you remember?" Louis asked, thinking that François's shoes were making a mess on the upholstery, and then in the same instant, realizing that it didn't matter in the least. "Go on, please. Perhaps it will trigger other memories."

"Okay." He bit his lip, thinking hard. His fang teeth just showed, bright white against his now flushed lips, and Louis noticed that the fangs did not cut into the boy's skin. "I think I must have followed him. I don't really know. The next thing I remember, I was leaning against this wall, and this guy was lying there, dead, and I felt better." He hung his head. "I just, um, left him there," he said. "I didn't know I wasn't supposed to."

"That's all right, François," Louis said, leaning over to pat his arm. "You had no way of knowing, and anyway, I haven't heard anything in the news about it. It must have been explained away somehow." He leaned back. "Please, continue."

"Well, that's really about it," François said. "I figured, hey, I drink blood. Vampires drink blood, so I must be a vampire, there must really be such things. Totally freaked me out. That's when I went to the library and bookstores, and started reading stuff." He shrugged. "The rest you know."

"You fed after that, didn't you?" Louis inquired. "How did you know what to do?"

"I didn't, really," François admitted. "I knew I had the teeth, and I took a chance. Sometimes, I found guys like him, there's always a fight somewhere. They were good, they had money, and I think they thought I was some kind of local color, you know, street kids, hustlers? They always came with me, no questions. Weird, huh?"

Louis nodded, but said nothing, wondering if François had the ability to spell bind. It would help to explain his survival. François continued.

"Mostly, I found a drunk over in the park, and went from there. Like I told you, I didn't think I could handle a sober guy, somebody strong." He grinned suddenly. "I know better now."

"Yes," Louis smiled. "You learned very fast." He rose, and stretched. "We have the rest of the evening. What would you like to do?"

"I don't know," François shrugged. "What do you want to do?"

"I have some business matters I must attend to," Louis said. "Would you like to watch television? A video? Some music?" He opened his arms wide, and bowed dramatically. "My home is yours, Monsieur Gallagher, please do as you wish." François laughed, and Louis thought he had never heard such a pleasant sound in a long, long time. "I have an idea, why don't you wander about the house? Look around, explore all you like."

"Cool!" François jumped up out of the chair. "Can I go anywhere?"

"Of course," Louis replied. "First, though, why don't you take your new things upstairs. You may hang them in my closet for now."

François ran out to the table, and grabbed both bags, then ran up the stairs. Louis watched this, marveling at the resiliency of youth to overcome anything. He followed, more sedately, and by the time he arrived in his room, François had emptied both bags onto the bed, and was arranging things in neat piles. Louis found him some cedar hangers, and cleared out several drawers for his use. François quickly put away his clothes, and then with yet another quick embrace, disappeared into the rest of the house.

Chapter Five

Louis turned on his computer, and again checked his email. There were a few more messages from the rest of the coven, but again, nothing from Lestat. With a sigh, he turned his attention to his business affairs. He had several mortal agents, all of whom required lengthy instructions, authorizations, and signed, faxed replies. It took some time, and periodically, he would hear a door open somewhere, followed by an enthusiastic exclamation, or a gasp, or, most commonly,
"Oh, wow! Cool!" He heard François coaxing Mojo to run up the stairs, which the dog obligingly did, and then heard the distinct sound of a rubber ball bouncing along the hallway, closely followed by the thud-thud-thud of large German Shepherd paws running on the carpet, and the quieter plop-plop of boot-clad feet following. Oh, well, he thought, there's nothing breakable out there which couldn't be replaced.

He finished his business matters, and had just begun to place his nightly wagers on various sporting events, when François returned to the bedroom.

"This is such a cool place," he told Louis. "I've never seen anything like it!"

"Thank you," Louis bowed slightly. "I'm glad you like it. Now, what?" He gestured around the room. "Anything you want to do, feel free."

"Can I watch TV?" François walked over to the huge screen. "I bet this is great for movies, hush?"

"Yes, it is," Louis said. He opened a drawer in his desk, and pulled out the remote control, tossing it to François. "Here, you may watch whatever you like. The VCR and DVD are there, as well, if you want to watch a film."

François caught the large remote, and immediately turned on the set, flipping from channel to channel. Louis turned back to his computer, satisfied that François was occupied for the time. He would finish up with his bets, and then perhaps they could enjoy a film together. It had been weeks since Louis had felt inclined to watch anything, since he and Lestat had fought. It would be pleasant for a change to watch a film with someone so delighted with anything new. Lestat tended to be highly critical of Louis's choice of material, and oftentimes Louis found it easier to just avoid the issue entirely.

Louis placed the last of his bets, and pulled up his email. There were a few more messages from the rest of the coven, and although he knew that it was unlikely that anyone had seen Lestat since he'd last checked, he still was greatly disappointed that there was no news. Trying not to think about flights into the sun, or awakened goddesses, or body thieves, or any other impossibly dangerous, life-threatening stunts that could be taking place even as he typed, Louis began to answer the rest of the messages he'd received that night.

Not surprisingly, Armand had sent him yet another host of new sites to explore. Louis noted the addresses in a small note book, and sent his thanks. He also sent Daniel a few scores he'd heard, as well as his accounting of how much he owed Daniel, and how much Daniel now owed him, to add to the running tab which neither of them ever really expected to settle.

There was a message from Jessica, inquiring if and when Louis would be having a baby shower. Louis had no idea what she meant by this, and it puzzled him for a moment; it was only after checking his dictionary of American slang that Louis understood the implied joke. He quickly fired back a suitably silly response, sending his regrets and citing post-partum depression as the excuse. He sometimes wondered about Jessica's sense of humor.

Louis sent brief replies to everyone, again thanking them for their courtesy and kindness in welcoming François, as well as for their continued search for Lestat. As he worked his way through the list, he was very surprised to find a lengthy message from Marius. Marius, while embracing any and all new technology, rarely wrote at length; he had many mortal contacts online, and it took hours of labor just to keep up with the correspondence, so his messages tended to be brief and to the point. This was different. This post went on for pages.

He overwhelmingly approved of Louis's decision to care for François. He poured forth page after page of encouragement, praising Louis for his efforts, offering advice, giving instructions from his own experiences with his many fledglings. Louis was reminded of nothing so much as a doting mortal grandmother, obsessing over a first grandchild. The image of Marius, with his formal, gentlemanly demeanor, fussing over François as a mortal might coo over an infant, was just too hilarious. Louis chuckled, and then laughed aloud; the more he thought on it, the funnier it became. He laughed even more, and soon was overcome by a laughing fit worthy of Lestat.

"What's so funny?" François inquired.

"Oh, p'tit," Louis said, once he'd caught his breath again. "I can't explain it to you now. You wouldn't understand if I tried. Someday, I will explain it all, never worry." He wiped his eyes on his sleeve, despite his previous admonition to François. He tried to compose a response, but he was so overcome with mirth that he could not make his fingers cooperate to type. For that matter, he couldn't stop holding his aching sides long enough to raise his hands to the keyboard. Finally, he managed to shut down the system, putting off answering Marius and the rest until the next night.

He joined François, who was sprawled on the bed, head on his arms, watching the huge television. "Give me some room," Louis said, giving François a gentle shove. The boy flashed him a grin, and obligingly moved over to one side. Louis dropped down beside him, mimicking his position, which was surprisingly more comfortable than it appeared. "What are we watching?" he asked.

"It's the end of a race, the repeat broadcast I think," François replied. "It has to be, it's daylight there."

"Oh, yes, I had a bet on this with Daniel," Louis said, nodding. "I believe I won, too."

"Well, don't tell me who wins it, okay?" François said.

"Of course not," Louis responded. "That would take all the fun out of it."

François flashed him a grin, and went back to following the race. Louis reached out and ruffled his hair, and then also turned his attention to the giant television screen. A few minutes later, after a fairly horrendous crash, Louis, concerned that it might be too intense, looked over to see François's reaction. He was astounded. François lay perfectly still, unblinking, only the infinitesimal rise and fall of his back indicating that he even breathed. It came as a shock to realize, perhaps for the first time, that this child was indeed one of them, for only a vampire could remain so eerily still. Intellectually, of course, Louis had known it to be true, but it was equally saddening and startling to be faced with the irrevocable fact that this sweet-natured, loving, innocent child was a cold-blooded killer.

Louis wanted nothing so much as to reach out, pull François into his arms, and hold him so tightly that nothing and no one could ever touch him, no evil would corrupt the otherwise ordinary boy that he was. Then and there, he vowed to himself and to whatever God that might be listening, to do all in his power to protect François, to prevent his transformation into a heartless, uncaring monster. He would defy anyone, do anything, even - yes, he vowed, he would even go so far as to give his own life to ensure that François would remain as humane - and as human - as possible.

Right now, though, this cold-blooded killer lay beside him, little different from any other fifteen-year-old boy, eyes glued to the television screen, utterly lost in the spectacle of a few dozen cars tearing around a track even as Louis was lost in gazing at his unmoving form. Fortunately, François did not notice this affectionate surveillance. There were only a few laps left of the race, and when it was finished, François rolled over onto his back, stretching. His sudden movement startled Louis, as if a statue had suddenly come to vibrant life. François tossed him a curious look, and then sat up, picking up the remote and channel surfing once more. He had run through the gamut of channels four times, when Louis, too, sat up.

"Why don't we watch a film?" he suggested, rising and crossing the room to the video shelves. He quickly perused the titles, searching for something that he thought might be appealing. He immediately disregarded the art films and foreign films that he and Armand enjoyed, figuring that François would probably not be terribly interested in heavy, existential symbolism. Still, despite Lestat's constant accusations to the contrary, Louis did possess other, more mainstream films. He located a few of these, and carried the stack over to the bed.

"Here you are," he said, spreading them out before François. "Let's see what we have here. 'Time Bandits,' that is Armand's favorite, it is extremely funny, although it is dark humor . . . 'Dances With Wolves,' this is so beautiful, such a good story." François looked at the backs of these, and then set them aside. Louis went on, pointing at each box. "Oh, here's one you might like, 'Jurassic Park,' the special effects are amazing."

"Oh, yeah, I saw that one," François said, putting it aside. "It was so cool, when the T-Rex ate that one guy!"

"I enjoyed that part, too," Louis confided. "I thought he deserved it. He was such an arrogant idiot." François laughed. "Now, here's one you might enjoy, it's a musical, 'Singin' In the Rain.' Do you like musicals?"

François picked up the box. "I think I saw this on TV once," he commented. "Yeah, I like music."

Louis handed him another tape. "Have you ever seen this? It's called 'Scrooge,' it's based on a book called 'A Christmas Carol.'"

"Oh, yeah," François nodded. "That's on every year at Christmas. That's the one with the three ghosts, right?"

Louis nodded. "Yes, it's by Charles Dickens. He's one of my favorite authors."

"I thought Anne Rice was your favorite author," François said, a little too innocently, his eyes as large as saucers.

"François!" Louis said, as sternly as he could manage while keeping a straight face. "You must never say that name in my presence!" He glared at François for a moment, until he could bear it no more, and his face melted into a laugh. "Coquin!" he said, ruffling François's hair. "Just for that, you'll have to settle for what I want to see." He took back the tape he'd just handed over. "I think 'Scrooge' tonight. If you get frightened by the ghosts, it will just serve you right." He walked over to the VCR, and inserted the tape. "Anne Rice, indeed," he said, dropping down onto the bed beside François.

The movie began, and Louis fast-forwarded through the legal warnings and the inexplicably long title introduction, explaining to François, "It just gets tedious after the first ten minutes." Finally, the film proper began, and Louis was pleased to hear François singing along with the musical numbers. He soon joined in himself, thoroughly enjoying the sound of their two voices together.

For the rest of the movie, then, they sang along, with an enthusiasm that increased with each musical number. François especially enjoyed the humorous scenes, filling the room with his light laughter. Louis thought that it was perhaps the most pleasant sound he'd heard in decades, the sound of uninhibited joy. Oh, there was laughter in this house, certainly, but most often it was one of Lestat's laughing fits, and it was never this gentle, youthful chuckle.

François also plied Louis with questions.

"Louis, did people really wear clothes like that?"

"Yes, François, every day. Of course, not everyone was dressed like Bob Cratchit, he is very poor, you understand."

"Did people really have big parties like that? With, like turkeys and pies and stuff? Why didn't they eat chips or stuff like that?"

"There weren't such things in those days, François," Louis laughed. "Your guests had to eat something, it was unspeakably rude to expect them to go hungry. There were rules of good hospitality. You provided the very best you could, so your guests would know how much you valued their friendship."

"Did people really dance like that?" François pointed to the screen; it was Old Fezziwig's party. "It looks like a cross between a fais-do-do and the Rex Ball!"

Louis thought about this a moment, and had to laugh. It was a fairly accurate description. "Perhaps not exactly like that," he admitted, "but there were large dances, yes."

"Did you do dances like that?"

"Yes, something like that," Louis nodded. "There were many, many dances then. A gentleman learned how to dance the same as he learned how to ride. It was simply a necessary part of his education."

"How did ladies sit in those huge dresses?" François demanded. "Wouldn't the dress fly up so you could see their underwear?"

"François!" Louis laughed. "Well, it did occasionally happen, yes. But there were ways to fold their skirts, as I recall. Although," he whispered, raising an eyebrow, "sometimes you would see a lady's ankle as she stepped into a carriage. That was very exciting, and very risqué."

"Her ankle?" François was incredulous. "So what? What's the big deal with ankles?" He shook his head. "It isn't like it was her tits or something."

"François!" Louis reached over, and tapped a finger on his lips. "You mustn't say words like that, it is very rude."

"Sorry," François said, blushing slightly. "I mean, breasts. Is that okay?"

"It's better," Louis smiled. "But to get back to your point, you must realize one simply did not see any part of a lady's lower limbs, except her shoes. It was just - " he paused, searching for the word. "It was just the way things were."

"Okay," François seemed satisfied by this explanation. He pointed to the screen again. "Why don't the kids wear jeans?"

"There weren't such things yet. Jeans didn't come along until modern times, oh, let me think, the twenties, I believe. Children dressed very much like adults, and wore what their parents could afford."

"Did everybody wear hats all the time?" François reached up and scratched his head absently.

"Yes, most of the time. I never liked hats very well," Louis confided. "Only if it was very cold, then I would wear one."

"Why don't they have long hair like you do?"

"Yes, unfortunately," Louis sighed. "Illness showed very little discretion, and most families lost several children. My own family lost four infants before we even came to Louisiana."

The questions continued for some time; François seemed bursting with curiosity. Louis tried to keep up, answering as completely and accurately as he could, forcing himself to remember details of what had been for him ordinary life. It was appealing, this desire to know, yet it was exhausting to answer so many questions in rapid succession.

Louis enjoyed it immensely.

At one point, the questions abruptly ceased, and François was strangely silent. Louis looked over to see that the boy was biting his lower lip, tears welling up in his eyes, trying desperately not to cry. Quickly, Louis looked back to the film; was it the scene of Tiny Tim's death? Surprisingly, that was past. This was, instead, the scene after the last of the spirits has left, and Scrooge finds himself confronted by the chain his inhumanity had forged. It was the scene, often edited out of the film, wherein Scrooge sees his personal Hell.

"François," Louis said, putting an arm across his shoulders. "What is it? Why do you weep?"

François looked up, his eyes filled with terror and dread.

"Louis, I've killed people. I'm a murderer, a killer, I've committed the worst mortal sin there is.

"Louis, am I going to go to Hell?"

Chapter Six

Louis was stunned. Before he could think of any words of comfort, François broke down completely, and great wracking sobs shook his slight frame. Louis sat up, and gathered François into his lap like a small child, holding him tightly.

François made an attempt to pull away, shaking his head violently. "No! Don't be nice to me!" he cried. "You shouldn't be so good to me, I'm a killer! I killed that guy tonight, he never did nothing to me, and I killed him, and I don't even feel sorry about it!"

Louis refused to turn him loose, and after a few more moments of futile struggling, François gave up and clung to him. Louis began rocking him slightly, murmuring soothing words in the patois of his youth, stroking François's hair, patting his back. Slowly, the sobbing subsided. By now, the film had finished, and Louis idly picked up the remote, shutting down the equipment. The room grew quiet, save for the soft weeping of the child and the few, silent tears of the man.

Physical comfort, that much Louis could give, and easily enough. But how could he provide any answer that would give comfort to François's soul? How could he, who knew his own nightly actions to be evil, his very existence to be evil, how could he reassure this child of a salvation in which he himself had no faith?

Well, if he'd learned nothing else from his years with Armand, he had at least learned how to disguise a bitter truth with an acceptable, if unsatisfactory, falsehood, or at the very least, a more palatable half-truth.

"François, you cannot go to Hell unless you die, and you cannot die." Louis reached up to his own face, and discreetly wiped away the dampness on his cheeks. "Your body died when you were made a vampire, and that is the only death you will ever know."

"But, Louis," François protested. "What we do is wrong, it's dead wrong! Thou shalt not kill? Remember that? The Ten Commandments, it says it right in the Bible. We learned that in first grade, it's wrong to kill. It's a mortal sin."

"Yes, that's what it says," Louis agreed. He paused, thinking furiously. Suddenly, a thought occurred, a dim glimmer of an idea forming. "But, then, we are not mortal, are we?"

"We're not?"

"No," Louis said, the glimmer getting a bit brighter. "We are immortal, we will live forever. That's what I meant, you will never know death. You are immortal." He breathed a sigh of relief.

"I don't think that's what it means," François said, reaching up to wipe his eyes. "And anyway, it's still wrong to kill."

So much for a quick answer. Louis shook his head. He should have known better, he told himself. It was what Daniel would call a "smart-ass" answer. For that matter, he would have said the same; he would never have accepted such an answer from Lestat.

"What about suicide, François?" Louis asked, another idea forming. "Suicide is a mortal sin as well, isn't it?" François nodded. "If you do not kill, you will starve to death-"

"I thought you said I can't die," François interjected. "You just said -"

"Yes, I know," Louis sighed. He reached up with his free hand to rub his own forehead. "Under normal circumstances, you won't die. But if you do not feed, you will die. And that will be by your own hand, won't it?"

"Yeah, I guess so," François replied, chewing on his lower lip. He looked off into the middle distance, thinking.

Louis felt an argument forming, and was surprised that he had not thought of it before. "If you choose not to eat, that is no different than putting a knife to your wrist or a gun to your head. Taking your own life is the same, no matter the means."

"Okay, so that would be suicide," François admitted. "But what difference does that make?"

"François," Louis said evenly, trying to recall the catechism he'd learned over two centuries before. "Tell me, if someone comes at you with a gun, and tries to kill you, would it be murder to kill him?"

"Uh, no," François shook his head. "That would be, what do you call it, self defense. Yeah, like on cop shows, it's self defense. But, that guy wasn't trying to kill me, he -"

"Shh." Louis put a finger on François's lips. "I'm not finished yet." François scowled, but kept quiet. Louis continued. "So, it is acceptable to kill if it means your own survival, yes?"

"Can I talk now?" François asked petulantly.

"Yes, now. Just answer the question, though," Louis cautioned. He smiled slightly. François was no longer tearful, and his usual buoyant cheekiness was beginning to creep back to the fore. This was a very good sign.

"Yeah, you can kill in self defense, but -"

"Self defense meaning your own survival?"

"Well, yeah."

"Then, how can it be a sin for you to kill, since it means your own survival?" Louis was rather pleased with himself, he'd never been very good at rhetoric, yet here he was presenting a bit of logic of which even Marius could approve.

"But, Louis, we don't have to kill people, do we?"

Louis froze. "Well . . ."

"In your book, you said -"

"Yes, yes, I know," Louis said, irritably. "That damned book again! But drinking from animals, it isn't good for you. It's like . . ." He searched for a comparison from mortal life. "It's the same as if you ate nothing but sweets, as a mortal I mean. You could survive, but you would not be healthy."

"Oh," François replied, his voice small. "You're mad at me, ain't you?"

"Aren't," Louis corrected. "And no, I am not angry with you." He gave him a comforting squeeze. "I'm sorry if you thought I was. I only want to make you understand."

"S'okay," François replied, his voice still betraying an uneasiness. Louis kissed François on his forehead. This brought a small smile, and Louis responded with one of his own.

"That's better," he said. He gave François a curious look. "You question everything, don't you?"

"Yeah, that's what my mom's boyfriend always said," François shrugged. "He said it'd just get me into trouble."

"That's not true," Louis objected. "Questions are a sign of intelligence. Only a very stupid man has no questions." He ruffled François's hair. It was a familiar refrain to him, after all. 'Why must you ask so many damned questions?' Lestat had demanded it of him constantly, back in the early days. "Ah, Lestat, I never knew how right you were," Louis said, under his breath.

"Huh?"

"Oh, nothing. Where was I?" Louis thought a moment. "Oh, yes. We kill to survive, that is all. If we don't kill, we die. Every living thing must kill to survive, whether it's animals, or plants. All life is based upon death, ultimately." He gave François another squeeze. "It is not pleasant, but it is true. That's how life is, sometimes."

"But, Louis," François said. "I don't want to kill people. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I can't even look at a squirrel that's been hit without getting sick." He put his head in his hands. "How can I do what I did tonight, and I don't even feel bad about it?"

"You do feel badly about it, though," Louis said gently. "If you didn't, you wouldn't be so upset now, would you?"

François thought about this for a long moment. "No, I guess not. But I didn't feel bad before. I mean," he crawled off Louis's lap, and began walking nervously around the room, "in the church, I didn't even ask forgiveness. I killed a guy, and went right into a church, and all I could think was 'Wow, that was good. Thanks, God, for a good meal.' Like Thanksgiving or something! I mean," he turned around, and faced Louis again. "What kind of freak am I? What kind of . . . monster does that?"

"A vampire," Louis said, quietly. "That is the kind of monster you are, the kind I am. That is our lot in life, mon cher. I wish I could make it different for you, but I cannot." He rose, and went to François's side, putting an arm around his shoulders once more. "If I could undo this for you, make you a mortal boy again, I would. But, there is no way. I'm sorry, but that's the truth. This is your life now. You must . . . you must accept it, for it is all you have."

François was quiet for a long time. "I never wanted this," he said, finally. "I never asked for it. Nobody ever asked me, neither, as far as I know."

"You were trapped," Louis said, thoughtfully. He, too, was silent for a moment, an idea again flickering into being in his mind, an answer so wonderfully simple, yet irrefutable, even by François's parochial standards. "You were born to darkness entirely against your will; a child born of a rape. The child cannot be held accountable for the sins of the parents." He gently turned François about to face him, and put his hands on the boy's shoulders. "François, you did not choose this life. You did not choose the life of a killer. If there is no conscious decision to commit sin, there is no sin. You cannot help what you must do to survive. You are no more guilty than a cat is guilty for killing a mouse." He looked straight into François's eyes, emerald meeting gray. "The sin was not yours. The only sin was in taking - stealing your life. You had no choice - you have no choice now."

"I don't have no choice?" François asked. "None at all?"

"No, mon cher," Louis shook his head. "If you want to go on living, you must kill."

François was silent once more, his eyes never wavering, as if he were peering directly into Louis's soul, sounding the depths of his conviction. Finally, he took a deep, shuddering breath.

"I don't want to die," he said. "I didn't ask for this, but I don't want to die. I'm only fifteen years old, I haven't even started to live yet, I can't die." He nodded firmly. "Okay. Okay."

"Good," Louis breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm glad you understand. You have nothing to fear, not from mortals, and not from God." He reached up and pushed the hair out of François's face. "You are a good boy, François, you have a good heart. And you will not die. I won't allow it."

Louis was relieved that his arguments had succeeded. He was actually surprised to find that he himself could not easily refute what he'd told François. It was true, the child had committed no sin, at least, nothing to warrant the hellish existence he'd been handed. Whomever had stolen his young life deserved the worst punishment possible, especially considering the suffering that François had already endured. But, just as Louis considered himself damned because of his choice to become a nightly killer, so he was convinced that no loving, just Creator could condemn this child for doing what he must to survive. What was the old saw so beloved by clergy, hauled out at every disaster, funeral, or other instance of the indiscriminate nature of fate? "God never gives us more than we can handle." The words had been different in his mortal life, but the sentiment was the same. Louis had always thought it a load of rubbish, and never more than now; what child could "handle" being murdered, burned, starved, and otherwise tortured? Well, fine, then. If this was somehow the will of God, and it must be, since François had done nothing to bring it about, then François could kill every night, guilt-free, for eternity, with no concern for his soul. In fact, Louis thought with bitter humor, it would probably be a sin to do otherwise.

He wondered if he could locate a news group of theologians, and pose the question to them. Wouldn't that cause a stir! Purely as a moot discussion, of course, nothing but conjecture for academic motives. He would leave it to Lestat to try to frighten them or cause them to question their sanity. He was above that sort of mischief, himself. Totally. Although, it would make for a grand practical joke. But, no.

Ah, well, time enough to debate that later. Right now, he had a young boy who needed his guidance, and the benefit of his extensive maturity.

"Everything is going to be fine, now, François. You just need to learn a few things about our life, and I will teach you everything you need to know. You will live here with me, as long as you like. How does that sound?"

"Oh, Louis!" François threw his arms around Louis, and hugged him tightly. "I think it sounds great. Thank you, thank you!"

Louis returned the embrace, kissing the top of François's head. Then, without warning, he found himself flooded with strong emotions, rushing through his mind in a staggering torrent. Relief, anticipation, fear, hope, sadness, happiness, repulsion, delight, all mixed together and swirled through his mind. It was a kaleidoscope of sound and a cacophony of color. Wave after wave of these wondrously confusing emotions washed over him. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced, yet, it was not entirely unlike the sensations he'd first felt when he'd been born to darkness.

At the same time, Louis also realized that this deluge did not originate with him. He knew, without a doubt, that these marvelous images and sensations came from François, and as immensely gratifying as the sensation was, he had the distinct impression that the boy did not know he was projecting it. Louis didn't care. He had no personal experience with this kind of mental acrobatics, but he knew others who did, and there would be plenty of time for them to instruct François in the art. For now, Louis didn't give a damn about petty things like spell-binding or controlling dark gifts. All that mattered to him right now was holding onto him for dear life. He felt tears running down his face, and he didn't care about that, either. For, shining out above all those jumbled, haphazard, overwhelming emotions, was the most intense feeling of affection he'd ever known, the pure, unconditional love of a child, and the one word, over and over, repeated like a mantra.

Father.

Chapter Seven

Gradually, Louis became aware of a hand on his face. Slowly, the flood diminished and faded away completely. He opened his eyes to see François looking up at him, gently brushing away the tears.

"Louis?" François asked anxiously. "Are you okay? Did I do something wrong?"

"Nothing, cher," Louis answered. No need to confuse things now, plenty of time for that later. Eternity, if he was very, very lucky. "No, I'm just a bit . . . tired. It is getting late, you know." This was true enough, dawn was less than two hours away. He stored away the memory of those sweet emotions for the time being, and turned his attention to more pressing matters. "It's time you were getting to bed, infants need a great deal of rest."

"Louis!" François laughed, and made a face. "I'm not a baby. My God!"

"You're not even a month old yet, you're a newborn vampire."

"Oh, yeah, I guess so," François grinned. "I didn't think of it like that. That's pretty funny." He laughed again.

"Yes, but it's true. Especially for you, since you haven't had proper care for so long." Louis unwrapped himself from François's arms, and putting his hands on the boy's shoulders, turned him around and marched him into the bathroom. "Now, you have a wash, and I'll get your pajamas for you. Don't dawdle."

"Can I have a shower like before?" François asked hopefully.

"No, not now," Louis snapped on the light, and pointed to the washbasin. "There isn't time, it's too close to dawn. You wash your face and hands, and that will be sufficient." He swatted François on the seat of the pants. "Hurry now."

Louis sought out a clean suit of pajamas - these in emerald silk, with a gaudy stripe - and dropped them onto the marble table behind François. He was pleased to see that the boy was nearly finished, and hurriedly made his own ablutions. For the first time, he actually appreciated Lestat's constant extravagance; having two wash basins was time saving. He stepped back out to give François some privacy, and on impulse, returned to his closet one more time, and located yet another suit of pajamas - green, of course, good God, one would think there was some sort of law! He quickly undressed and donned the night clothes - well, they were still hideous, but at least the cloth was soft and not uncomfortable.

With a start, Louis realized that he had not yet secured the house for the day. He woke Mojo, who was dozing under the desk, and shooed him downstairs. He let Mojo visit the courtyard again, and then closed him up in the kitchen; the servants would arrive within three hours, and they'd let him outside again. Louis had no way of verifying it, but he suspected that they fed him several times during the day, and he knew for a fact that neither he nor Lestat had purchased the box of dog biscuits that had mysteriously appeared on the counter one night. Well, Mojo was an incredibly appealing animal, after all.

After getting Mojo settled for the morning, Louis checked all the entry doors and drew all the draperies. He set the alarms, and returned upstairs. There, he set the locks on all the bedroom doors, automatically locking both Lestat's room and David's even though neither of them were home.

He stopped at what had once been Claudia's room, and ran his hand lovingly over the door. Over one hundred years had passed, yet a night never passed but what he thought of her, and missed her. A century had given the wounds time to heal, but the scars remained, as did the love.

Jessica had felt her presence here, once, felt it strongly enough to flee in terror. Louis had left the Night Island to search through the house then, but had neither felt nor seen any trace of her. And then of course Lestat had had the place redone so beautifully, so obviously motivated by nostalgia and love. If Claudia had been here once, if her spirit had indeed remained, she was gone now. Still, Louis found it comforting to enter this room now and again. She had no other memorial, no final resting place, no marble plaque in the old city of the dead where he could place flowers on All Saints' Day.

Uttering a silent prayer, as he always did, that her tortured soul would find peace, he opened the door, and stepped inside. Lestat had restored the interior as accurately as memory and modern construction skill allowed, and technically it was perfect. The wallpaper was nearly identical to the original, and had cost a fortune to recreate, or so Lestat had informed him, and the mural of the enchanted forest was there again in all its glory. The furnishing were not the originals, those had burned of course, but were of the period, and were well suited to the decor. It was actually very little changed from a century before. Yet, it was no longer her room. There were no multitudes of dolls staring at his intrusion, no fluffy little frocks hung in the armoires, no ribbons strewn about. There was nothing here that spoke of the sixty plus years she'd lived here.

"Doll, I have something I must tell you," he whispered. He walked around the room, running his hands over the smooth carved oak. "You know you'll always have the largest part of my heart, you will always be my child, my love, my daughter. But I've found this boy, his name is François, and he's going to live here now. He is a nice boy, Doll, I think you will like him." He sat at the escritoire, pulling out the small drawers, which of course were empty. No little books here, not now. "I think he is very much like me. And he's like you, too. He wasn't given a choice, he is a child forever, just as you were. But he's a nice boy, very clever, a good boy. I'm sure you will like him. You will grow fond of him, too, I know it." He rose, and wandered over to the bed, smoothing the counterpane. "I'm fond of him, Doll. I care for him deeply, I . . . I love him. Yes, I do. I love him as I love you. I don't want you to be jealous, you mustn't feel that way. Think of him as your brother. I had a brother, you know, and you remember my sister. I love you, I always will love you. But he needs me, now, Doll, and you are beyond my help. Don't be angry, my little love. He needs me." He patted the bed once more, and went to the door. "He needs me, my Claudia, and I need him."

Louis shut the door behind him, and locked it. He returned to his room, set the lock, and found François still in the washroom, looking at his reflection in the mirror.

"Oh, there you are," François said, grinning at Louis. He held up his hands for Louis to inspect. "All clean, even scrubbed with that brush. Look at them nails!" He pulled his hand up close to this face, peering at his nails, looking from one hand to the other.

"Those nails, François. Not them, those."

"Well, anyway, look at those nails," he replied. "They're so shiny! I never noticed it before, my hands were so dirty from living on the street, I guess."

"Perhaps so," Louis nodded, taking François's hand and pulling him out of the bathroom. Those vampiric senses again, Louis thought with amusement. He reached behind him to flick off the lights. "You know, that's one of the ways we're different from mortals. You can always tell one of our kind by the nails. They're like glass, I always thought." He turned down the bed clothes. "It's something you must learn, how to recognize others of our kind."

"Why, Louis?" François asked, climbing into the bed and leaning against the headboard. "I thought you said nobody will hurt me."

"None of our coven will, of course," Louis replied, climbing in on the other side. "But there are many, many others as well, and I'm afraid not all of them are on friendly terms. Don't worry, though, you're in no danger, I'll take care of you, as will the rest of the coven. You belong to us now, we won't let anyone hurt you." He patted François's knee reassuringly. "But it is a good thing to know, all the same."

"Okay," François yawned. "Look for the fingernails. Got you." He pulled the pillow from behind him, and clutched it to his chest, drawing up his knees and leaning on them. "What else do I have to do?"

"Right now," Louis said, taking the pillow from François and tucking it behind him again, "you need to lie down, and close your eyes. You will fall asleep as soon as the sun rises, and if you're sitting up like that, you could fall and injure yourself."

"I thought nothing could hurt me," François protested, "and anyway, I'm not sleepy yet." He yawned again, but turned his head so that Louis couldn't see it.

"It won't harm you permanently, but it is still painful," Louis said, noticing the yawn. "As for not being sleepy, perhaps we can remedy that. Perhaps I could read to you, would you like that?"

"Okay," François said, lying down and folding his hands behind his head. "What do you have to read?" He sat up again. "Will you read to me from your book?" he asked eagerly.

"NO!" Louis said, emphatically. "I will not read to you from Daniel's book." He reached over and ruffled François's hair. "Coquin! You are terrible, you know that? Now lie down, there's a good boy."

"Oh, okay." He lay down, and Louis tucked the coverlet about him. "Hey, Louis? What's that mean?" François asked. "What's Coke-Ann?"

"Oh, that," Louis laughed. "It means, er, " he opened the drawer and removed a book, then thought better of it, and put it back. "It means, a scamp, a rascal, like that." He pulled the covers up around himself, and reached over to switch off the lamp.

"I thought you were going to read to me," François complained.

"I don't think you'd like what I'm reading," Louis replied. "We'll get some other books for you tomorrow evening, all right?"

"Okay," François yawned again. "But what about tonight?"

"Oh, you still can't sleep?" Louis asked, smiling. "Very well, I suppose I could tell you a story."

"Cool!" François turned over to face Louis. "Hey! I can see in the dark in here, too!"

"Of course you can," Louis laughed. "But you must lie flat, and arrange your limbs." He folded François's arms across his stomach, not uncomfortably. "You may wake up with cramps otherwise," he explained.

"What are you going to tell me?" François demanded. "Is it a good story, with car chases and explosions?"

"Good lord, no!" Louis laughed. "I don't believe I even know any stories like that. No, this is a story Nannain used to tell me when I was a boy."

"Nannain?"

"My grandmother," Louis explained. "She used to tell me about the terrible Feu-Follets in the bayous."

"What's a fee-fow-lay?" François asked.

"Feu-Follets are spirits, they look like a flickering flame, or a wisp of smoke. They play tricks on people who wander out at night."

"Sounds like us," François murmured. "Maybe that's what we are, Louis. We play tricks on people at night."

"Perhaps we are," Louis said thoughtfully. "Perhaps that should be your name. Instead of François, I should call you Feu-Follet. What do you think of that?"

"S'okay," François mumbled. "Whatever."

"Once upon a time, there was a boy named François," Louis began. "He lived in a large house on an indigo plantation in the wild country of Louisiana. One night, he didn't want to go to sleep, so he went out to get his horse . . ."

Louis had only just begun to get to the interesting part of the story, when he heard François's breathing pattern change, and knew that sleep had overtaken him. It wasn't the day sleep, just mortal sleep, but it was close enough to dawn that it really made no difference. He leaned over, and kissed François's cheek.

"Good night, Feu-Follet," he whispered. "I promise you, I'll take care of you, always." He lay down, arranging his arms comfortably across his chest. After a moment, he reached out, and slid his arm under François's sleeping form. He pulled the boy close to him, and even in his sleep, François responded by snuggling close. It felt so natural, so completely right. It had been a long time, far too long, since Louis had known the simple pleasure of holding his child through the day, and François was his child, now and forever. He didn't know what forces had brought the two of them together, and he didn't wish to tempt the fates by questioning his good fortune. Some of life's mysteries one simply accepted, graciously and gratefully. He bent his head to kiss François, and pulled him closer still before closing his eyes for the day.

"I love you too, my son."

The next evening, Louis again woke before François. He quickly attended to his nightly rituals of showering and dressing, and then surprised himself by choosing new clothing from his closet. "Mustn't embarrass François by dressing in rags," he told himself reassuringly. "Modern children are sensitive to things like that."

He dashed down to the garden, and brought Mojo inside. The dog followed him inside, and sat, whining, at the foot of the stairs as Louis started up. "I suppose you think you can just come upstairs any time you like now, is that it?" he asked. "Well, come along then," he leaned over and slapped his thigh lightly. Mojo bounded up the steps, racing ahead of him in a beeline for his room. By the time Louis reached the door, the dog was already lying on the floor beside the bed.

François was still sleeping, but he'd turned over onto his side. Louis pulled the covers up more closely around him, and kissed him on the forehead. He'd be up before long, and Louis still had email from the night before which required answering.

He quickly accessed his mail file, and once again tried to read Marius's missive. He forced himself to ignore the omniscient tone, and focused instead upon the content. In a nutshell, Marius emphasized two things; love the child, and educate him.

"Of the first, I have no doubt that you have already seen to that," Marius wrote. "The affection you feel for this boy is evident in every word you wrote. That is good, for as you may recall from what I told the Brat, we must always make our children out of a sense of love. I realize that you did not make this child, but as you have taken responsibility for him, I believe the same rule should apply.

"Education, however, is perhaps equally important. If you wish him to survive, and of course you do, he must learn all he can of the world. The more one knows, the more one can adapt."

Marius went on at some length, detailing what subjects François must study, giving suggestions as to how Louis might address the problem of tutors, which of the family would best be suited to teaching him which subjects, and proposing a schedule of how many hours per night he ought to spend in study.

Louis sent back a note of thanks, and diplomatically refrained from any comment besides "I shall take your suggestions under consideration."

He then went on to the new messages, and pulled up one after another, all saying essentially the same thing: "No word of Lestat." He politely sent a response to each, also including an update on François's development. This took longer than he expected, for despite good intentions to be brief, he found himself expounding at length about how bright François was, how polite he was, how well he got along with Mojo, and so on.

Louis was just finishing a note to Jessica when François woke up, and after fussing over Mojo, wandered over.

"Morning - I mean, evening, Louis," he said, throwing his arms around Louis and hugging him hard. Louis returned the affection, and François gave him one of those lop-sided grins. "Can I play in the shower now?" he asked.

"Of course," Louis laughed. "You know where everything is, now?"

François nodded, and with another quick embrace, disappeared into the bath.

Louis turned his attention back to his computer screen, and pulled up the final message, from Armand. His heart leapt.

"We have found him. He's alive. We're bringing him home now. Armand."

Chapter Eight

"Mon dieu!" Louis reread the message several times, to assure himself that he was not imagining it. Yes, it was right there. He sat back in his chair, weak with relief, and stared at the computer screen. Armand had sent this news late that morning, just before sunrise, most likely. But from where? Why must Armand always be so cryptic? Just this once, couldn't he give a few details?

Louis grabbed up the telephone, and began dialing. From the time Armand had discovered the cellular telephone, he was never without one; Louis had never been able to prove it, but he suspected that Armand even kept it in his coffin during the day.

The line rang twice, and then he heard the unmistakable Northern California accent.

"Yeah, Lou?" Daniel answered, his grin evident in his voice.

"Yes, it is I," Louis responded, for the moment ignoring the implied jibe. "Please, what is going on? Where are you? When will you be here? Is he well?"

"Keep your shirt on, Lou," Daniel said, not unkindly. "We're in a limo, just coming up on . . ." he paused, "Hey! I didn't know the Saints had a home game tonight! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Daniel," Louis took a deep breath, and forced himself to remain calm. "Please, may I speak to Armand?"

"Um, well, Lou, that's kind of a problem just now," Daniel lowered his voice. "He isn't in the car. I mean, not this car. He's - I can't explain. Don't worry, we'll be there in a few minutes."

Before Louis could inquire further, the line went dead. He sat for a few moments, staring at he telephone in his hand as if it could answer his questions. Something was wrong, very wrong. He hung up the telephone and quickly shut down his computer. He then moved about the room, putting things to order, the routine tasks giving him some comfort, and distracting his mind from the worry that gnawed at him.

He went to the closet, and pulled out the suit he'd chosen for François. It was not yet tailored, but it should fit well enough, it would suffice. He also found the shiny black oxfords, and one of the crisp white shirts. Belatedly, he realized that he'd neglected to purchase a tie. Well, he had several, and quickly chose one of black silk. Louis had planned to allow François total control over his attire, as he himself loathed Lestat's constant attempts to dress him, but tonight was an exception. It was only polite, after all, and respectful to his elders. François must look his very best when he met Armand and Daniel, and even more so when he met Lestat. He must make a good impression.

He had no concerns with Armand or Daniel, they had already expressed their acceptance. But Lestat, well, Lestat was nothing if not unpredictable. Louis didn't think there would be any problem, but with Lestat, one never knew. He could love him on sight - as Louis sincerely hoped he would, - or, he could take a dislike to François for no reason whatsoever. That was unlikely, of course, François was such a sweet child, Lestat couldn't possibly help but love him. Could he?

"Louis?" François was at his side, towel wrapped around him, hair still dripping. "Louis, what is it? What's the matter?"

"What?" Louis turned his attention back to the present, leaving the future to sort itself out. "Oh, nothing, François." He smiled, and put his arms around the boy, giving him a quick embrace. "Everything is going to be fine. Lestat is coming home!"

"Oh," François said. He pulled away from Louis's embrace, and began searching through drawers. He pulled out shorts, a tee shirt, socks, and reached up to grab a pair of jeans from the hanger.

"No, not the jeans tonight," Louis said. "I would like you to wear your suit. This is a special occasion, isn't it?" He reached out to ruffle François's hair, and was startled to see the boy turn away from him.

"Alright, whatever," François said, his tone flat and utterly without emotion. He turned to leave the closet, and Louis stopped him.

"François, what's wrong?" Louis asked, reaching out to take his hands. "This isn't like you. Have I done something? Please, tell me." He pulled him out to the bed, and sat down. "Is it the suit? You don't have to wear it if you don't want to, it's alright. I'm sure Lestat won't even notice."

"No," François shook his head. "It ain't - I mean, isn't the suit. The suit's fine. I'll wear whatever you want me to wear." He sat beside Louis, and stared at the floor.

"François, you must tell me what is bothering you." Louis put an arm around his shoulders, and pulled him close.

"It doesn't matter," François replied, but did not raise his eyes from the floor.

"It matters to me." Louis put a finger below François's chin, and lifted his face up. "It matters a great deal to me. Something has upset you, and I can't help you if I don't know what it is. Is it something I've done?"

"No, no, it ain't - I mean, it isn't you," François replied, his eyes welling up with red tears. "You're perfect, Louis, you're the best. You're the best thing that ever happened to me, and I don't want to leave you." He reached up with one trembling hand to wipe his eyes.

"Oh, cheri," Louis said, pulling François close to him, and kissing his forehead. "Is that all? Of course you don't have to leave me. You live here now, remember? I told you, this is your home."

"But, Lestat is coming home," François said, shaking his head. "He won't want me here, he's going to make me leave."

"My God, where did you get an idea like that?" Louis asked. He quickly thought back over his conversation with Daniel. Had he said anything that François might have overheard, anything which could possibly indicate such a thing? He couldn't recall saying much of anything, the call was too short. "Why on earth would you think such a thing?"

"You're worried about him not liking me, I know you are," François replied. "I don't know how I know it, but I know it." He looked up at Louis. "I kind of heard you, when I was in the shower. I didn't mean to, it was just there, I mean, you were just there, inside my head, and you were scared that he won't like me."

"Inside your head," Louis repeated, puzzled. Could it be? No, that was impossible - but, then again, François could project his thoughts, Louis had felt his emotions the night before, that great rush of sensation. It stood to reason that he could just as easily read the thoughts of others. "François, can you read my thoughts?" Louis asked, feeling like a complete idiot for not thinking of it sooner.

"I don't know," François answered. "I don't know how. Maybe." He sniffled, and picked up a corner of his towel to wipe his face. "I thought I heard you talking to yourself, and that's why I got out of the shower, only you weren't there, you were out here. But, it wasn't exactly words, not exactly, but I knew what it was."

"It doesn't matter now," Louis reassured him, stroking his hair. "There's plenty of time to work that out later. In the meantime, you mustn't worry about Lestat. He won't make you leave, I promise you."

"But what if he don't like me?" François asked. "What if he hates me?" His lip quivered, and a plump tear rolled down his cheek.

"He won't hate you," Louis said, wiping away the tear. "No one could hate you, cher."

"But what if he does?" François insisted. "And what if he tells me I have to leave? Where will I go? I don't have anybody else." He buried his face in Louis's shirt, holding onto him tightly, as though he thought Lestat would appear at any moment and try to tear him away.

"Hush, p'tit, hush now," Louis kissed the top of the boy's head, and stroked his hair. "There's a good boy. Don't cry, cheri. Everything will be alright." Louis pulled François onto his lap, and rocked him, whispering soothing words into his ear, kissing his cheeks, patting his back. After a few minutes, the sobs ceased, and François reached up to wipe his eyes.

"There, that's much better," Louis said, smiling. "Now, how do you feel?"

"Okay," François said, taking a deep breath. "But I'm still scared."

"There is no need for that," Louis said, giving François one final pat on the back before moving him off of his lap and standing him on the floor. "You will not have to leave. I won't allow it."

"But Lestat -"

"You never mind about Lestat," Louis said, gently but firmly. "Lestat has no say in the matter."

As he said it, Louis himself saw the truth in his words. He knew in his heart that regardless of Lestat's reaction, François would remain with here, with him, in his home. François was his responsibility, and any decisions about him were for Louis to make, at least until such time as François was mature enough to make his own decisions. Louis also realized that there was only one way to reassure François, to make him understand his place in Louis's world - and heart.

"François, I want you to listen to me, very carefully." He stood up, and looked François straight in the eye. "You will never, ever, have to leave my home. If Lestat tells you to leave, I will leave with you; I own many houses, and we will live in one of them. Or we'll live in a hotel. It really doesn't matter, wherever you go, I will go with you." He knelt, and took both of François's hands in his.

"You are my child, now, François, and I am your father. There is nothing anyone can do to change that, not even the great Vampire Lestat." He kissed the boy's hands, and smiled up at him. "You are mine, now and forever, my child, my son. For as long as you want to stay with me, no matter what anyone else might say or do, we are a family, you and I. And I love you, my son, and I always will."

François stared at him for an instant, and then threw his arms around Louis.

"Louis, thank you, thank you, I love you, too!" He was laughing and crying at the same time. "I couldn't ask for a better dad, no way! And I won't ever leave you, I don't ever want to leave you, not for nothing."

Louis held onto François just as tightly, picking him up off the floor as he stood. "Everything is going to be alright now, yes?" he laughed. He began to spin around the room, singing, "Lestat is coming home, Feu-Follet is happy again, everything is going to be fine."

This silliness continued for some time, until both of them fell laughing onto the bed. The laughter died down after a few moments, only to start up again when François stood up but the towel he had wrapped around his waist remained on the bed. He grabbed it up, and quickly wrapped it around himself again, his face coloring just slightly. This caused another fit of laughter. They finally caught their breath again, and Louis got to his feet, shooing François toward the closet.

"Go on, now, you little nudist," Louis laughed, handing François the suit and his other clothing. "Honestly, I don' t know what I'm going to do with you. Next thing I suppose you'll be running into the street like that."

"Not if it's this cold," François giggled. "You better get a different shirt, too," he said, pointing at Louis's shirt front, now spotted with bloodtears. "You're a mess."

Louis looked down at his ruined shirt, and shook his head. Nothing for it but to find another shirt, and probably trousers as well. "You just see to your own clothes, Feu-Follet." Louis smiled, and swatted the boy on the seat. François grinned broadly, and disappeared into the bathroom. Louis looked through the closet again, and decided that the occasion warranted something special, indeed. He found a suit that Lestat had recently brought home for him, but that he'd never worn. He also found a soft, white shirt, very loose and gathered at the sleeves, the way he liked it, and what's more, the way Lestat liked to see him dress. He tried on the suit, a soft, charcoal silk, and found it fit perfectly. The suit was beautiful, and felt grand; the trousers fit very closely, and the coat was cut very full. Louis felt a pang of guilt; Lestat had probably gone to a great deal of trouble having the suit made for him, and he'd never even tried it on before.

"All the more reason to wear it tonight," he told himself. He had just located a pair of emerald cuff links that Lestat had given him for Christmas, when François came out of the bathroom.

"Does it look okay?" he asked Louis.

"It looks wonderful," Louis said. "You look wonderful. So elegant." It was no lie. The suit would need some tailoring, but it was a fairly good fit. The trousers were the right length, and the coat was only a bit large, the sleeves only a little too long; overall, he looked quite the young gentleman. It was worlds away from the street urchin in the filthy, torn jeans and Saints jersey.

"I don't know how to tie this," François said, holding out the tie. "Do I have to wear it?"

"Yes, you do," Louis nodded. "A gentleman doesn't wear a suit without a tie. Come here, let me do it for you. I'll teach you how to do it another time, not tonight." François joined him, and Louis looped it about François's collar and quickly knotted the piece of silk. "There, is that too tight?"

"No, it's okay," François said, running a finger inside his collar. "Um, Louis? I didn't want to say anything, but, well," he bit his lower lip, his fangs gleaming white. "I'm hungry."

"Mon dieu, I forgot completely," Louis said, putting a hand to his forehead. "Well, we'll have to take care of you, obviously. Lestat will have to wait."

"No, it's okay, I can wait awhile," François said, loosening his tie so that it crumpled against his shirtfront. "I can wait until after Lestat gets here. I don't want you to miss him."

"That's very sweet of you," Louis said, reaching over to move the knot of the tie closer to François's collar again. "But it's important for you to feed when you're hungry. You shouldn't wait until you're mad with hunger."

"But, I thought that's what you did," François said, moving the knot down slightly.

"Don't you remember what I told you about those books?" Louis admonished, reaching over to tighten the knot once more, and then putting his hands on François's shoulders instead. "You can't believe everything you read. Especially if Lestat has written it." He ruffled François's hair. "Hmm, I think perhaps we should do something about that."

"What?" François asked, as Louis disappeared into the bathroom. "About the books?"

"No, about your hair," Louis said, returning and tossing a towel to François, then grabbing the chair from the computer desk. "Take off your jacket, and sit down."

François did as directed, folding the jacket and placing it on the bed. Louis draped the towel around his shoulders, and pulled a pair of scissors out of his pocket.

"Now, sit still, this won't take long, but I don't wish to cut you." François sat perfectly still while Louis snipped rapidly at his hair. In a matter of seconds, he clapped François on the shoulder. "There," he said, carefully removing the towel so as to not spill any clippings on the boy's shirt. "All finished, and you look much tidier."

François ran to look in the mirror, and came back a moment later, grinning. "That was fast," he said, running a hand over his hair. "You going to cut your hair, or you want me to do it?" He reached up, and brushed the black locks out of Louis's face.

"No," Louis rolled up the scissors inside the towel, and tossed it onto the chair. "Not tonight. I believe I'll keep it long tonight."

"Of course, you must look your best for the Prodigal's return."

Louis whirled around to face the doorway, pushing François behind him. "Who are you -" he snarled, then stopped when he saw who stood just inside the room, leaning nonchalantly against the door jamb.

"Armand!" Louis breathed a sigh of relief, his hand on his heart. "Thank God you're here." In three steps he was at Armand's side, and kissed him warmly.

"I'm happy to see you, too, Caro." Armand allowed the embrace, smiling slightly. "And this must be the new fledgling," he added, looking past Louis to where François stood, his mouth open with wonder. Armand gazed back, his expression unreadable, running his eyes appraisingly over François's slight form. "Aren't you going to introduce us, Louis?"

"Of course, how rude of me." With a final kiss, Louis released Armand. "Come over here, cheri." He held out his hand, and the captivated boy joined him. Louis moved to stand behind him, his hands François's slender shoulders. "François, this is my very dear friend Armand," he said, bending close to the boy's ear. "He makes a point of trying to frighten everyone he meets, but you mustn't pay him any mind. Once you get to know him, you'll realize it's nothing but cheap theatrics."

"Theatrics, perhaps, but hardly cheap," Armand glared at him; his brow furrowed with mock annoyance, but the corners of his mouth twitched upwards slightly.

Louis shook a finger at him, and continued. "Armand, this is - " He stopped, his face softening into an expression of utter wonderment. He slipped his arms around François, giving him a quick kiss and holding him tightly. "Armand, this is my son."

"I see," Armand replied, looking from one to the other. Finally, he surrendered a small smile. "It's good to meet you, young one," he said, reaching out one pale hand to stroke François's cheek.

"Hi," François said, unable to look away from the deep brown eyes.

Armand studied him silently. "Well, Louis, you certainly did not exaggerate," he murmured finally. "He is very beautiful. And very young." He leaned over to gently kiss the awestruck boy. "However, if he doesn't breathe soon, I fear for his health." He playfully tapped François's cheek, and grinned broadly. "You may breathe in my august presence, Little One. The Great Armand feels indulgent."

"Sorry," François ducked his head, coloring slightly. "It's just - you're so - " He broke off, and shrugged, returned Armand's grin with one of his own.

"Yes, he is, very," Louis laughed. "And right now, you are very hungry and easily impressed by his antics. So, if you don't mind, Armand," he moved over to the bed, and gathered up François's discarded jacket. "would you please tell Lestat to stop this silliness and come meet him for himself, so we can get on with the evening."

"That may present a problem, Caro," Armand said, as Louis helped François into the coat and they walked to the door.

"Why?" Louis stopped, his hand on the door handle. "Armand, what are you not telling me?"

Armand said nothing, but stared at the floor, shoving his hands into his pockets. "It is very hard to tell you this, Louis," he whispered without looking up. "You know I don't wish to cause you any pain -"

"Pain!" Louis cried, his voice suddenly raw with fear. "What is going on, where is Lestat?" Louis grabbed him roughly by the shoulders, and pulled him around to face him. "You tell me, you tell me now, Armand! Don't play these games with me!"

"It is no game, Caro," Armand said, unflinching even as Louis's grip tightened painfully on his arms. "I wish it were." He closed his eyes, and shook his head sadly.

Chagrined, Louis pulled him into an embrace. "Please, Armand, tell me."

"He is alive, Louis," Armand said calmly, one red droplet rolling down his cheek, a mournful cherub. "His heart still beats, he breathes, he lives still, but his mind is gone."

Chapter Nine

"My God," Louis gasped. "It cannot be, Lestat, he can't be mad. Not Lestat. No." He turned away from Armand, and wandered over to a chair, collapsing into it. He looked up at Armand.
"You can't mean this. It can't be true."

"But it is, Caro," Armand said gently. "He has lost all touch with reality."

"No, it can't be." Louis buried his face in his hands. "It isn't true, not Lestat."

Armand knelt beside his old friend, and again embraced him; Louis did not notice. With a sigh, he stood, and turned to see François.

"I apologize, Little One," he said, walking across the room. "I know this is probably upsetting for you, too." He looked back at Louis. "I would give anything if I could change it."

"What's happened to him?" François asked, sitting on the bed, never taking his eyes off Louis. "How do you know he's crazy?"

Armand sat beside him. "He is incoherent," he said. "He keeps raving about God and the Devil."

"He always talks about that stuff," François shrugged. "All that good versus evil stuff. It's in all his books, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's true," Armand agreed. "But this is different. He thinks -" he sighed, and looked back to Louis. "He is convinced that he went to Heaven and Hell, and that the Devil wanted to hire him as his replacement."

"Sounds like he had a bad dream," François offered. "Maybe he had a really bad dream, and he can't shake it. I've had those, you wake up, and you can't believe it wasn't real." He turned to Armand. "That's possible, isn't it?"

"Yes, François is right, that must be it."

They both looked back to Louis. He had sat up, and now leaned back in the chair, rubbing his eyes with one pale hand.

"Armand, surely, it was just a nightmare," he insisted. "A nightmare. You know how Lestat is, his imagination runs wild." He rose, and walked over to stand before them.

"No, I don't think so," Armand said. "There's more to it than that."

"What?" Louis demanded. "Just tell me, Armand. I can't bear this - this - " he shook his head, squeezing his eyes tightly closed.

"The not knowing," François said, quietly. "Being ignorant, not knowing everything. It's like, the worst thing. I know."

"Yes," Louis said, nodding tiredly. "Just tell me, don't string it out."

"It is not so easy, my old friend," Armand said, taking his hand. "It is bad, very bad." He rose, and slipped his arms around Louis's neck, laying his head against his chest. "I was only trying to spare you. Don't hate me for what I must tell you."

"I could never hate you, Armand," Louis murmured, running his hands lovingly over the auburn curls. Armand kissed him again, then pulled away.

"Very well, Louis," he sighed. He sat on the bed again, mournfully looking up at him.

"He thinks that he went to Hell, and lost his eye, but he has both his eyes, perfectly whole. You can show him a mirror, and still he insists it is gone."

"Wow," François whispered.

"There is more. He thinks that his handkerchief is the Veil of Veronica, the true thing, the Vera Icon. He thinks the blood stains on it are the Face of the Christ."

"My God." Louis stared at him, emerald eyes wide with disbelief.

"Exactly," Armand said, allowing a the briefest of smiles. "But that is not the worst of it. He also thinks -" his face darkened, anger flaring in the deep brown eyes. "He thinks that he drank from the Christ Himself."

"How -?" Louis looked at him incredulously. "How does he say this happened?"

"How could he drink from Jesus?" François asked. "That's impossible, that's - that's - wicked." He crossed himself, half unconsciously. Armand spared him a curious glance, then turned his attention back to Louis.

"He believes that he was present at the Passion," he said. "He believes that this Devil, whom he calls Memnoch for some incomprehensible reason, he believes that this Memnoch took him on a tour of Creation, and eventually ended up in Jerusalem for the Crucifixion. He thinks that the Christ told him to drink His blood, and that he, Lestat, wiped His Holy Face with this handkerchief, and produced the Vera Icon."

"Sounds crazy alright," François muttered. Armand met his eyes, and shook his head, once.

"I see," Louis said, quietly. He turned away from the two adolescents on the bed, and moved across the room to the bookshelves, running his hands lightly over the various volumes. He stood there for some time, silent.

François looked to Armand, and opened his mouth to say something.

"Not now, Little One," came the gentle voice in his head. François gasped, and nearly slipped off the bed onto the floor, only to be caught by a strong, slender arm. "Relax, I only wanted you to be quiet. He needs some time to grasp this all."

"Can - can you hear me?" François thought, furrowing his brow.

"Not so loud," came the reply, tinged with humor. "You don't need to try so hard. I can hear you quite well." Armand released François, and slipped an arm around him companionably. "There, that's better. Now, what did you want to ask?"

"Is he gonna be alright?" François sent. "Lestat, is he gonna be normal?"

"I don't know that he ever was to begin with," Armand replied. "But to answer you, I don't know. I don't know if he'll be normal again. Maybe. I sincerely hope so. For Louis, if nothing else."

"Louis loves him a lot, doesn't he?" François looked wistfully over to where his protector stood, still immobile save for his hands wandering from this book to that.

Armand followed his gaze. "Yes, he does. Passionately, devotedly, eternally. No matter what the Brat does, no matter how petty he is -and believe me, Little One, he can be petty, and cruel, the books don't even begin to touch on it. No matter how many times he pushes Louis away, or breaks his heart, Louis still loves him." He shrugged.

"How can he?" Despite his concern for Louis, François found himself enjoying this silent communication. "How can Louis love him, when he's so mean?"

"Lestat tends to have that effect on people," Armand replied, smiling at François's enchantment with his new-found ability. "Besides, he is equally devoted to Louis."

"Well, he seems to have a funny way of showing it."

"Yes, well, our relationships are nothing, if not complicated." Armand lay back across the bed, stretching. "But, I'm sure he'll recover. Lestat is indestructible. He always survives."

"You mean, like Akasha, and the body thief," François also lay back across the bed, but turned so he could keep an eye on Louis, propping himself up on one elbow. "And what that other guy, what's-his-name, the musician guy."

"Nicholas?" Armand asked.

"Yeah, the one who -" François paused, and gulped audibly. "Um, I didn't mean -"

"It's ancient history, Little One," Armand reassured him, reaching over to stroke his cheek again. "So soft! And no beard yet, either, like me. But, yes, I understand what you mean. He's unbearably good at everything he does. Lestat is incapable of failure, it seems." He frowned suddenly. "Francesco, you shouldn't even think such a thing!" He turned over onto his side, to face the youngster. "I would never, never harm you."

"But I -"

"Ah, but I can read your thoughts, remember?" He grinned wickedly. "Even if you don't project anything, I can read what you're thinking. And you were thinking that I killed Nicholas, and that I might kill you."

"Yeah," François admitted, coloring with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult you."

"It's no matter, I'm not offended." He reached out and stroked François's hair. "I don't have to do those things anymore. And besides," he made a fist, and lightly punched François's shoulder, flashing him a cherubic, beatific smile, "I would not have killed you, even then. You are too beautiful, Little One. And I like you."

"I like you, too, Armand," François grinned back at him.

"If you two are finished grinning like monkeys," Louis stood over them, calmer now, his eyes clear and with a hint of their usual humor, "I think we should go. François has not hunted yet, Armand, and neither have I."

"It's early yet for you, Louis," Armand said, sitting up and taking Louis's hand to rise to his feet.

"Perhaps," Louis agreed, extending his hand to his child, and pulling François up for a brief embrace. "But I think tonight it is more important that I be clear-minded. And besides, François is too young to fast."

"Francesco, you seem to be a good influence on Louis," Armand said as they filed through the door.

"Really?" François asked, taking the steps two at a time. "I didn't do anything."

"He just means that I usually wait until much later to hunt," Louis explained, gathering his keys from the mantel.

"If you hunt at all," Armand insisted.

"That's enough, Armand," Louis cautioned. They stepped outside, and he locked the door behind them. They traipsed down the stairs, and through the gate, Louis pausing to lock it once more as well.

"Where is he?" Louis asked, as they strolled along the Rue Royale. "Daniel telephoned, he said they were close."

"He's at that place he just bought, out on Napoleon," Armand replied, swerving to avoid an overflowing trash container. "David thought it best to not bring him here."

"Why ever not?" Louis demanded. "This is his home. That place is empty, it hasn't even been properly cleaned, and it has no furniture."

"No, but it does have other things that are more useful right now," Armand replied vaguely.

"He's gonna be okay," François said, taking Louis's hand. "Armand said he would. Don't worry."

"Well, if you say so, my little Feu-Follet," Louis smiled, squeezing his hand.

"Louis!" François colored again, ducking his head.

"I believe you are embarrassing your son, Louis," Armand whispered. "Pet names are not . . . cool, at least, not around others."

"Oh, of course," Louis rolled his eyes. "How could I forget?"

"Well, you are a bit distracted," Armand allowed.

"Yes, I am, but I am sure it is temporary." Louis reached over, and with a swift movement, flipped the bulk of the auburn mane over into Armand's face.

Armand laughed, and tossed his head back, running a hand through his hair to push it away from his eyes. "That seems to be the general consensus."

They had reached Canal Street, and a streetcar was just coming around the corner. They hurried across the street, pausing on the neutral ground to wait for the car to go by.

They walked for some time, passing fewer and fewer mortals as they moved away from the Quarter. It had been far too long since Armand had spent any length of time in New Orleans, and it was pleasant to revisit his old haunts, noting what had changed and what had not. Louis seemed to have a destination in mind, and Armand, long familiar with Louis's hunting habits, followed his lead without comment. He himself had already hunted, and was not in any hurry at any rate. The longer they delayed reaching St. Elizabeth's, the better, as far as he was concerned. That fit with his plans very well. There were measures that needed to be taken, and Louis's presence would complicate things unnecessarily.

Even beyond that, the delay was not unpleasant. Armand was genuinely worried about Lestat, and needed a distraction. François kept him amused as they walked.

"Armand, do you really have the Night Island?"

"Does your hair drive you crazy when it's hot?"

"Can you drive a car?"

Armand found it extremely funny, this incessant, insatiable curiosity.

"Is this a family trait, Louis?" he asked. "So many questions, this one has. Just like you did."

"A child has to learn," Louis smiled. "But enough for now, he has to hunt. François, do you remember what you learned last night?"

"Yes, Louis," came the response. The boy stopped, and listened raptly. "Over there," he said, finally.

"Very good, p'tit - er, François," Louis nodded. "Now, you do the rest, and I want you to do it all by yourself. Do you think you can do that?"

"Sure, Louis!" François flashed him a grin, and then ran off, disappearing around the next corner.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Armand asked, as they followed after François.

"He is quite capable, I assure you," Louis said. "He could survive on his own now, if he needed to."

"Or wanted to," Armand added. Louis winced, and Armand immediately regretted saying it. "I don't think he will ever leave you, Caro." He slipped his arm around Louis's waist. "I believe that he would gladly follow you to the gates of Hell."

"Ah, but he already has," Louis sighed. "He is already in Hell, only he is too young to realize it."

Chapter Ten

"He doesn't seem to mind," Armand said, as they turned the corner.

François knelt over the body of a young woman, a shapeless canvas bag in his hands. He pulled out a wallet, and removed a large bundle of cash, several plastic credit cards, and several pieces of identification. He stood as Louis and Armand approached, and stepped back from the body.

"She has a lot of different names," he commented, handing the items to Louis. "Not much money, though." He pointed to a large house behind him, its windows boarded up and its garden overgrown with weeds; a rusting automobile of indistinct vintage was just visible along side one wall. "I thought I'd use that place. Is that a good idea?"

"Is it empty?" Louis asked. François looked at the house, and listened intently.

"I don't hear anyone," he said.

"That will do well," Louis nodded. "You see, Armand?" he said, as François hefted the body and leaped the broken fence, disappearing inside the small jungle. "He knows what to do."

"Very impressive, Louis," Armand admitted. "And how fortunate that it is one of your old houses."

"Sheer coincidence, Armand. I haven't used it for years, I sold it some time ago," Louis shrugged. "François had no way of knowing that, at any rate. He simply found his prey, and acted accordingly. I think he used very good judgment."

"Yes, he did," Armand nodded. "He is very quick and clean about it. I could not have taught him better myself."

François reappeared, wading through the weeds. "Well, those are the rules," he said, jumping the fence to land lightly beside them. "All done, Louis. I put her in that car back there."

"Very good, François," Louis said, handing him back the money and other things. "Now, you must dispose of these as well, you know."

"Yeah, I know," François said, shoving the bills into his pocket. "Your turn now, Louis."

They began walking again, pausing only long enough for François to drop the identification into a storm drain. They had come to the area known as the Channel, and were strolling along, perusing various antique store windows like any tourist. Suddenly, Louis held up a hand, motioning for them to remain where they were. In a flash, he had disappeared down an alley, into the night.

"Hey, where you going?" François called. Armand quickly put a hand over his mouth.

"Hush, Little One," he said, pulling François back into the shadows beside a large paneled truck. "Just because you don't see any mortals, doesn't mean they cannot hear you." He pointed to the shops across the street, their upper windows dimly lit from within. "Listen, Francesco, use your vampire senses as Louis has taught you."

François froze, and listened, his eyes growing wide. "I forgot," he whispered. "Oh my God, what if they heard me? We have to get out of here!" He turned to flee, but Armand grabbed his arm.

"Oh, relax," Armand laughed. "I was only warning you. Those fools inside are so accustomed to hearing gunshots out here, they hardly noticed your voice."

"You can let go of my arm now," François said, rolling his eyes. "I want to go find Louis." He turned to follow after Louis, but Armand still held tightly to his arm.

"But Louis doesn't want you to find him," Armand replied calmly. "He doesn't like others to watch him hunt."

"He always lets me watch," François protested, trying to break the steely grip on his arm, to no avail.

"He's had you for what? Two nights?" Armand laughed again, and pulled François into a loose embrace. "That's hardly 'always' even for one as young as you."

"Oh, yeah, like you're so old," François said, giving up his struggle. "You can let go now, I won't follow him. I promise."

Armand laughed again, and released him from the embrace. "I only look young, surely you know that. Louis told me you've read all those silly books."

"I wasn't talking about looks," François laughed, punching Armand on the shoulder. "That's for before."

"So, you have some fight in you," Armand commented, as they began strolling back toward the Garden District. "That's good. I was worried."

"Worried about me?" François asked. "Why? Louis is taking care of me. Don't you trust him?"

"You still need to be strong on your own," Armand replied. "You can't rely upon others for your survival. You have to be able to take care of yourself."

"Tell me something I don't know," François muttered. "Like I ain't been doing that all my life already."

"Really?" Armand looked at him thoughtfully. "Louis has told us nothing about your mortal life."

"I didn't tell him much." They came up on a house with a large yard, surrounded by an iron fence. François picked up a fallen branch, and rattled it along the fence.

Armand picked up another stick and did the same, surprised at how satisfying it felt. When was the last time he'd done anything so utterly juvenile and frivolous? It must have been centuries. He wondered why he had not thought of it before. "Why not? Why haven't you told Louis anything?"

"He didn't ask," François shrugged. He looked to his left and his right, and stepped into the street.

"I'm asking," Armand said, putting a hand on François's shoulder.

"Why?" François stepped back onto the banquette, and looked up at him, puzzled. "What do you want to know about me for?"

"Because I like you," Armand smiled. "I want to know you. I want to know all about you."

"You want me to tell you about being a kid now, you mean," François grinned. "I remember what you told Daniel."

"I am perfectly comfortable in this decade, thank you," Armand laughed.

"Yeah, well, I just bet," François laughed, too.

They continued walking, and Armand companionably slipped an arm around François's shoulders. François hesitated for a moment, and then did the same.

"Please, tell me," Armand asked seriously. He was slightly taller than François, but not much, and had dressed in fairly ordinary clothes that evening. To the casual observer, they could have been any two teenagers, out for the evening; all they needed was a six-pack to complete the picture. Armand thought it would be very pleasant to not be the youngest-looking of the coven any more. He kept this little perk to himself, however. "I want to know you better. That's all, I swear."

"Okay," François sighed. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

"You don't want much, do you?"

"You know almost everything about me, don't you?" Armand asked, smiling. "All the important things, anyway. That's all I want, I want to know how you came to be here, walking with me."

"I don't know where to start," François complained.

"Tell me where you were born, where you grew up," Armand suggested. They had come to St. Charles Avenue, and he dropped onto a bench outside a restaurant. "We'll wait here for Louis, he won't be much longer, and he'll have to pass this way, or near it. I'll know when he's near."

"Okay." François sat beside him, pulling one foot up under the opposite knee and swinging the other foot back and forth. "I was born here, in New Orleans. I grew up over around Rampart. The Projects."

"I see," said Armand. "Not the best place to live, from what I've seen."

'It sucked," François agreed. "I lived with my old lady, my mom, you know." Armand nodded. "No dad around. Hell, I don't think she knows who he was. She had boyfriends that lived with us sometimes, one guy for a few years, I thought maybe he was my dad, but he wasn't. He made a huge point of telling me that. Called me 'Little Bastard' all the time. Thought it was a huge joke."

"You never knew your father, and now you don't know your maker," Armand said, not unkindly. "That is not a happy situation, is it, Little One?"

"I guess not," François shrugged. "It wasn't like I was the only kid with no dad."

"There is more, isn't there?" Armand asked. "Your mother, you don't think much of her, do you?'

"She was a whore," François said, very matter of fact. "It was what she did. I mean, she worked at a bar sometimes, or did fortunes in Jackson Square, but those never lasted long." He turned, and looked deep into Armand's eyes. "I don't think she knew what to do with a kid. One time she told me, she only had me 'cause she didn't have the money for an abortion. Sometimes, I think she only kept me for the ADC money."

"Was she kind to you?" Armand reached over, and brushed away a tear from François's face.

"Sometimes," François sniffed, and rubbed his wrist across his eyes. "Sometimes, she'd buy me stuff, for no reason. But, mostly not. She'd get real mad at me for stuff. Like, if I didn't wake her up for her TV shows, or if I got any kind of letter from school, she'd go ballistic." He smiled bitterly. "That was when she'd buy me stuff. She'd beat the hell out of me if she couldn't find her cigarettes, and then next morning she'd come home with her take, and we'd go to Wal-Mart and she'd buy me stuff. She bought me a Nintendo once, but one of her boyfriends took it when he dumped her."

"Dio," Armand whispered. "Yet, you survived, Little One. You are very strong, your spirit is strong."

"Yeah, I guess so," François admitted. "I learned real quick to just stay away as much as possible."

"You lived on the streets?" A car approached, and slowed; Armand sent a silent warning, and it sped off.

"Sometimes, but only really for the last couple of months," François leaned back against the bench, and stretched. "I used to go to the library a lot, or somebody else's house, if I was lucky I could get supper that way. During Mardi Gras, I could always make some cash off the tourists, and that would keep her happy, if I could give her money. And she wasn't home much then, either." He lapsed into silence.

"How did you come to be Born to Darkness?" Armand asked quietly. "I know Louis has said, you don't remember much."

"No, I don't know much. I hate it, not knowing. It's worse than not having a dad. It's like, part of me is just gone, part of my life, it's just not there." François looked to Armand, searching his perfect features as if he could read the answer there. "When you don't know something, it's awful."

"I understand, perhaps better than you know," Armand said, gently. "Maybe I can help you. Tell me what you do recall."

Chapter Eleven

"Okay, but it don't make a lot of sense," François warned. "I remember pretty clear up to a point, and then things get really weird. I mean, I remember seeing stuff that I know can't be real."

"Like vampires?" Armand suggested. François punched him on the arm.

"No, well, yeah. But that's later. First off, I got into some serious deep shit."

"Trouble?"

"Drugs," François nodded. "I didn't do that shit, I stayed clean."

"'Just Say No,'" Armand quoted.

"It wasn't that, at least, that isn't why. I just didn't need the hassle. My life was already complicated enough, I didn't need to be hunting for fix money all the time. One addict in the house was enough."

"Your mother," Armand stated.

"Who else?" François shifted on the bench, pulling up the opposite foot to sit upon. "Anyway, I stayed clear of those guys, too. They're always looking for somebody to mule for them, and it's hard to say no to that kind of money. But, I seen too many kids buy it doing that. If it wasn't the cops or the Welfare people putting you in Juvey, it was some other dealer trying to protect his territory. I seen little kids get into that, and they'd be dead before fifth grade. And then, if you was late, your own boss might decide you were too much trouble."

"Not worth the money, is that it?"

"Not on your life." François shook his head, grinning ruefully.

A streetcar clicked by, and stopped; a lone figure stepped down, an old woman in the uniform of a hotel maid. She paid them not the least attention as she made her weary way past them. Suddenly, she stumbled over a broken piece of concrete, and fell, landing hard on her knees. In an instant, François was at her side, helping her up.

"Here, ma'am," he said, picking up her bag; moving too quickly for her to see, he pulled out the wad of money he'd taken from his victim, and dropped it into her bag.

"Thank you, darlin'," she said, taking her purse from him. "God bless you, child. You'd best be getting home, now, your Momma'll be worryin' 'bout you."

"I'll be fine, ma'am. You take care." She patted his arm, and continued on her way, heading down the dark side street with the familiarity of one used to late hours.

"Very smooth move," Armand commented. "Can you pick pockets as well as plant them?"

"She needed it more than I do," François said, his eyes narrowing. "Louis said I can do what I want with the money. And I wanted to give it to that lady."

"Of course," Armand held up a conciliatory hand. "I meant no offense. Merely an observation."

"Sorry," François flashed him a half-grin. "No sweat."

"Good. You must forgive me, I forget sometimes that not everyone appreciates sarcasm." He threw an arm around François, and gave him a quick embrace. "Now, you were telling me about what happened to you. If it wasn't drugs, what was it?"

"It was drugs, actually," François admitted. "This guy my mom knew, she got her stuff from him, he needed a runner, and told her he'd give her the next bag free if I'd run some stuff for her."

"Your mother did this?" Armand could not keep the shock out of his voice.

"Yep." François raised his eyebrows as if to say, 'what can you do?'*"So, this guy gives me this bag of money, I got to deliver it to some guy at the cemetery. Like the guy last night?" he said, helpfully. "Oh, duh!" He slapped his forehead. "You weren't there."

"It's nothing. Go on," Armand urged.

"Well, I didn't want to do it, but she said she'd beat me if I didn't, and he said it was only this once, his regular runner was doing thirty. So, I did it." He sighed once. "He gave me a bag, and I showed up at the cemetery, and handed off the bag. That's when everything went wrong."

"What happened?" Armand leaned closer, listening intently.

"The guy took the bag, and opened it up, and started counting it. I started to leave, but he had these goons with him, and they grabbed me." His hands began to shake slightly, and he quickly shoved them into his jacket pockets.

"Did they hurt you?"

"Not right away. The guy said the money wasn't all there, and he said I must've took it, since Chaunce - that's the dealer - He said Chaunce wouldn't never try to cheat him. He tried to scare it out of me, tried to make me tell him where it was. Only, I didn't do it. I didn't have the god-damned money!" He was shaking all over now. "Of course, he didn't believe me. Said I'd learn not to steal from him. Said he'd have to make an example of me."

"What did he do?" Armand moved closer, and slipped an arm around his shoulders.

"They took me inside the cemetery, and they hit me a few times." He swallowed hard, and paused a moment before going on. "Then they stuck me with something. I don't know what, it was in needles, it hurt, too. Stung, like a bee sting, for a long time."

"They gave you drugs?" Armand inquired, surreptitiously exerting the slightest bit of control over the boy, calming him. "Do you know what it was?"

"I think it was acid," François replied, the quaking diminishing as Armand's influence took effect. "Yeah, I think they said it was acid. I'm not very sure, that's when things get really weird."

"Hallucinations?"

"I guess so. It was just . . . weird." He chuckled weakly. "It was really retarded."

"What?" Armand asked gently. "Tell me what happened."

"I'm not sure, exactly. I know they left me there, dumped me over the fence of one of the tombs. Scraped my back on the pointy part of the fence, I think, there was a huge blood stain on the back of my shirt later." He paused, and bit his lower lip, concentrating. "And then I heard them take off. Only, then I heard somebody yell, I thought it was them. Screaming, you know, like a girl?" He paused, waiting for a response.

"I understand," Armand nodded. "They were frightened by something, you think."

"Yeah, but, what could scare them like that? I mean, they had guns, they were big guys, body builder types. What could scare them?"

"What indeed?" Armand murmured.

"Anyway, I just laid there on the grass. My back hurt a lot, and my arms. I think they broke my arms," he looked at Armand in surprise. "I forgot that. They twisted both my arms until they broke, I could hear them, it was like eating celery, and God! It hurt so bad." Tears sprang to his eyes, and he wiped them away irritably. "So, anyway, I'm laying there in the dirt, and my arms hurt and my back hurts, and stuff starts to kind of get all wavy."

"Wavy?"

"Like on TV, when somebody has a dream or something. Wavy." He raised his hands, and made serpentine motions in the air, back and forth, and made a warbling noise. "Like that."

"Ah, I understand," Armand nodded, smiling. "Special effects. A dissolve. As in 'Wayne's World.' It's one of Daniel's favorite movies.

"Yeah!" François nodded enthusiastically. "You know what I mean. Anyway, everything looked all wavy, and I heard those goons screaming like little girls, and then, all of a sudden, it was really quiet. And then I heard somebody laughing, just laughing like crazy. Like one of those little boxes you find at joke stores, going on and on, just laughing. And then I heard some kind of a really loud noise."

"A loud noise," Armand repeated. An idea was forming itself in his mind, but he said nothing. François had grown silent, and was staring into the middle distance, his brow furrowed. "What kind of noise?" Armand asked. "A siren? An explosion? A gunshot?"

"I don't know," François shrugged. "Nothing like that. It was a funny noise, kind of like thud-thud-thud. And a sound like dried beans falling. Only louder." He paused, looking at the ground before him. "I don't know exactly what it was. I can't tell you."

"That's alright," Armand stroked François's hair. "It isn't important. What else do you remember? What happened next?"

"This is so retarded," François ducked his head. "I saw somebody. Or something."

"What did you see? The vampire who made you? Did you see that?"

"No," François shook his head emphatically. "I don't know who did this to me, I swear to you. I saw . . . I saw an angel." He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right! Real good, Frankie."

"An angel?" Armand asked.

"Yeah, a stupid angel. Like in church. You know. An angel. I know, you don't believe me, I don't blame you."

"But I do believe you," Armand insisted. "I can see it in your thoughts that you believe that is what you saw." He bent close to François's ear, and whispered. "Francesco, Caro, I believe you. I have seen a lot of miraculous things in my life, I have seen spirits, shades and elementals, many things that you would not believe."

"I didn't believe in vampires, until a few weeks ago," François said quietly.

"Exactly," Armand laughed. "You understand what I mean, then. Please, tell me this, if you would. What did this angel look like?"

François sighed. "Like an angel. It looked like an angel," he held up his hands up in the air, shrugging. "It had a halo around its head, kind of glowing like, a golden halo all around its head. It was all in white, dressed in white. And it had wings. Big, white wings coming out of its back. Like an angel at Christmas."

"That sounds like an angel to me," Armand agreed. "Could I - could I see it? Could I see what you saw?'

"What do you mean?" François asked. "You mean, go back to the cemetery? I tried that, it didn't work. Nothing there anymore."

"No, Caro. I mean, let me see into your mind, as we did before, in the house. Only, allow me to see what you saw. You concentrate on what you saw, and I will see it through your eyes."

"Will it hurt?"

"Of course not," Armand soothed. "It . . . tickles a bit. It is not unpleasant, not like this."

"Okay." François squeezed his eyes shut, and grimaced.

Armand laughed softly, and took his hand. Images flooded his mind, a confusing mixture of fleeting pictures. Louis. Mojo. Louis again. That ridiculous shower Lestat had installed. His own face. Louis again, smiling as Armand had not seen him smile in decades. François's face, in a mirror, a sudsy beard on his face.

"Concentrate, Francesco," he laughed again. "Show me what you saw. Show me your angel."

The images faded, and were replaced by darkness, blurred, whitish outlines of what had to be tombs. The night sky, circles of light from street lamps. Suddenly, he saw a figure hovering above, floating, a seemingly huge figure, in white, its face a pale, glowing blur, and an aura of yellowish gold around its head. Sure enough, behind its back, spreading out from the shoulders, were what looked like wings. Armand tried to look closer, tried to make out some distinct features or details. The face remained a formless, glowing shape, but he thought he could just make out that the angel was wearing . . . pants? White, or light colored, pants. Not a gown of shimmering white, but, as far as Armand could determine from François's foggy memory, white trousers. And the angel's wings looked suspiciously like a monument atop a tomb.

"You can open your eyes now," he said wryly. As an afterthought he impishly tickled François's consciousness.

"Hey!" François giggled. "You did that on purpose."

"Did I?" Armand smiled.

"Well, did you see it?" François demanded. "Did you see my angel?"

"Yes, I did," Armand said. "Tell me what else you remember."

"Not a lot," the boy shrugged. "The angel flew over me, and I think it landed. And then things get really fuzzy. I remember feeling scared, I thought I was going to die, it was the Angel of Death, you know?"

"Yes, I understand," Armand replied. "Did it harm you?"

"I don't think so," François shook his head emphatically. "I only remember it picking me up, and holding me, and . . . kissing me." He seemed surprised at this himself. "I think it kissed me. It felt good. I wasn't scared anymore. And then, and then -" He broke off, blushing slightly. "I only remember, it felt so good. I mean, really good."

Armand smiled knowingly. "You mean, it was sexual? It gave you an erection, didn't it?"

"Jesus, Armand!" François grinned, still blushing, as much as was possible for a vampire. "You weren't supposed to look at that!" He shoved Armand aside playfully. "You perv!"

"I didn't see it in your mind," Armand protested, shoving him back. "I just guessed."

"Why?" François asked, still grinning with embarrassment.

"Because, Little One," he replied, standing and pulling up François with him. "I believe that your angel was actually the vampire who made you."

"You knew who it was?" François gripped Armand's shoulders. "You know who it is? Please, Armand, please tell me!"

"Little One, if I knew, I would tell you in a moment," Armand replied gently. "I do not know who it is. I only know, from what you have told me, and what I saw in your mind, that your angel was in all likelihood a vampire. But I could not see the face, no more than you could."

François released his grip on Armand, and dropped back onto the bench, resting his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. "I really thought you could tell me. I want to know. I want to know why this happened. I need to know."

Armand sat down and embraced him, kissing his hair. "You will remember, sometime soon, you will remember," Armand assured him. "These memory lapses, they will vanish, the same as the lisp."

"Oh, God, I almost forgot about that," François sighed. "Louis pretends like he doesn't hear it, and I'm more used to it now. It's pretty bad, though, isn't it?"

"Oh, Little One," Armand sighed, and stroked his hair. "You are so very young. Nothing is as terrible as you think it is. It will pass, I promise you."

"Promise?" François peered at him sideways. "You promise? I'll get better, I'll know?"

"You're better already, aren't you?" Armand asked. "You have no burns, those have all healed. Your face has filled out, even just since we left tonight, the hollows in your cheeks are gone. Your color is better." He grasped François's hand. "You are warm, as warm as one of us can ever hope to be." He lifted François's face, and looked deeply into his eyes. "You are far better off than when Louis found you, aren't you?"

"I guess so," François admitted. "I do feel better. And I'm not so scared anymore."

"You see?" Armand smiled warmly. "You take my word for it. Within a few weeks, you will wonder why you were so upset. Now," he rose to his feet, "Louis is very near. If we go this way," he pointed Uptown, "we will meet up with him very quickly. Come." He held out his hand, and François took it, standing and slipping an arm around Armand's waist.

"Thanks, Armand," he said, standing on his toes to plant a kiss on Armand's cheek. "I'm going to keep you to your word, though. I'd better lose this damn lisp pretty soon."

"I could probably help with that," Armand said, as they headed up the street. "If you drink from me, it should help you heal faster. Our blood has healing qualities that mortal blood does not have."

"Um, okay," François said, uncertainly. "I guess."

"Don't worry, Little One, it won't hurt. It will feel . . . heavenly." Armand drew close to him, pulling him into an embrace, and bent his mouth to François's throat.

"No!" They both turned. Louis stood behind them, obviously displeased.

"Louis!" François ran to him, and threw his arms around him. "Did you hunt? You're warmer, you did, huh? I missed you."

"I missed you, too, p'tit," Louis smiled, embracing his child. "Armand, you know my feelings on that."

"Louis, I don't know what you mean," Armand replied, unruffled.

"You know perfectly well what I mean," Louis snapped. "He's far too young for that. You should know better."

"Louis, did I do something wrong?" François asked nervously.

"Of course not," Armand said. Louis shot him a warning look. Armand frowned, but said nothing more.

"No, mon cher," Louis turned his attention to François, and smiled reassuringly. "You have done nothing wrong. You are just a child, as Armand well knows." He glared at Armand again, who shrugged insolently. "You are too young to share blood, that's all."

"But, he said it would help me lose this damn lisp," François protested.

"François!" Louis looked down at him, and put a finger on his lips. "You mustn't curse. I don't want to hear that kind of language from you, do you understand?"

"Yes, Louis," François nodded. "I'm sorry."

"That's alright, p'tit," Louis kissed him lightly. "Besides, all these little things will go away, in time. You have eternity, there is no need to rush into things. Do you remember what I told you last night?"

"You told me a lot of things," François said.

"I mean, I told you to savor your experiences. Do you remember that?"

"Here we go again," Armand muttered.

"Yes," François nodded. "I remember that."

"Good," Louis said, pointedly ignoring Armand. "Well, I want you to savor your childhood -"

"But, I'm not a kid," François protested.

"Don't interrupt," Louis admonished. "You are a child, as I have told you. You are a young vampire, not even a month old."

"And Louis is a young vampire, not even three hundred years old," Armand interjected, grinning.

"Will you hush!"

"Oh, Louis," Armand laughed, throwing his arms around both of them. "You never change, Caro, and that is why I love you."

"That is entirely off the subject," Louis protested. "François is my responsibility, and I am trying to raise him with some modicum of civility. Children need structure, and rules, and above all, they need time to be children. Perhaps if Marius had given you a few boundaries, you wouldn't be so impossible."

"But, Louis," Armand said, smiling. "Francesco is hardly a child, any more than I am."

"François, p'tit, would you go up ahead a bit? We need to discuss something in private. There's a good boy." Louis kissed François warmly, and shooed him a bit further up the street, waving him on until he was out of earshot. Louis then turned his attention to Armand.

"Armand, François has never had the chance to be a child," Louis said quietly. "He was forced to grow up too quickly, both in his mortal life and now. I intend to give him that opportunity, to be a child, to play, to be free from worry or adult concerns. I will care for him, make the decisions for him, until he is mature enough and ready to make them on his own. For as long as he wishes, he can and will be a child."

"Louis, that is very noble," Armand said. "I know your heart is in the right place. But how do you know it's what he wants? He is old enough to decide for himself."

"I believe he wants to be a child," Louis replied. "He . . . projected this to me. He longs for what he considers a normal life; a nice home, security, safety, and above all, to be cared for by a responsible adult. He has not had an easy life. I know this much, just from his reactions, and the little he's told me. He's had to make decisions and take actions that no child should have to do. Even in my mortal lifetime, a child was not expected to be responsible for the parents, and that's exactly what his life has been." He gave Armand an meaningful look. "I should think that you, of all of us, should understand the importance of allowing a child his innocence."

"He is hardly an innocent," Armand said coldly. "He is a vampire. He has killed. He kills quite easily and exceptionally well."

"That's as may be," Louis looked up the street, to where François stood, kicking at tree roots, his hands in his trouser pockets. "But he is still an innocent, in many ways. Surely, you can see that. He craves this, Armand, he needs it. He needs it to heal his wounded soul. Would you deny him this, just to appease your own curiosity and lust?"

"Oh, Louis," Armand sighed. "You know how to hurt a guy." He looked up at his old friend, his eyes misting. "You win, Louis. You win. Raise François as you will. You won't have any more trouble from me." He poked a finger into Louis's chest. "But you promise me something, Caro."

"What?" Louis asked, brushing Armand's hand away, and giving him a small, forgiving smile.

"Promise me, Louis, that when François no longer wishes to be treated as a child, you will allow him to grow up."

"He's not Peter Pan," Louis laughed. "I promise, when he's ready, he will be free to grow up. But not before. And I don't want you or your filthy minion corrupting him." He started up the street toward François.

"Hey!" Armand hurried along beside him. "Daniel is not filthy! I just gave him a bath this morning."

"Ugh! Armand, I do not want to hear about your disgusting habits."

"What's disgusting?" François asked, as they joined him.

"Nothing, Little One," Armand laughed. "Louis is just ranting. You'll find he does that from time to time. Don't worry about it." He leaned closer to François. "Just keep him away from any open flames," he whispered.

Chapter Twelve

"I heard that, Armand," Louis said, flipping a finger against the back of Armand's head.

"Ow," Armand said flatly, grinning at François.

"How far do we have to go?" François asked, rubbing his arms and turning up his jacket collar. "It's getting cold." He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets.

"It isn't far, only a few blocks," Louis replied. "Don't put your hands in your pockets like that. It doesn't look dignified, and it wrinkles your suit."

"Oh, for God's sake, Louis," Armand muttered under his breath. Louis tossed him a scowling glance. Armand waved a hand, annoyed, and continued on ahead.

"My hands are cold," François protested, watching as Armand stopped a few yards away, leaning against a tree.

"Here," Louis took the boy's hands in his own, and held them for a moment. "There, is that better?"

"A little," François said. "But they're still cold."

"My fault, I'm afraid. I was so distracted, I neglected to dress you warmly. Well, it's only a little ways, p'tit," Louis bent to kiss him. "We'll have to get you a warm coat of your own, a fine long one, and some gloves and a scarf. For now, why don't you put your hands in your coat pockets. That is not so inelegant, and it's only just this once." He ruffled the boy's hair.

François grinned up at him, and did as Louis had suggested. "That's a little better," he allowed.

"Good," Louis kissed him again. "Come, let's go. Armand is getting impatient with me, I'm afraid. And I want to see Lestat." He slipped his arm around François's shoulders as they hurried to join Armand. "I want him to meet you, François. He will be so impressed with you, I just know it."

They caught up with Armand, who quickly pulled off the leather bomber jacket he wore, and handed it to François, who just as quickly donned it. They continued along St. Charles Avenue, Louis pointing out this house or that building that held some historical or personal interest. Armand added commentary of his own as well, indicating which houses were haunted, or which had been used in some television production. François listened raptly, and soon forgot about the cold, which had of course been the plan all along.

They soon arrived at Napoleon, and crossed to the neutral ground, stopping before a large brick structure. Lestat had purchased the old orphans' home a few months earlier, claiming that it reminded him of his boyhood home. Louis seriously doubted this; he'd been to the Auvergne, had seen the ruins of the de Lioncourt estate, and there was nothing that even vaguely resembled the sturdy, solidly institutional building before them. Still, Lestat had insisted, and had spent a fortune renovating the outside and the inside.

They approached the iron gate, which Louis was surprised to see now sported a plaque, stating a brief history of the building. He put his hand to the gate, but was stopped by Armand.

"Louis, I need to tell you something," Armand said softly.

"What?" Louis asked, impatiently. He'd waited this long for Lestat to return, and was in no mood to delay any further. "You've already told me, you think he's mad. I'm prepared for that. Now, can we go? It's getting colder by the minute."

"I just wanted to prepare you, that's all," Armand replied, shrugging. "You go ahead, then. He's in the chapel. The others are inside, they'll show you if you get lost." He turned to go.

"Hey," François put a hand to his arm, stopping him. "Where you going?"

"I have not yet hunted this evening," he replied. "You go with Louis. The others are inside, the rest of your . . . family." He kissed François, and smiled warmly. "Daniel is dying to meet you. Don't keep him waiting." He turned and disappeared into the night.

"Come, p'tit," Louis said, slipping an arm around his shoulders. "Let's get you out of the cold."

Louis opened the gate, and they walked up the path. He lifted a hand to knock, but before his hand could fall, the door opened.

"Louis, I'm glad you're here," David greeted them, ushering them inside. "He's in the chapel, he's been calling for you." He shut the door behind them, and gestured toward a hallway. "That way."

"Thank you, David," Louis said, giving his brother fledgling a polite smile and a strong handshake in greeting. "We came as soon as we were able. Armand has told me of Lestat's delusions," he said. "Is he well, otherwise? He's not hurt, is he?" He followed as David led the way down a hallway.

"No, not physically," David replied. "He's - Oh, dear." He stopped, and turned back to see François, who had remained standing just inside the door, forgotten by both adults. "I'm afraid I've been terribly rude." He smiled warmly at the boy, his Anglo-Indian face filled with friendly curiosity. He looked to Louis expectantly.

"Of course, how rude of me," Louis said, waving to François to come forward. "David, I'd like to present to you my son, François." François meekly stepped forward, suddenly shy. Louis patted his shoulder reassuringly. "François, this is our good friend, David Talbot."

"Hi," François said, feeling terribly insecure suddenly. This was far different from meeting Armand, who was far less intimidating than he'd expected. François had read the books, he knew of David Talbot. The former Superior General of the Talamasca, truly an old man, was yet a young vampire, only a few years older than himself. Here was a man who convened with spirits, who had known fully well that such things as vampires existed and yet did not fear to talk to Lestat, a man of immense education and breeding. Even his accent was high class, falling somewhere between Captain Picard and James Bond, and to make matters worse, he was a looker, too; to François, he appeared something out of the Arabian Nights, dark of skin and eyes, and possessed of an air of exotic mystery.

"It is a pleasure indeed to meet you, my boy," David proffered his hand. François stared at it for a moment, until Louis nudged him with an elbow. He shook hands, surprised at the gentleness of the grip. "We've heard a great deal about you from Louis," David said, casting an amused glance at Louis. "There's no need to be nervous, now, just relax." He peered intently into François's eyes, and laughed suddenly. "Captain Picard! Oh, that's too rich." He shook his head, and clapped the boy on the shoulder.

"Hey, cut the kid some slack, Davy." François followed the sound of the voice, to see a young man with ashen hair, standing at the top of the large central staircase. He trotted down the steps lightly, and jumped the last three to land beside François. "So, you must be Frankie," he said, grinning widely.

"François," Louis laughed, rolling his eyes. "May I present Daniel Molloy."

Daniel stuck his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans, and slouched, grinning at François all the while, his violet eyes filled with good humor and unquestioning welcome. "Glad to finally see you, kid. Louis's been burning up cyberspace talking about you." He looked over to Louis. "You sure weren't lying, Lou. He's cute as a box of puppies."

François liked him immediately. He found himself grinning back.

"Daniel, if you're quite finished making a fool of yourself?" David asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, yeah," Daniel dismissively waved a hand at David. "Keep your pants on, Davy."

"I've warned you, Daniel," David said menacingly. "Do not call me Davy."

"Yeah, whatever," Daniel turned back to Louis. "Lou, what say you let the kid stay with me for awhile, you can go check out Blondie, and I'll bring him in to you in a bit. I'll give him the nickel tour, okay?"

"I think that will be fine," Louis said, trying desperately keep his composure. Daniel's constant attacks against David's staid, serious persona were the stuff of legend among the coven, and the source of a series of wagers between the two of them. Louis coughed a few times, and managed to swallow the grin that was just below the surface. "I wouldn't mind a few minutes alone with Lestat, just to prepare him. Unless," he looked hopefully to Daniel and David, "you've already told him of François?"

"Uh, not exactly," Daniel said, suddenly finding his fingernails fascinating.

"I'll explain things," David said, taking Louis's arm and leading him back down the hallway.

"I'll stay here," François called after them, grinning at Daniel. "We just left Armand," he said. "He's pretty cool, huh?"

"I've always thought so," Daniel answered absently. He watched as Louis disappeared down the hallway, his face clouding with ineffable sorrow for a brief moment. Then, he shook his head, and grinned again. "So, let me get this straight. You don't know who made you, but you found Louis, and charmed the pants off him."

"I don't know about that," François laughed. "But yeah, I don't know who made me. I wish I did. Armand looked in my head, but he didn't see anything either."

"Hey, I'm the blond around here," Daniel said, tapping François on the forehead. "I bet there's something in there."

"Duh!" François pulled a face. "I mean, he couldn't see who done it." He punched Daniel in the shoulder.

"Yeah, I understand," Daniel apologized, ruffling the boy's hair. "I'm just pulling your chain."

"I know," François shrugged. "I don't want to think about that right now. It's kind of weird."

"I can imagine," Daniel agreed. There was an awkward silence. Then, Daniel brightened. "Hey, kid, Louis said your name is Francis Albert, right?"

"Yeah, Francis Albert Gallagher," François sighed. "Why?"

"Just like the Chairman," Daniel said, obviously impressed. "You even got blue eyes! Do you sing?"

"God, that's so original, you know, nobody ever asked me that before!" François rolled his eyes, but smiled just a little, too.

"Sorry, kid," Daniel grinned again, and stored the information away for future reference. Obviously, Louis had not warned the boy about his predilection for affectionate, but often irritating, nick names. "Listen, do you want to see the rest of the place?"

"Sure, I guess," François looked around the foyer, relieved that the name conversation was going no further; he doubted that Daniel was the type to make fun of his initials, but he didn't want to take the chance, all the same. "Kind of empty, isn't it?"

"That's a matter of opinion," Daniel said, taking the boy by the shoulders and steering him to the left, and into the next room. The room was finished in warm tones, carpeting and walls exuding comfort and warmth. He waved his arm expansively. "Okay, see, this room, this is the music room. Note the full size grand piano? We had to tear down an entire wall to get it in here." There was not a stick of furniture to be seen, save for a large jukebox in one corner.

"Uh, Daniel?" François gave him a sideways glance. "There's nothing in here."

"Sure there is, kid," Daniel laughed. "You just got to use your imagination. See, over there," he indicated the opposite wall. "Just look at all those guitars. There must be two hundred hanging there. Lestat has been collecting them since his so-called concert."

"You could never get that many guitars on that wall," François protested, giving his guide a playful shove. "Besides, that's not the guitar wall, it's got - " he paused, thinking hard. "It's the saxophone wall."

"Oh, yeah," Daniel grinned at him. "That's what I said. The guitars are over here." He flipped a thumb behind them.

"I ain't blind, you know," François said, going over to the wall and pretending to take down a guitar. He made a few windmill passes at the air guitar, cocking his head as if listening intently. "Hmm. Out of tune. Better put it back." He carefully mimed hanging it back upon the wall.

"You got the idea now," Daniel laughed, slapping him on the back. "Come on, I'll show you the rest."

They wandered from empty room to empty room, upstairs and down again, coming up with an endless supply of furnishings and decorations. Priceless antiques stood cheek-by-jowl with pinball machines. Beds converted into pool tables. One room was filled with computers and video games. In one of the upper bedrooms, a wall-sized entertainment console, complete with six foot television screen, rose out of the floor with the touch of a row of buttons - but only if one knew the secret code. Secret passages were built in, to facilitate using the entire house as a life-sized playing board for Clue.

Gradually, the descriptions became more elaborate, and the more ridiculous or improbable, the better. In the basement, where a row of elegantly detailed coffins lay, ready for any occupants the following morning, Daniel expounded upon the high-tech, complicated system of sun lamps, "designed to prevent that unsightly pallor!" There was also a hidden room furnished with a virtual reality system, utilizing technology sent from the future, so that they actually had their own personal Holodeck, "just like on the Enterprise." The former dining room was actually a movie theatre, because, as François declared, "it isn't as though they'll have snacks for us at the cineplex, will they?? This put Daniel into hysterics, and it was a few minutes before they could continue. The kitchen was for Mojo, of course, since the rest of the occupants had no need for it. The attics were the location for the Jacuzzi and swimming pool, "just in case Louis gets angry and sets the place on fire."

Eventually, the only room left to explore was the chapel. Daniel hesitated at the door.

"I don't think we need to go in there, kid," he said, trying unsuccessfully to steer François back in the opposite direction. "There's nothing to see, really. It's a pretty boring room."

"Lestat's in there, ain't he?" François asked. "That's why you don't want me to see it, right?"

"Well, yeah," Daniel admitted, scratching his head. "It isn't real nice to see, Frankie. He's . . . sick, you know?

"Armand said he's crazy," the boy responded. "Louis doesn't believe it, I don't think."

"No," the older vampire answered, shaking his head sadly. "I wouldn't think he would. That's Louis for you."

"You tell me something?" François asked, allowing Daniel to lead him away from the chapel door, at least for the moment.

"Sure, kid," Daniel nodded. "Anything."

"Louis says that Lestat won't hurt me, is that true?"

"Wow," Daniel gave a short, humorless laugh. "You don't ask the easy ones, do you? I was thinking along the lines of 'Is there a god, Danny?' or 'What's the meaning of life?', not questions about Lestat."

"So, you think he will?"

"I'm not saying that." They had come full circle, and were now once again in the foyer. Daniel sat on the steps, and patted the step beside him. "I'm only saying, that's a tough question."

"Why?" François dropped down beside him, pulling his knees up to his chin, and crossing his arms over them.

"Because," Daniel shook his head, "Lestat is never that easy to figure. You think he's gonna like something, he'll hate it out of spite. You think he'll hate it, and it will be the best thing he's ever seen."

"So, you think he'll like me?"

"Kid," Daniel reached over and ruffled his hair, "I don't see how anybody couldn't like you, even Lestat." He smiled warmly. "Don't worry, it'll be fine."

"I hope you're right," François sighed. "I'm scared to death he's gonna kill me." He put his head on his arms.

"What!" Daniel was incredulous. "Is that what you're worried about?" He laughed, and slapped François on the back. "Jesus, Frankie! Lestat won't kill you, for Gods sake!"

"You sure?" François eyed him suspiciously.

"Pretty sure," Daniel grinned, and threw an arm around the boy, giving him a firm hug. "He's crazy, yeah, and he's about as predictable as a hurricane, and he has the temper from hell, but kill you? No way. He just ain't like that. You can make bet on that, Frankie-boy. Besides, you got to know by now, Louis would never allow anything happen to you. Neither would Boss, or me. You're part of the family now." He leaned over. "It's like the Mafia, you know," he whispered conspiratorially. "Once you're in, there's no way out."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

François relaxed visibly. Daniel suddenly got an evil gleam in his eyes.

"Of course, there is Gabrielle," he said mysteriously.

"Huh?" François jerked his head around to stare at Daniel, eyes wide. "What do you mean?" he swallowed a few times, nervously.

"Oh, nothing Frankie," Daniel laughed, and poked the boy in the ribs. "I was just kidding you, I didn't mean to scare you. You know she won't do anything to you."

"She won't?" François wasn't sure whether or not to believe him.

"Well, she hasn't done anything yet, has she?"

"I haven't met her yet," François replied. "I don't know if she will."

"You haven't met your Grandma Gabby?" Daniel was incredulous. "Oh, you poor kid! Are you in for a treat. Wait 'til you try her rat cake . . . "

"She's not my - Rat cake! Yeah, right!" François laughed. "Anyway, she's not my grandma. She's Lestat's mom, right?"

"Yes, and Lestat made Louis."

"So?"

"Oh, yeah," Daniel nodded. "I guess that would make her your great-grandma." He flashed François an exceptionally goofy grin, hoping to make him laugh. It worked. François countered with a silly grin of his own, and it soon escalated into a contest. After a few minutes, they had laughed themselves into near exhaustion, falling back to lie panting on the steps.

"Feel better now, Frankie?" Daniel asked, sitting up.

"Yeah," he nodded, also pulling himself to an upright position. "I think I want to go see him, though."

"You sure, kid?" Daniel was serious now. "I mean, you don't have to go in there, you know."

"I know," François said, biting his lower lip. "But I think Louis needs me. I can feel it. He's -" he groped for words. "He's really upset, he's worried, he's really, really scared."

"You can read his mind?" Daniel asked, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

"Yeah, I guess so," François shrugged. "I don't know how I do it, I don't know why it happens even, but a couple of times it's happened. I kind of hear his voice in my head, only he's not here."

"Yeah, I know what you mean." Daniel shook out one cigarette, and lit it, sucking the smoke deeply into his lungs. "God, that feels good," he exhaled with a satisfied sigh. "Yeah, I know what that feels like. Boss used to do that to me all the time, before he did the Deed."

"You mean, bit you, all that?"

"Born to Darkness, the way Louis put it," he grinned again, taking another drag on the cigarette. "So I guess, if you can hear him, that pretty much cinches it that Louis didn't make you. Not that anyone believed that, anyway." He flicked the ashes into the cuff of his jeans.

"So he really won't make any?" François asked, wondering Daniel kept his pants from bursting into flame. "Hey, I thought we couldn't do that mortal stuff like that."

"What, this?" He indicated the cigarette. "Sure we can. We can smell stuff, we can breathe air. It's just air with a little kick." He laughed. "Just between you and me, though, kid, it really isn't the best idea."

"Oh, great, here comes the lecture," François rolled his eyes. "I already heard it before. Just Say No, all that."

"No, it isn't that," Daniel laughed, and took another long drag, closing his eyes to savor the smoke. "But you know, we're kind of flammable."

"Jesus!" François jumped up, and moved away a few feet to stand before him. "You crazy or something?"

"Relax," Daniel grinned, and flicked another ash into the cuff, rubbing it with his finger to make sure it was out. "I'm kidding you. The sun, yeah, and if we're caught in a burning building, that can do some serious damage. But a cigarette? Nope."

"Oh." François looked in the direction of the chapel. "I really think I ought to go to Louis. He needs me."

"Okay, if you insist." Daniel stood up, and walked to the door, flipping the butt outside. "Come on, let's get this over with." He put his hand on the boy's shoulder, and they went to the chapel.

Chapter Thirteen

They stepped inside, and François was immediately impressed. Even at this late hour, the beauty of the stained glass was breathtaking.

"Frankie," Daniel said softly, taking his arm. "This way. Louis is over here."

There were dusty velvet chairs lining the walls, and a figure sat in one, his head in his hands. David stood to one side, his hand on Louis's shoulder.

François went over and knelt in front of him. "Louis?"

"Yes, p'tit?" Louis raised his head, and François could see that he'd been crying. The streaks of the blood tears were dried now, but from the intensity and the stains on his shirt collar, it was obvious that he'd been weeping for some time.

"Louis, I'm sorry," François said, taking his hands and kissing them. "Tell me, what can I do to make it better?"

"Nothing, François," Louis shook his head. "I don't think you can do anything." He rose to his feet, and straightened his clothing, taking a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and wiping his face. "There, that's better." He neatly folded the bit of linen and tucked it back into the pocket. He took a couple of deep breaths, and drew François into an embrace.

"I'm fine, p'tit," he said, kissing the top of François's head. "I'm glad you're here. There are some people I want you to meet." He held the boy out at arm's length, looking him over carefully. He sniffed twice, and gave Daniel a foul look. "Daniel, you know better," he muttered. Then, he shook his head. "Well. You look none the worse for being in the care of that incompetent. Come along."

He led the way across the room to where two figures stood, talking quietly. They turned as Louis and François approached. A stunningly beautiful woman, with flowing red hair and the palest of pale skin smiled at them, holding out her hand to the boy.

"This is our new little one," she said, reaching out to touch his face. "So young, you certainly were not exaggerating, Louis." She smiled warmly at François. "Little one, François. I am Maharet. We're glad to have you as part of the family." She bent and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thanks," he said, a bit awed. He thought she was one of the most beautiful creatures he'd ever seen, even if her eyes did look a bit blood-shot. She laughed lightly, and took his hand, turning him to face her companion.

"François, this is Marius."

François turned to the tall, fair man. The Roman was much taller and far more imposing than he'd expected, and somehow made François feel guilty, as though he'd done something wrong and had been caught out.

"Come now, boy, I'm not that bad, am I?" Marius laughed lightly, and reached out to clap François on the shoulder. "Relax, boy. I won't bite you." He turned to Louis. "Is he always this nervous, or is this a special occasion?"

"You are a bit intimidating, Marius," Louis replied mildly.

"Nonsense," Marius said with a small smile.

"Hey, if you guys are done scaring Frankie to death," Daniel said, joining them, "he'd kind of like to meet Blondie."

"I don't think that would be a good idea," Louis said quickly. "Not tonight."

"I think it's a very good idea," came a soft voice from the shadows. A figure in khaki, only a little taller than François, with dusty blond hair pulled back from the face, came forward. "There is no reason not to let him. It isn't as if my son is going to harm him, for Gods sake."

"Well, Frankie, lucky you," Daniel chuckled, stepping over to quickly embrace the small woman. "If it isn't Granny Gabby."

"Some night, I shall have to kill you," Gabrielle said, allowing Daniel to kiss her. She pushed him away with a little shove, and looked François up and down. "Come along, child," she said, taking François by the hand, and nodding to Louis to follow. They walked up to the front of the chapel.

"Gabrielle, I think this is a big mistake," Louis said. She shot him a stern look, and he sighed, giving up; there simply was no arguing with a de Lioncourt, even one by marriage.

They came up to the steps, and there a figure lay, curled into a fetal position, his mane of blond hair spread out over the floor. François felt behind him for Louis, who took his hand.

"Lestat," Gabrielle said softly. "Lestat, turn around here. There's someone who would like to see you."

"I don't want to see anyone, Mother," came the whispered response. "I only want Louis. I want Louis to come back."

"I'm here, cheri," Louis said hoarsely. "I had to go away for a bit, but I'm back now. I'm sorry." He let loose of François's hand, and moved forward to kneel beside his maker. He reached out, and smoothed Lestat's hair. "It's going to be alright. I promise you. I won't let anyone harm you."

"You promise?" Lestat moved, and slowly rolled over, and grasped Louis's hands.

"Of course, Lestat," he replied. "I would never lie to you, you know that."

"Yes, Louis. You were always so good to me. I've never appreciated you as I should. I've been such a bastard. How can you even stand to look at me?" He sat up slowly, and crossed his legs.

"I could look at you forever, mon vieux, you know that," Louis said softly. "You were, and still are, the most beautiful creature I've ever seen."

"Even with this?" He indicated his left eye, which was squeezed tightly shut. "Even so horribly mutilated?"

"Lestat, mon cher, your eye is fine. Remember, I told you before. It's just a bad dream." He leaned forward and brushed the hair away from Lestat's face.

"A bad dream?" Lestat repeated. "But, Louis, it's gone. I can feel it, it's gone." He moved one trembling hand to his face.

"No, my darling," Louis shook his head, smiling gently. "It's your imagination. You're very ill. Give it time, it will heal. We always do, remember?"

"Yes, Louis," Lestat sighed, and reached out to grab Louis's hand. "We always heal. And now I have the strongest blood of all, don't I?"

"Yes, I suppose so," Louis agreed. "Darling, there is someone I want you to meet. He's a good friend of mine. I want you to promise not to frighten him, will you do that?"

"A friend?" Lestat scowled, which with the tightly shut eye made his face seem grotesquely comical. "You brought a friend here, Louis? Why."

"Don't be afraid, Lestat," Louis said, quietly. "He cannot harm you. He's just a child. He needs your help."

"I am still the most powerful of us, aren't I?" Lestat said, a hint of his old bravado creeping into his voice. "I am still the Vampire Lestat."

"Yes, of course you are," Louis said, smiling lovingly. "The one and only. The envy of millions."

"Oh, Louis, don't be jealous," Lestat said, wagging a finger. "You know you are the most beautiful creature, even if you aren't me."

"Oh, Lestat," Louis sighed. "You mustn't say such things. Now, please, I want you to meet my friend, will you do that for me? You don't have to be afraid, I'm here with you."

"Alright, Louis," he sighed, and nodded weakly. "As long as you are here with me."

"Good," Louis smiled, and turned around to gesture to François.

François had been standing behind Louis, half hidden in the shadows with Gabrielle. He had unconsciously taken her hand, and was holding it so tightly that she had nearly lost all feeling in it. He looked back at Gabrielle, who extricated her hand, and nodded. He stepped forward, so that he was within Lestat's line of sight.

"Uh, hi Lestat," François said, staring at the most famous vampire in the modern world. "I'm, um, Frankie, I mean, François."

Lestat stared at him, and said nothing for a full minute. Then, he began to tremble, and pointed a shaking finger at François. "My God, my God," he cried, tears streaming down his face. "Please, dear God, don't let it be so. Please, if you love me at all, bring him back. Keep my eye if you have to, but bring him back." He buried his face in his hands, and sobbed.

François stood, frozen, staring at Lestat. "I didn't do anything," he whispered, shaking his head. "I swear, I don't know what he's talking about. I didn't do anything."

Louis looked from Lestat to François, and back again, his eyes wide with confusion. "Lestat, cher, what is it? What is wrong, please, you must tell me," he said, finally. He shot a look to Gabrielle, who quickly hustled François away from the front of the chapel.

They kept going until they were outside the chapel, Daniel shutting the door behind them. From inside, they could hear Lestat's cries, and the muffled sounds of the others trying to calm him.

Daniel immediately came up beside François, and put his arms around him. "Hey, kid, it isn't your fault," he said, holding him tightly. "You didn't do anything."

"I know, I know," François said. "I didn't do anything. So why did he freak like that?"

"He is mad," Gabrielle said tiredly. "I thought for a moment there, he was going to be himself again." She leaned dejectedly against the wall.

"I don't understand, what's wrong with him?" François asked. "What was he talking about, bring who back?"

"Armand," Daniel sighed. "He thinks Boss killed himself. He apparently got some bad blood, from that dealer guy most likely."

"He is mad," Gabrielle repeated. She sat down on the floor, and put her head in her hands.

None of them said anything for a moment. They could still hear Lestat, screaming inside.

"Lies, lies, lies!" he screamed. "What metal is it you think can bind me, cast me down! Damn you, lies! You didn't see him. He didn't give you this!"

There was the sound of things breaking, and the sound of metal clanking. Suddenly, they heard Louis's voice, raised above the din. "No, Maharet, no, please, I beg you. Don't do this." He sounded as if his heart were breaking. "Please, I will take care of him, I will do whatever is necessary. Do not do this thing, please, Great Mother, do not do this to Lestat. No!"

The chapel door opened suddenly, and Louis flew out the door as if thrown, the door slamming shut behind him. François broke away from Daniel, and ran to Louis's side, helping him to his feet and embracing him.

"I can't believe they're doing this to him," Louis wept, holding tightly to François. Daniel and Gabrielle came over, one on either side, and together they walked back out to the foyer.

"What?" François asked, reaching up to wipe Louis's face. "What happened, Louis?"

"They're chaining him up," David said, walking out to join them. "Maharet and Marius, they've chained him so he cannot hurt himself, and they're putting him in the cellar, locking him in a room."

"It is the only way," Gabrielle sighed. "Louis, you must calm yourself. It is the only way."

"I don't believe you," Louis said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Your own son. You let them do that, you knew that they would."

"It isn't forever, Louis," David said kindly. "It's only for a little while, until he comes to his senses."

"I'm sorry, Louis," François said, weeping himself now. "It was all my fault, I made him go crazy."

"Hush, p'tit," Louis said. "It was not your doing. It is just from that man he was stalking. That drug lord." He reached up to take his handkerchief out of his pocket again, and wiped François's face, then his own.

"But, the child has a point, Louis," Gabrielle said suddenly. "He's right. Lestat was calm, until he saw François."

"Yeah, well, he thinks he saw God, too," Daniel said defensively. "He thinks he drank from Jesus Christ Himself. Frankie didn't have anything to do with that, did he?"

"I suppose you're right," the former Marquise replied, sitting on the steps.

"Of course not," David said. "How could the boy have anything to do with that?" He looked at François curiously. "Or could he?" He looked to Gabrielle, who blinked a few times.

"Of course," she murmured, her eyes growing wide. She looked intently at François, and nodded slightly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Louis said angrily, wrapping his arms protectively around François. "He had nothing to do with this. He's never met Lestat before."

"Yeah, I have, Louis," François said quietly. Louis stared at him, shocked.

"He didn't drink from Jesus, Louis. He drank from me."

Chapter Fourteen

"Holy shit," Daniel whispered.

"Indeed," David looked back to Gabrielle, nodding.

"It makes perfect sense," she agreed.

Louis looked from one to another of them. "No. This is madness." He pulled François closer, stroking his hair. "You don't know what you're saying, p'tit, you're very upset."

"No, Louis," François gazed up at him, shaking his head. "I'm not, not really."

"But François," Louis said, "you told me you don't remember anything."

"I didn't, not until now." The boy shook his head a few times, as if the physical action would clear the mental confusion. "But now I know it. I know his voice. It was the voice of my angel."

"Angel?" Louis asked. "What angel?"

"The angel that I saw in the cemetery," François explained. "I only remembered it tonight, when Armand went into my head. He told me that it was a vampire, but he didn't know who it was, either."

"You let Boss inside your head?" Daniel asked, incredulous. "You didn't tell me that."

"You didn't ask," François shrugged.

"If we could get back to the point at hand -" David began

"The point at hand is that you have no reason to think that Lestat did this," Louis interrupted. He took François's hand. "P'tit, I know that right now, you think this is true, but you must be mistaken. You've been frightened, it's very confusing."

"Why are you so insistent that he is wrong?" David inquired. "He seems very certain to me. François, if you please, let me see your thoughts -"

"No!" Louis hissed. "You will not. He has had enough disturbance tonight, I won't allow you to go mucking around in his mind." He pulled François closer, wrapping his arms protectively around him.

"It's okay, Louis," François said softly. "I'm not afraid . . . exactly." The words were brave, but his voice betrayed his discomfort. He clung to Louis, as much to give as to receive comfort.

"Pah!" Gabrielle waved a hand dismissively. "I don't need to be inside the child's mind to know that he speaks the truth. God knows, Lestat is capable of almost anything."

"How can you say that?" Louis demanded. "Your own son?" He looked at the others, now standing around them. "Lestat would not do such a thing! Am I the only one who has faith in him?"

"It isn't that, Lou," Daniel placated. "Lestat is a great guy, everybody loves him. But he's been on acid for God knows how long, and that stuff can screw up your mind but good."

"It's completely understandable," David added. "It is entirely in character, after all." He smiled ruefully. "I should know of what I speak."

"This is a different situation entirely!" Louis protested vehemently. "I will not believe this. I will not."

"It's okay, Louis," François slipped his arms around Louis's neck, and now buried his face in Louis's chest. "You don't have to be mad about it. I'm sorry. You're right. I got it all wrong." His tone was placating, his gaze imploring as they met his protector's eyes. It was a skill he had honed to perfection through years of practice, calming an angry parent, diffusing a volatile situation before it blew up in his face. "I didn't remember it before, maybe I'm just mixed up now. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do it. It's okay. It don't matter. Really, it's okay." He moved away from Louis, walking to the door. "I want to go home, if that's okay. Can we go home?" He looked back at the others, hoping that they would not press the matter further.

Louis looked at the fledgling, and realized how frightened he was. François was frightened of him, afraid of his anger. Inwardly, Louis cursed himself. This was how he'd often felt, terrified of Lestat's rages. It was unacceptable. This child was not at fault. Regardless of what had happened this evening, despite the reactions his announcement had produced, François had not done anything wrong. He did not deserve this pain.

Louis had to get control of himself. He forced himself to calm, swallowed his anger and fear and frustration. This near rage was not helping anyone; it would not remove the chains that bound Lestat, it was terrifying François, and it was sure to open himself to ridicule from the others. God knew, he already had a reputation for rampant emotionalism, no need to fuel the rumor mill any further. And Daniel looked about to make yet another joke about his fiery temper, too, and tonight he simply was not in the mood to be a good sport. Instead, he smiled politely to the others; always the proper Victorian gentleman, he would do the right thing, disguise his own discomfort. Besides, he had a child to think of, it was very late, and François needed to get home.

"François is right," Louis said, his manner mild and meek as usual, despite the seething emotions inside. "It is getting late. There's nothing more I can do here this morning. We should be going home." He followed François to the door.

They stepped out into the cool night air, and shut the door behind them. Louis leaned against the door, drawing several deep breaths. François stood on the sidewalk for a moment, chewing his lip, then stepped back up and threw his arms around Louis, embracing him tightly, and again burying his face in Louis's chest.

"I didn't mean to do it," he said softly. "I didn't mean to make you mad. I won't do it again, Louis, I promise. I'll be good."

"François, I am not angry with you," Louis said, wrapping his arms around the boy.

"I didn't mean to lie," François looked up at Louis, his eyes wide. "I swear, it was an accident."

"P'tit, I know you didn't lie to me," Louis noticed that François was shivering, despite still wearing Armand's coat. "I'm not at all angry with you."

"You really aren't?" François seemed unable or unwilling to believe him.

"No, mon cher petit. Not at all." He stroked François's hair, and kissed him. Gradually, the boy seemed to calm down, and the shivering ceased. "There, that's better. That's my Feu Follet." He saw that this brought a small smile from François, and smiled back at him.

"Um, Louis?" François asked, timidly. "If you aren't mad at me, what's wrong? Why were you so upset?"

"It's difficult to explain," Louis sighed. "Lestat is not well right now, and is not able to defend himself." He drew a deep breath, and waited for his heart to stop pounding so hard before continuing. Control it. Push it down. "The others, Maharet and Marius, they think he's mad, they say he'll hurt himself, or hurt someone else. They -" Louis drew a few more deep breaths, and despite his best efforts, felt his hands begin to tremble. Calm yourself. Hide the fear. "Maharet said it was either chain him, or - or -" No. Don't think about it. I cannot happen. He took another deep, shuddering breath. "She said she would destroy him."

Once said, the unthinkable jumped to the front of his consciousness, and steadfastly refused to leave. His knees suddenly felt weak, and Louis sat down quickly on the stone step. He put his head in his hands, and the dam burst, quiet sobs pouring forth in great gasps.

"I don't want to live without him," he wept, "never again. I can't go on with this, night after night, not if he's gone. He's all that's left, the only thing that has made it bearable. I don't want to be all alone."

François stood before his protector, his rescuer, and felt utterly helpless. This wasn't supposed to happen. Louis was the one with all the right answers, not him. What could he do? He thought that Gabrielle was probably right, Lestat was mad, or at least, temporarily insane. François had seen it plenty of times before. It was a bad trip, a chemical reaction from the massive amounts of drugs he'd ingested, second hand through the blood of his victims. This, at least, François knew about. But what to do? Lacking a better plan, François sat beside him, and did what he thought Louis would do, if their positions were reversed.

"It's okay, Louis," François said gently, slipping his arms around the quaking form, and holding him tightly. "Everything is going to be alright. It's just a bad trip, that's all. I seen lots of them. He'll be okay." He lay his head on Louis's shoulder, speaking softly, keeping his voice gentle and calming. "He's gonna be sick for awhile, but you won't lose him, you won't lose Lestat. He won't leave you. He'll get better. They always get better."

"I'm so frightened," Louis whispered hoarsely. "I love him, I always have. He doesn't believe me, I know, but I do."

"I know," François soothed, feeling his own tears roll down his face. "He loves you, everybody knows that. Even me, he wrote it in his books."

"They don't care about him, they think he causes too much trouble," Louis didn't bother to wipe the tears from his face, so François gently brushed them away. "I think they'd be just as happy if he were gone."

"No, I don't believe that." François had run out of things to say. They sat there in the quiet of the pre dawn, the silence when the night creatures have quieted and the day creatures had not yet risen. Dawn could not be far away. He didn't know what to do.

Suddenly, the stillness was shattered by a loud cry, probably unnoticed by the surrounding mortals, but quite audible to preternatural hearing. With a feeling of dread, François realized it was Lestat, far below them in the cellars of the old orphanage, bound with chains, railing against the demons that only his drug-laced mind could see. François knew what he was suffering; the knowledge of his maker was not the only part of his lost past he'd recovered. The memories had come flooding back, including his own death, in the throes of drug-induced delirium that almost, but not quite, managed to block out the agony of his last hours.

Over the past few weeks, François had often wondered how he would feel when he finally knew his maker, the one who'd taken his life and abandoned him to his fate. Now, he was surprised to find that he didn't feel at all as he'd expected.

Louis had also heard Lestat's cries, and it had a strangely calming effect upon him. He searched through his pockets for his ever-present handkerchief, and even smiled when François handed him the starched white square from his own breast pocket.

"I see you have learned that, at least," Louis said, taking the cloth. He dabbed at his eyes, and wiped his face. "It seems I have succeeded, at least in some small way."

"Oh, Louis," François shook his head, grinning just slightly. He yawned, and noticed that his eyes seemed to be watering. "I'm tired," he said, yawning again.

"Mon dieu!" Louis jumped to his feet, and pulled out his watch. "Oh, my. François, we must go, now! There's no time!" He grabbed François's arm, and turned around, pulling open the door and dragging the boy inside.

"What is it?" François asked, as Louis literally swept him up in his arms, and ran through the building.

"The dawn, the dawn is coming, we must seek shelter," Louis answered, as he tore down the steps to the basement crypt. They reached the room with the rows of coffins that François had seen earlier, and found Daniel.

"Hey, I thought you guys went home," he smiled. He was sitting in an elegant coffin of polished, intricately polished wood. He had a book in one hand, and a lit cigarette in the other. As they entered, he quickly snuffed out the smoke.

"We were delayed," Louis stood François on the richly carpeted floor. "There's no time to go home now, we'll need to rest here."

"Oh, sure, take your pick," Daniel shrugged. "Gabby is going outside in just a minute. Maharet is going to stand watch, uh, that is -" he coughed self-consciously. There had been some concern that Louis might attempt a rescue, and the elders thought it best to keep a guard on the small room where Lestat lay. Daniel had been given decoy duty, just in case. So much for that. Oh, well, it was only a precaution, anyway. No one really expected Louis to try anything. He gave Louis an apologetic smile. "Anyway, Granddad and Davy, I guess they headed out to Marius's place in Metairie." He gestured around the room. "You pays your money and you takes your choice."

"Good," Louis nodded distractedly. He quickly examined the available choices, and chose one. "Come, François, it's late."

"I ain't getting in no box," François balked. "I had enough of them little places in the cemetery." He tried to back out of the room, but Louis caught him by the hand.

"François, " Louis said, gently but firmly pulling the boy to him and picking him up again. "This is not a time to argue. You will rest here. It's necessary. You will be fine. I promise you." He gave him a reassuring squeeze.

"I don't want to get in a box," François shook his head vehemently. "I'll suffocate or something." He tried to pull away from Louis, but could not.

"Don't worry, kid," Daniel said, serious for once. "You won't even notice it. It freaked me the first time, but after that, piece of cake. Trust me. Watch." Tossing aside his book, he lay down among the silky comforter that lined his coffin, and pulled the lid firmly shut. There was a barely audible click, and then, a muffled but still cheerful voice. "See? I'm fine. It's okay, really. See you in the evening, right?"

François looked at Daniel's box for a moment, and then met Louis's gaze square in the eyes, the barest hint of a quiver on his lower lip. "You sure?" he asked.

"Yes, I am sure," Louis said, lifting him into the coffin, and made to shut the lid.

"I don't want to be alone," François said, reaching up to stop him. "Can't I sleep with you?"

Louis sighed. "Will you cooperate if I say yes?" It was getting very late. He could feel the heaviness settling into his limbs.

"Yeah," François nodded, weakly at first, and then with more certainty. "Yes, if I'm with you, I can do it."

Louis nodded, understandingly. "Move over, then," he carefully climbed in beside François, and pulled the lid shut, securing the latches. There was more than enough room, although Louis knew he'd wake the next night with cramped muscles. Still, it was better than fighting with the child. True to his word, François made no further fuss, but curled into his arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Louis was suddenly hit by a wave of nostalgia, a memory of another shared coffin, only then, he'd been the one frightened.

Funny thing was, he was still frightened, and the source was the same.

"It's okay, he'll be fine," François said, sleepily. "Don't worry, he'll pull through it."

Louis's eyes were heavy, but he knew his ears were wide awake. "What did you say?"

"I said, he'll be fine," François yawned again, and shifted slightly to slip one arm beneath Louis's neck.

"But, I didn't - " Louis stopped. Of course. François had done it again. He smiled to himself. "Thank you, Feu Follet, I'm sure you're right. Now relax, and go to sleep. It will be sunset before you know it." He pulled François close, and waited for the dawn.

Foster Fledgling

Chapter Fifteen

The next evening, François woke to find himself alone in the cellar room. Although the lid of the coffin had been considerately left open, it still gave him a creepy feeling, a reminder of his mortal death, and of the events of the previous night.

He'd been apprehensive about meeting Lestat, Louis's and Daniel's assurances notwithstanding, but curious, too. He'd seen a photograph in Louis's room, a candid shot of Lestat sprawled on the parlor sofa, apparently caught up in one of his fabled fits of laughter, and François had been impressed. Even in two dimensions, the appeal of the Brat Prince was undeniable, the charisma reaching out of the snapshot to captivate him. Still, Lestat was famous for being unpredictable, and while François had never read of Lestat killing any young ones, there was always a first time for everything; if his brief mortal life had taught him anything, it was to take nothing for granted.

When he'd actually come face to face with Lestat, the fear quickly gave way to sympathy. He'd seemed so small and helpless, lying curled up on the bare wooden floor of the chapel, anguished, terrified, one eye screwed shut, the other eye wide open, yet haunted. He had locked onto Louis's face in relief and desperation, like a drowning man spotting a lifeboat. And Louis, visibly shaken, using every bit of self-control to keep from breaking down himself, so distressed by his maker's mental state yet pretending everything was perfectly normal; his sorrow was almost a palpable presence in the room, and François could hardly bear it himself. Then, being taken up to see the prone figure, everyone so solemn, Louis's eyes so red and his voice weak from the weeping, it reminded him nothing so much as the funeral home when he'd been taken to view his mother's mother.

And then Lestat had spoken, and François had heard his voice. The memories had jumped back into his consciousness with all the subtlety of a four car collision. He had taken hold of Gabrielle's hand, not really thinking about it, but needing to feel the touch of another, to have a physical reminder that he was not alone again, he was not actually reliving the scenes unfolding in his mind.

His mortal death. His immortal birth. He could recall it now, with amazing clarity.

He remembered lying on the ground in the cemetery, the feel of the little stones pressing into the back of his head. The thugs that had beaten him were bending over him, arguing whether or not he was dead. He lay very still, trying not to breathe, partly because it hurt so much to breathe deeply, and partly because there was a chance that if they left him alone, he might still survive. But that was just a lie he told himself. He knew that he was dying already. He just wanted to be left alone. Then one of them kicked him, hard, in the side, and he cried out; the goon then cursed, and muttered something about wasting good acid. François felt a needle jabbed into his neck. The pain in his broken arms was too intense for the sting of the injection to even register at first, but then it burned, and he felt the drugs start to spread through his body. He was picked up by the thugs, and thrown over the fence surrounding one of the smaller, whitewashed tombs. He'd hit the fence on the way down, and felt the iron spike rip open a gash on his back, before he landed hard on the grass around the tomb.

The poison in his blood was beginning to work. Within seconds, the world around him began to blur, and images ran together like cream in a cup of coffee. The figure atop the big tomb in front of him grew a head, and long, full, blond hair, and shining blue eyes, and big white wings. He knew what kind of creatures had wings, it must be an angel, coming to take him to Heaven. So, he was going to die, well, that was okay with him. He smiled, comforted by the knowledge that the pain would not last very long, and saw the figure smile back at him, a big toothy smile, and swore that it winked at him. He watched as it began to float down from atop the tomb, and landed just behind the men.

The angel, he knew now, was Lestat, the halo his golden hair, and his wings merely the white jacket he wore, blowing in the breeze. The vampire grabbed one of the thugs, lifting him off his feet and some ten feet into the air. The thug screamed, and Lestat sank his fangs into the man's throat, ripping it out and breaking the neck in one swift movement. He tossed the body aside, and faster than François could see, had the other goon pinned to the ground, and was drinking from his throat. He was dispatched just as quickly, and dropped in a heap beside his cohort. The dealer, who had hidden in the shadows, now began to keen, and Lestat slowly walked over to him, grinning widely, the blood running down either side of his mouth.

He looked a perfect horror. The dealer must have thought so, too, for he wet himself, the damp spot spreading across the front of his expensive trousers. François had laughed at the sight, and it had been a wet, gurgling laugh. At the time, he'd thought it very strange; he knew now, in retrospect, that most likely his lungs were even then filling up, and he was drowning in his own blood.

The dealer was babbling something about money, power, drugs. Lestat didn't pay him the least attention. "I won't allow this to happen," Lestat said, his voice determined. "You can't do that to him, it's too horrible." He grabbed the dealer by the throat, and turned around. "I won't allow it! It won't make that much difference, will it?" There was no one there, yet he seemed deep in conversation anyway, pleading with some party that only he could see. "But he's already suffered enough! Look at him, they've broken his body, he's got the crown of thorns, what more does he need?" With his free hand, he pointed to François.

Without another word, Lestat turned back to the dealer, and in the blink of an eye, he was at the man's throat, again drinking the life's blood as it poured out. He dropped the man, and leaned back against the wall of a tomb. He looked down, and when he saw that his white suit was smeared with blood, he began to laugh. Slowly, quietly at first, then louder and more forceful, laughing hysterically. Just as quickly as it had begun, then, the laughter stopped. Lestat looked about him wildly, and picked up the dealer's body, taking it to where the other two lay. He looked from one tomb to the other, and then laughed again, but only one short, harsh chuckle. He stepped in front of one tomb, running a slender, pale finger along the inscription on the marble plaque, and nodded. He quickly unscrewed the bolts and removed the plaque, setting it aside gently. Then, uttering a cry, he kicked the bricked-over opening, knocking the bricks loose to tumble to the ground in a noisy clutter. He kicked it again, and pulled a few stray bricks away from the gaping hole he'd created. One by one, Lestat picked up the bodies and shoved them into the tomb. He then stacked the bricks back in place, and replaced the plaque.

Then, suddenly, François saw Lestat above him, leaning over the fence, his face filled with compassion and love. He leapt over the fence, and picked up François, pulling him close. François felt his ribs grinding together, and cried out. Lestat kissed his face, and François heard a voice in his mind, comforting and soothing. There was a rush of air, and François felt his stomach lurch; almost immediately, the bile rose in his throat, and he was sick, throwing up sick. Each spasm spewed brilliant red, blood red. He was vomiting blood.

Just as suddenly, it was over, and he was lying on the ground. Lestat knelt beside him, and removed his coat, rolling it into a makeshift pillow and lifting François's head to place it beneath. Lestat lifted his useless arms, and gently folded them over his body. He took out a handkerchief, and gently cleaned the boy's face, wiping away the blood and vomit, all the time speaking soft words of comfort that François couldn't understand, but that sounded sweet to his ears all the same.

He bent and kissed him then, and cradled him in his arms. More of the soft, sweet sounding words. François felt another sharp prick at this throat, near to where the needle had entered. And then, he felt wonderful. The pain was completely gone, and not only gone, but replaced with the most blissful sensation he'd ever known. He felt warm and safe, and such happiness, such goodness, such pure joy. He felt a stirring in his loins, too, and the familiar electric shock as his body responded to the sensory overload, then the sweet agony of release as he gave it up; yet, the sensation continued, unabated, good and good and good. He was floating, dizzy, the stars above him spinning crazily.

And then, just as quickly, it was gone, the ecstasy replaced by a burning, gnawing emptiness. He began to cry, the pain had also returned, full force, and everything went black. Then, gradually, he became aware of a touch on his face, something being pressed to his mouth, and a voice, soft, soothing, telling him to drink. He cried out, and immediately something hot and wet and metallic-tasting flooded into his mouth. He choked at first, and then swallowed, and the drink kept pouring, and swallow after swallow, he drank it. It was unlike anything he'd ever known before, this taste, yet it was precisely what he wanted, the exact thing he craved with all his soul.

And the sound, there was a roaring, a pounding, like the sound of a band far down the parade route, or the throb of the engines on the ferry boat as it churned across the Mississippi to Algiers and back. It got louder and louder, until it was deafening him, and he wanted to cover his ears, but he couldn't. He couldn't move. He didn't want to move, he only wanted to drink, to keep drinking this stuff that was so alive.

Then, wham! It stopped. He opened his eyes, and reached out blindly for it again. Lestat held him, still, and François saw that the vampire's shirt sleeve was pushed up, and his wrist was smeared with blood; he watched in fascination as the tiny wounds healed up instantly. Then, with a sweet, slightly mad smile, Lestat wiped at François's face with the soft cloth again, the silk light as a feather on his bruised and broken skin. He bent and kissed his cheeks, once on each side, and then tenderly lay him back on the ground. François felt a tingling all through his body, stretching to his fingers, his toes, the tips of his ears, through his insides, like an intense tickling, not quite unpleasant. He lay there, too weak to move and afraid to try for fear the sensation would disappear and be replaced by the pain again.

Vaguely, he was aware of a scraping sound, and the clutter of bricks as he'd heard before. Then Lestat was at his side again, and lifting him, and somehow, this time, it didn't hurt as much. He was murmuring those soft words again, and François thought he'd never heard anything that beautiful before. Lestat reached up with two fingers and gently touched his eyelids, forcing him to shut his eyes. He suddenly felt very tired, at any rate, and wanted nothing more than to sleep. He felt himself being let down upon a hard surface, and heard sounds of bricks knocking together, along with more of the soft words. Then, darkness overtook him again, only this time, it felt right.

"Frankie?" A voice. Not Lestat's voice. Someone was shaking him.

He opened his eyes, and found Daniel before him, his face worried.

"You okay, kid?"

"Yeah," François said, his voice sounding harsh to his ears. He blinked a few times, to dispel the vestiges of the memory. "Yeah, I'm okay. I just was remembering stuff."

"Oh, yeah," Daniel nodded knowingly. "Last night was kind of rough, huh? But hey, look at it this way," tapped the coffin, "you made it through, just like I told you."

"Where's Louis?" François said, climbing out of the coffin. "Is he out hunting already?"

"Uh, no, not hunting," Daniel said, scratching the back of his head, and looking away. "Listen, Frankie, how about you let me take you out tonight, huh?" He turned back, and grinned warmly. "We can meet up with Boss, I mean, Armand. Go have some fun."

"I want to see Louis first," François said. "Take me to him, please?" He stretched, and yawned loudly. "Sorry. Where is he, anyway?"

"He's, uh, with Lestat," Daniel said. He clapped François on the shoulder, and walked him to the door.

"Oh. Is he still . . ."

"Yeah. It's a real drag."

They passed through the small anteroom without saying anything more, and came to a hallway stretching out to the left and the right. Daniel stopped, peering down the right hand hallway, chewing his lip. Very faintly, he could hear Louis's calm voice, reading aloud from some book. He noticed that François was also listening. After a moment, he sighed, and shook his head, and gave François a playful push in the opposite direction.

"Stairs to the left, Chairman," Daniel said, as François wistfully looked back toward the other end of the hallway. "Come on, I'm hungry."

"He's down there, isn't he?" François said, following the older vampire up the long staircase. "Louis, I mean. He's down there. I could hear his voice."

"Yeah, but don't worry, he's fine. Lestat won't hurt him. He can't anyway, not now."

"Why?" They reached the top, and François followed Daniel through the labyrinth of empty rooms. "He seemed okay last night, I mean, except for freaking out at me."

"He's kind of tied up at the moment," Daniel grinned. "For his own good, you know."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot. The chains, right?"

"Once he calms down, he'll be okay. Nothing keeps Lestat down for long." They had reached the entry hall now. "Hang on a minute, I need to find you a jacket, it's turned a little cold." He pulled open a door, and rummaged around for a moment before reappearing with Armand's leather jacket and another coat, also of rich black leather, but longer, a trench coat. He tossed the jacket to François. "Lou was worried about you being cold."

"Thanks," François caught the tossed coat, and put it on, zipping it up. Daniel shrugged into the trench, and stepped to the door, slipping his hands into the coat pockets.

"Christ!" He pulled a cell phone out of the pocket. "I nearly forgot. Boss is probably having four kinds of fits. Wait a minute." He flipped the phone open, and quickly dialed a number, putting the phone to his ear. "I suppose I could just call Lou's place, that's where he went last night."

"Why didn't he come here?" François asked, leaning against the door. "He only had to go hunt, that shouldn't have taken him all night."

"Well, little problem there, Chairman, seems that Stat - Boss!" His face lit up, and he said nothing for a few moments. François could hear Armand's voice, faint and tinny, on the phone. "I missed you, too, Boss. Kind of cold in that box. You okay?" More tinny squeaks. "Uh huh. Yeah, she did it. I still can't believe it, I mean, I knew she said that, but man! That's cruel. But I got one better than that." He grinned at François, and winked. "Frankie remembered who made him. You'll never guess who - Oh." He frowned. "Of course. Why did I even wonder?" He made a face, crossing his eyes and twirling a finger at his temple. François laughed.

"Boss, if you can stop gloating for a minute," he said, walking toward the door again, "I have to take the Chairman out to hunt, then we can meet you." More listening. "Okay, that sounds good. No, I have the car." Another pause. "Give us an hour, okay? And for God's sake, don't keep calling me every five minutes. It's distracting. We'll see you then. Love you." He flipped the phone closed, and dropped it into his pocket.

"Where we going?" François asked, as they stepped outside. He was immediately grateful for the coat, as it was very cold indeed. "I'm kind of hungry."

"Me too, kid." He gestured for François to follow him, and they walked around to the side of the building. "We're gonna go get some take out," he grinned wickedly, "and then meet Boss, maybe go to a movie. Sound like fun?"

"Yeah," François nodded, his eyes wide. They had come to a large courtyard behind the old orphanage, which was filled with several expensive cars. "As long as I can hunt. I'm getting that weird feeling again."

"It's called hunger, Chairman," Daniel laughed, and ruffled François's hair. "I know, it's hell at first, but you'll get used to it." He stepped up to a low, sleek sports car, deep red with mirrored glass all around. He pulled out a key chain, and pressed a button, making a tiny beep. "Okay, hop in," he said, walking around to the left side of the car.

"Hey," François said, pulling open the door and climbing in. "The wheel's on the wrong side."

"MG. English car," Daniel replied. "Pretty cherry, huh?" He turned the key, and the car purred to life. "Took me awhile to get used to it, but man, it drives like a dream."

François sank back into the soft, buttery leather seat. "Where we going?" he asked. "You ain't gonna find parking downtown, not this time of night."

"Thanks, but we're not going there tonight." Daniel pulled out of the courtyard, and soon they were on the broad St. Charles Avenue. "Don't worry, I know my way around," he grinned. "I thought we'd just get you out of town for a night, you can try something new. Oh, and here," he opened a panel on the dash. "Want to listen to some tunes?"

"We'll be back before morning, won't we?" François asked, looking through the stack of CDs. He selected one, and held it up. "How does it work?"

"Like this." Daniel popped the disc out of the case. "Definitely Maybe, huh? Good choice, Chairman." He grinned, and demonstrated how the system worked, keeping one eye on the road. "Some of the songs on here, makes me wonder sometimes. You related?"

"Nah," François shook his head. "I wish. I used to have a tape of this, but it got broke." He pushed the button Daniel indicated, and suddenly the car was blasted with sound. "Christ!" François covered his ears with his hands.

"Sorry," Daniel quickly punched the volume down. "Forgot about that. You okay?"

François nodded. "I'm okay. Just kind of scared me, I guess." He grinned. "Everything's so much louder, now."

"Oh, yeah," Daniel laughed. "That's the whole preternatural thing. Vampire ears, Lestat calls it. You'll get used to it, too."

"I guess I got a lot to get used to, huh?"

"You've got all of eternity to do it, though," Daniel said, soberly. "Once you learn the ropes, you'll have a great time. It's the best thing that ever happened to me, Frankie. Absolutely the best."

"Is it?" François asked, quietly.

"Oh, yeah, I wouldn't trade it for anything. But, you know that already, don't you?" Daniel turned, and grinned at him. "Don't you? Frankie?" François was staring out the window, lost in his own thoughts.

Well, the kid's got a lot to think about, Daniel told himself. Finding out you're related to the Brat has to be a helluva shock. Give him some space, Molloy, don't push it.

Daniel took his own advice, and they drove the rest of the way in silence, heading to one of the numerous small towns on the opposite side of the river. Daniel enjoyed visiting the Quarter as much as the next hedonist, but he had hunted there the night before, and Armand insisted that he vary his hunting grounds. He was very impressed with the skill François demonstrated in locating and killing his prey; he was equally embarrassed when François had to remind him to dispose of his victim. Not that he would have forgotten for long, of course, but it simply was not the first thing on his mind when he'd drunk his fill.

They headed back to New Orleans, and Daniel was thrilled to see that François seemed to be in better spirits. They stopped for gas along the way, and on a whim, Daniel bought them both matching caps, emblazoned with the logo of farm machinery. François was delighted with it, and insisted they buy them for Armand and Louis as well. The prospect of Louis, with his formal, serious demeanor, sporting a tacky cap with a picture of a tractor on it, was funny beyond words, and they laughed about it for the rest of the trip.

They reached New Orleans in less than an hour, and Daniel drove out to Metairie. François had never before seen this area, and had his nose pressed against the window, taking in all that they passed. They pulled into the long, private drive of a gated community, and Daniel rolled down the window to slip a plastic card through a sensor slot. The gate slid open, and they drove through; this also amazed François.

"You just slide that card, and it opens, huh?" He examined the card in his hand, turning it over to stare at the magnetic strip. "It looks like a credit card."

"Same idea," Daniel said. They pulled into a brick paved driveway, and he shut the motor off. "Here we are. Boss should be inside."

"What is this house?" François asked, as they stepped out of the car and walked up a slate paved path. The house was huge, sprawling nearly as wide as St. Elizabeth's.

"Marius's place," Daniel replied. "Wait until you get inside. It's pretty wild."

They stopped at an enormous door, carved of some rich, dark wood. Daniel produced another plastic card, similar to the gate key, and slid it through a discreet slit in the door plate. There was a subtle click, he turned the handle and they stepped inside.

Chapter Sixteen

The interior of the house was one of the strangest things François had ever seen. It seemed to be a series of large open spaces, something like a museum, with very little in the way of normal furniture. There were a great many statues spaced at regular intervals, life size figures of every description, mostly of stone or marble, and right in the middle of the room was one figure of a girl, pouring water from a pot into a large pool. There were plants everywhere, too, more even than Louis had in the big glassed-in room in the townhouse; there were even small trees in huge boxes, some of them with tiny fruits on them.

For the space being so devoid of the normal trappings of a home, it was not at all cavernous or cold, but rather inviting and warm. There were furnishings, bench-like low couches and comfortable-looking chairs with an abundance of plump cushions and pillows, and here and there small, low tables piled with magazines and books. More amazing than the unusual furnishings, though, were the paintings. Paintings were everywhere he looked. The walls were hung with paintings of all sizes, some as big as the entire wall, and where there was no framed painting, the very walls were painted with scenes, like the ceiling of the cathedral downtown, only these pictures were much prettier to François's eyes.

And the light! The room was filled with warm, amber light, from the hundreds of candles burning everywhere he looked. There were more candles than a church at Christmas Mass, giving off that rich, comforting scent unique to beeswax. There was carved wood like a church, too, on doorways and along the ceiling; François very nearly genuflected. The floor was laid with carpets, not just rugs, or the wall-to-wall shag he'd seen in apartments before, but real carpets, like in Aladdin, like flying carpets; dozens of big, soft carpets, with elaborate patterns, predominantly red but with every shade of the rainbow represented.

François stood and stared, until he felt a hand on his chin.

"Chairman, you trying to catch flies?" Daniel laughed, and threw an arm around François's shoulders, giving him a quick hug.

"Sorry," François ducked his head, grinning sheepishly. "I ain't never seen anything so pretty before, that's all."

"Thank you, Young One," Marius said, stepping from behind a red velvet curtain to the right. "It's good to know that some of the younger generations appreciate beauty." He raised an eyebrow at Daniel. "Unlike some I might name."

"Look, Granddad," Daniel laughed, taking his coat off and handing it to a servant that appeared out of nowhere. "I never said I didn't like it. I think it looks great. I just call them as I see them, and this place looks like a whorehouse."

François shot Daniel a quick, hurt look, but was distracted by a servant who suddenly appeared next to him as well, and took his coat. "Thanks," he said absently, watching as the servant disappeared into one of the curtained doorways.

"Do not call me Granddad," Marius scowled, but his tone was not unkind. "And I will thank you not to refer to my home as a house of ill repute."

"Hey, I meant the best kind of whorehouse."

"Please do not use that term, Daniel," Marius said, noticing François's reaction. He sent Daniel a warning thought, You are upsetting the child. Don't you know his past? Daniel swallowed hard, and nodded.

Marius raised one eyebrow, and turned his attention to François. "Last night was a bit too hectic for proper introductions. Perhaps, we should try again?" He smiled. "I am Marius, and I'm honored to welcome you to my home." He patted the boy's shoulder.

"Thanks," François said, pleased with himself that he did not flinch from the friendly gesture. "It's very nice. I like the pictures." He pointed to the paintings along the walls. "Did you paint all of these?"

"Some of them," Marius smiled. "Some are by . . . friends of mine. Do you enjoy paintings?"

"Don't know," François shrugged. "I haven't seen a whole lot of stuff, I mean, not like this. In school one time, we were supposed to go to the art museum, but I didn't get to go." He chewed his lip, thinking, then brightened. "I like comic books. Does that count?"

"Yes, I believe it would," Marius nodded. "I have seen some of these," he shot a warm glance toward Daniel, "and while it is not my forte, it was impressive."

"Sure, Chairman," Daniel walked over to a low couch, and dropped onto it. "Not everything has to be in a frame."

"Can I look at some of these?" François asked, walking over toward one wall.

"Of course," Marius replied, joining him. "That's why I have them here, to be enjoyed."

"Don't let him fool you," Armand stood directly behind them. "He has them here solely to stroke his own ego."

"Armand!" François whirled around, grinning a welcome. "I wondered where you were."

"Amadeo, I have told you about that before," Marius said, his tone implying a warning that was contradicted by the warmth in his eyes.

"Just tending to some business," Armand gave his maker a small smirk, and accepted François's quick embrace. "Did Daniel feed you well?"

"Of course I did, Boss," Daniel said. "What, you think I'd let the kid starve?" He made a face. Armand went to him, and dropped into his lap.

"I never know when you're going to wander off by yourself, disappear for months." He ran a hand through Daniel's hair, and kissed him.

"Oh, for God's sake, will you let that drop?" Daniel rolled his eyes, but returned the affection with equal fervor. Armand lingered in the kiss for a moment, and then pulled away, his lips crimson, as were Daniel's. Their eyes met, speaking volumes in silence; mere words would have been extraneous.

With one final kiss, Armand stood, and returned to François's side. "Caro, where did you get that . . . thing?" he asked, peering at the cap François wore.

"Daniel got it for me."

"Very attractive." Marius made an effort to keep a straight face.

"We got some extras," François grinned, and took off his hat, placing it on Armand. "Do you want one, Marius?"

"Er, no, thank you," Marius allowed himself a small smile at the sight of his fledgling bedecked with a vivid green and yellow baseball cap. "Hats do not suit me, I'm afraid."

"It's you, Boss," Daniel laughed.

Armand ignored the jibes, and turned the hat backwards. "Ignore these plebeians," he emphasized the word, shooting a look at Marius. "They have no taste. Thank you, François, I'll treasure it always." He leaned over and lightly kissed the boy. "But, tell me, caro, how did you get so filthy?" He ran a finger along François's lapels. "You were much neater last night."

"Sorry," François brushed ineffectually at the grime and bloodstains. "She tried to get away, and I kind of tripped." He shook his head. "Louis is gonna be mad, this is new."

"I told you not to sweat it, kid," Daniel said, swinging his feet up to stretch out on the couch. "It's only clothes."

"No, don't concern yourself with that, Young One." Marius pointed at the heavy work boots Daniel wore; Daniel coughed, and quickly came to his feet, walking over to join them. Marius gave him a curt nod, and then turned his attention back to François. "It really doesn't matter. These things are nothing to us."

"It was just an accident," François said, taking off the suit jacket, and examining it ruefully. He held up his hands. "Cut my hands pretty bad, but look! It's all gone, except for the mud."

"We heal very quickly," Armand agreed, taking hold of the proffered hands to look at them closely. "Unfortunately, a vampire nature has no effect on clothing. You would draw attention like this."

"What do you mean?" François asked. "You mean, that guy that took my, I mean, your jacket?"
He looked back toward the curtained doorway where the servant had disappeared.

"Oh, no," Marius laughed. "My staff is quite accustomed to such things. They are extremely well paid for their discretion."

"Well, we were kind of planning on taking the kid out tonight," Daniel said, rubbing the back of his head. "Go to a movie or something."

"Or something," Armand repeated absently, still holding François's hands. He reached up, and brushed the hair away from the boy's face. "Your hair is much longer tonight, too."

"Nobody cut it for me," François replied, meeting Armand's eyes.

"I could do that for you, if you like," Armand said softly. François nodded, but didn't pull away from gazing into those brown eyes.

Marius watched Armand thoughtfully. He looked to Daniel, who seemed to be overly occupied with examining a painting that he'd always claimed to hate. Marius looked from one to the other, and came to a decision.

"Well, François," he said, a bit too loudly. "Perhaps you'd like to wash up a bit? And I'm sure we can find something for you to wear."

"Okay," François murmured. "Whatever you want."

"Come along, Caro," Armand said, leading him toward the back of the great room. "It's this way."

"I think Daniel can show him the way," Marius said sharply. Daniel froze. "Amadeo, I need to speak with you privately."

Armand turned to face his maker, and their eyes met. He sighed, and let go of François. "Very well. Daniel, if you can pull yourself away?"

"Um, sure," Daniel crossed the room quickly, and took François by the arm. "It's back here, Chairman," he said, casting a glance back at Marius, who stood scowling, his arms crossed.

"Now, Daniel, if you please. We do not have all night."

"Sure. I'm going right now." Daniel pulled François along quickly. "I'll find him some stuff to wear, too. Come on, kid."

Marius continued to glare after them, until they disappeared behind a solid oak door. He then turned his attention to his fledgling.

"Amadeo, we must talk."

"Of course, Padrone." Armand strolled over to another painting, and stood, perusing it, his head tilted to one side. "You are displeased with Daniel again?"

"Daniel and I have an understanding," Marius replied. "He tries to irritate me, and I permit him to think that he has."

"Oh." Silence. Armand moved to another canvas. "You do not care for Lestat's latest child, then?" he asked, after a long moment.

"François is a very pleasant young man."

Silence again.

"The servants, then?"

"No."

Silence. Another long moment. Armand moved to the next canvas.

"Ah." He turned around, then, and walked over to his maker. He reached up, and put his arms around Marius's neck, and kissed him. "Then, I suppose you must be displeased with me." Another kiss. "Why?"

"You want that boy, Amadeo."

"Do I?"

"Don't play these games." Marius grabbed the silly hat, tossing it aside. He ran his hands through the auburn curls, cut short and modern tonight.

"Very well," Armand sighed, and leaned into the embrace. "What if I do?"

"It is not your decision to make." Marius wrapped his arms around Armand, holding him tightly. "You are neither his maker nor his protector."

"Hah!" Armand pulled away, and walked over to a low divan, sitting on the back. "His maker is mad, and his 'father' is in denial."

"That is irrelevant," Marius replied, following him. "It is still their decision, not yours."

"François is old enough to decide for himself. And from the way he responds to me, he wants it." He threw an accusing glare at his maker. "I was much the same age as he when you first gave me your immortal kisses."

"He is far more a child than ever you were, Ragazzo," Marius replied mildly, refusing to be baited into that old argument. "Despite the burdens his life has given him, he has not lost his innocence."

"He's no babe in arms, Maestro," Armand said, in the way one might speak to an addled child. "His mother is a common whore, he's seen her with her men, more than once. I saw it in his mind." He smirked. "He knows where babies come from."

The hand flew out, faster than even immortal eyes could follow. "Do not patronize me, boy!" Marius's eyes flared icy fire. "This is not Les Innocents and I am not some mindless fledgling under your thrall. Do not forget who is master in this house!"

"My apologies, Padrone," Armand lowered his tear-stung eyes, his cheek burning as much with anger and shame as with the slap. "I forgot myself. Forgive me."

"That's better." Marius took a deep breath, and another. He waited a moment, composing himself. "Yes, I know of his past, I saw as much in his mind myself. But despite this, it has not touched his soul. He is an innocent. Louis recognizes this."

"Louis recognizes nothing. He is as blind now as he's always been." Armand stood, and paced around the room.

"Louis is a sentimentalist, I will give you that," Marius replied. "But, I think you're wrong. He does have instincts. And I believe he is exactly what François needs."

"He wants to keep him a child forever, you realize," Armand said bitterly. "Louis needs a child, someone weaker than himself."

"I don't think so," Marius tilted his head back, the ancient Mediterranean no. "In many way, yes, Louis is the weakest among us. He doesn't have the powers of your young one, and scarcely uses the meager few he does have. Yet, he does have his strengths."

"He certainly has a high tolerance for putting up with Lestat," Armand agreed dryly.

"Perhaps." Marius smiled, and reached out as Armand passed, taking his hand and drawing him close. "But I was speaking of his capacity to study, to analyze, to look at all sides of a problem."

"His inability to act, you mean," Armand said, allowing himself to be held closely.

"No, I mean his ability to make thoughtful decisions." He kissed the fiery hand mark. "Unlike his maker, Louis learns from his mistakes."

"Hah!" Armand shook his head. "There I have you, Padrone. He has not learned a thing from experience. He is making the same mistake as with Claudia."

"That had already occurred to me," Marius admitted. "But he told me of his concern for this, before I could mention it. He is determined to do the right thing this time. He has no desire to suffer the alienation, the bitterness, the pain of abandonment."

"He said these things to you?" Armand asked, surprised.

"Not exactly," Marius laughed lightly, embarrassed. "But he did say, he had a plan, and that when the child was mature enough, he would be free to make his own decisions."

"Do you truly think that Louis is strong enough to resist the temptation?" Armand pressed his face against the red softness of his maker's shirt, feeling the coolness of the silk against the still warm mark on his cheek.

Marius folded his child into his arms. "Yes, I do." He kissed him gently. "He denies his hunger, every night. I think he can do this, yes." He laughed, and ruffled the auburn curls. "And as you say, he can tolerate Lestat far better than the rest of us."

"As you say, Padrone," Armand murmured.

"We're back," François called, as he pushed open the heavy oak door, Daniel close behind him.

"Good," Marius gave Armand a final kiss, and strode across the atrium to join them. "You look much more presentable. Do you feel better?"

"Yeah," François nodded. He had traded the ruined suit for a more customary ensemble of jeans and a sweatshirt. "These fit me okay."

"Excellent taste," Armand commented. "But of course, they are mine." He smiled, the last traces of the slap faded.

"Chairman wants to go to a movie," Daniel said, grabbing up a newspaper from a low table. "I told him that would be okay." Armand went to his side, taking another paper to look as well.

"Good idea," Marius said, glancing at his watch. "I should be at St. Elizabeth's now, I promised David a game of chess, and Louis must certainly need a break as well."

"Am I gonna see Louis tonight?" François asked anxiously. "I ain't seen him since last night."

"I expect so, Young One," Marius replied, kindly. "You'll be back by midnight, I should think. I know he wants to see you."

"I miss him," François sighed, his lip quivering just slightly.

"He misses you, too, Caro," Armand said, tossing down the paper. "Don't worry, you'll see him soon enough."

"Good night, then, gentlemen," Marius said, disappearing into one of the curtained doorways. "Amadeo, please see that the locks are set."

"Okay, well, let's go," Daniel said, clapping François and Armand on the back.

Chapter Seventeen

Marius hated to be late. Not only was it discourteous, but to him it was an indication of utter disregard for the needs of others. He had not made any specific plans with any of the others holding vigil at St. Elizabeth's, but judging from the scene the night before, he knew that his presence would be readily welcomed, and the sooner the better.

Marius had suspected that François had been given the Dark Gift by Lestat, that was no great surprise. What was it Daniel had once said? "Every time a bell rings, Lestat makes a fledgling." Marius himself had no grievance with Lestat's predilection for procreation; gods knew, he'd done the Dark Trick enough times himself. At least Lestat did follow his directive, and was nearly always motivated by love. That was why he had not seriously considered the possibility that François had been made by him; the Brat Prince had many faults, but he did not easily abandon those he loved.

When Daniel and David had arrived the previous night, with the confused and jabbering Lestat in tow, Marius had tried to read his thoughts. Lestat's mind had been such a jumble of disjointed, jarring images, however, that he had not been able to make any sense of anything that he saw; no wonder Lestat was in such distress, if this was the state of his mind. His insistence on the validity of his Dante-like journey was almost amusing; for a brief moment, Marius had considered the possibility that the entire episode was nothing more than an elaborate practical joke.

This was no joke, though.

Lestat was undeniably terrified, more frightened than Marius, or Louis, or Gabrielle, or anyone else had ever seen him. This was the same young man who had gone out alone to battle a pack of vicious wolves, armed only with a few weapons and his wits. This was the cocky, newborn vampire who had fearlessly challenged Armand's entire coven, when he had not the slightest notion of the strength of their powers or the limitations of his own. This was the Brat Prince, who had stood up to the Mother at risk of not only his life, but those of his most beloved as well. This was The Vampire Lestat, who flaunted the rules and laughed at the threats of others, who did exactly as he pleased, and damn the consequences. Yet, this brave, reckless, maddening creature who feared no one and nothing, not even the sun, had lain quaking and nearly senseless with fear at the thought that this Memnoch character would return for him.

They had taken him to the chapel of the old orphan's home, at his insistence. "It is a holy place, he won't dare to come in there, not now," Lestat had asserted. The sight of the old statues had seemed to give him some comfort, and it was as good a place as any. The others had been waiting. As soon as Armand had telephoned him from New York, Marius had sent out a mental call to Gabrielle, for despite her cold demeanor, he knew her to be possessed of the usual maternal attachment. He had also called Maharet.

Though it was her twin, Mekare, who held the source of their existence, Maharet was universally regarded as the leader of their extended coven family. Marius had called her, not only as a courtesy, but also in the hope that in her ineffably vast experience, she might be able to reach into Lestat's mind, and retrieve his sanity.

It had been to no avail, Lestat's mind had remained as closed to her as it was to Marius. Lestat had remained agitated and raving, repeating his story over and over, almost as if he were trying to remember every detail. He had insisted that his eye was gone, and while Marius had managed to get Lestat to allow him to examine him, gently pushing back the lid to reveal a perfectly whole, vivid grey eye, Lestat had refused to believe him; Maharet had even produced a small mirror and had showed him, yet Lestat still had insisted that there was nothing but an empty socket there. The whole procedure had only served to upset him more, and he had begun weeping uncontrollably. Gabrielle had calmed him somewhat, then, speaking in the old French of his youth, and he had quieted enough to listen to her, focusing on her uncharacteristically gentle expression with his one open eye. He had stopped shaking, and had been convinced to stop the manic pacing around the chapel, finally settling onto the floor near what had been the altar. Still he had wept, though, and it was not until Louis had arrived that he seemed able to speak again, himself.

David had tried to prepare Louis for what he would find, and surprisingly, Louis had kept his composure far longer than anyone had hoped. He, too, had spoken in the language of their birth, and had made no mention of the eye or the filthy, bloodied clothing Lestat still wore; in fact, he had acted very much as if everything were perfectly normal. To watch him, it was the most ordinary of occurrences to be sitting on the floor of the chapel, beside his bedraggled, hysterical maker. He had conversed in his usual low, soft voice about inconsequential, day to day matters, how his investments fared, how Lestat's dog had learned a new trick, a book that he had just finished. Lestat had uncurled from a fetal position long enough to reach out one gaunt, shaking hand to grab Louis's and hold it tightly. Louis's presence had had the desired effect, and Lestat had visibly relaxed, responding with something close to his usual manner.

After perhaps an hour of this, Lestat eventually had calmed enough to fall into a fitful sleep. Louis had remained at his side for some time even then, stroking his hair, holding his hand. He had bowed his head, and the faint sound of his weeping was heard.

Gabrielle had come forward, and had touched his shoulder, murmuring something too soft for Marius to hear. She had knelt, and had taken his hand, bringing him to his feet and into a gentle embrace. He had clung to her, and had permitted her to lead him away, but he would not leave, venturing only as far as the other side of the chapel to drop into a velvet chair. Only then had he lost his composure, burying his head in his hands and sobbing softly. Gabrielle had stayed by him, tending to him as devotedly as she had tended to Lestat earlier, obviously fond of her son's fledgling. Lestat had made some small, frantic sounds, and she had turned Louis over to David's care, and returned to her post at Lestat's side.

Marius had watched all this with a detached sense of wonder. There could not be two individuals more dissimilar than Lestat's two eldest fledglings; Gabrielle, coldly indifferent, unquestionably strong, speaking her mind without regard for others and generally spurning their company entirely; and Louis, with his human soul, warm, passionate, always courteous to a fault, and content with his limited powers. Yet, they both possessed the same unshakable devotion to Lestat, and he to them. Marius had realized, too, that while Gabrielle retained her outward demeanor of sang froid, inwardly she was as devastated as Louis by her son's madness.

By the time Daniel had arrived with François in tow, Louis had regained some measure of his usual composure. Just as Louis's presence had brought calm to Lestat's agitation, so had the boy's arrival seemed to imbue Louis with new strength. It had been clear from the start that the youngster had touched some deep need in Louis, had filled some void, and Marius had thanked whatever serendipity had brought the two of them together. One incapacitated vampire was about all that he could manage at one time.

No one had had the slightest indication that Lestat would react as he did to François. Marius had again tried to enter his thoughts, to sift through the phantasmagoric visions and find some clue to the source of his distress. He had glimpsed images of a dusty place, of strangely garbed people, and soldiers, Roman soldiers. It had made little sense, until he had caught a glimpse of François - but the boy he had seen in Lestat's mind was not the child before them now.

This François had had a crown of thorns pressed into his hair, blood streaming down his face, and the unmistakable marks of the lash across his body. Strapped to his back had been a huge wooden beam, and he had been hauling this thing through a teeming crowd of people dressed in the eternal robes of a desert place. Marius had never been a believer in the cult that had arisen in Judea during Augustus's reign, yet he had readily recognized the symbolism so prevalent in western art - Lestat thought that this child was the Christ.

As Marius had delved deeper into Lestat's tangled memories, things had begun to make sense. He had seen Lestat drinking from this figure, and trying to ease his suffering. He had seen, through Lestat's eyes, this alleged devil, Memnoch, who bore a striking resemblance to a drug kingpin that Louis had described Lestat stalking before his disappearance. He had seen Lestat talking to David, and Louis, and his Amadeo, talking about some strange vision David had once experienced.

After François had been hurried out of Lestat's sight, Maharet had sent a silent message to Marius and David, along with brief instructions; It must be done, and quickly.

Moving rapidly, they had bound Lestat hand and foot. Length after length of heavy iron chain had been coiled around Lestat as he screamed and thrashed; it had taken the three of them to manage it. Louis at first had stood staring, his eyes wide with disbelief, and then had implored them to stop. He had begged, pleaded, he had even threatened; suddenly, to their immense surprise, he had grabbed at their hands, desperately trying to remove the chains even as they wrapped them around him. Maharet had warned him, once, twice, to stand back, and give way. His eyes blazing fire through his tears, Louis had paid her no heed. Finally, with something less than a thought, she had sent him flying away, out of the chapel and outside to the hallway, slamming the door shut.

Once they had gotten Lestat secured, Maharet had sent David away to look after Louis, and had knelt, cradling Lestat in her arms.

Marius had noted, ironically, that in such a position, they looked exactly like a pieta.

"Lestat, you will cease this, now." His one open eye had stared at her, brimming over with pain and confusion. He had been trembling, but aside from a few gasping sobs, he had said nothing. Maharet had nodded. "That's better. Listen to me. You are delusional. You are confused. You have completely lost touch with reality. You will stay like this until you see reason."

"I'm not, I promise you, I am not!" he had whispered hoarsely. "It was He, it was Christ! I saw him. You must let me go to Him, He will fix everything. He will bring back Armand, He can give me my eye back!"

Maharet had been silent for a moment, stroking his hair away from his face. "If I can give you your eye back, will you try to calm yourself? We can't help you if you don't calm down."

"You can't do that, only the Christ can heal me," Lestat had cried. "Memnoch took it, he took it and smashed it. You can't grow me another eye, you can't even grow your own."

Well, that's it, Marius had thought. All of this is going to be moot, she'll destroy him here and now.

To his surprise, she had merely smiled. "It just so happens that he returned it, only this morning." She had reached into the folds of her long skirts, into a hidden pocket, and had pulled out a small box. She had opened the small box, and had pretended to remove something from it. From his vantage point of just behind her, Marius had seen that the box was a jewelry case, and actually had contained a ring. But, moving with the speed only a vampire of her age could manage, she had quickly snapped the box shut, and had pressed her hand against his left eye.

"There," she had said. "Now you're whole again."

"Where did you get that?" Lestat had demanded, blinking the eye open and squeezing it shut again.

"A man dropped it off," she had replied, tucking the box away again.

At this information, Lestat had begun to wail again, and thrash against his chains. Maharet had nodded to Marius, then, and together they had carried him down to the cellars, to a dark room protected against the sunlight. He would be safe there, and the chains would prevent him from doing himself harm.

Maharet had left soon after that, warning Marius against freeing Lestat from his prison until he came to his senses again. On behalf of those present, Marius had given his word to see that it would be so.

That was last night. Now, as Marius landed lightly in the large courtyard behind St. Elizabeth's, he wondered what he would find.

He made his way quickly inside, grateful that someone had thought to build a fine fire in the huge hearth. He had hunted early in the evening, but between the recent cold snap and his too rapid flight here, he was chilled to the bone. He stood by the fire for a few minutes, luxuriating in the heat and thoroughly enjoying the play of the light upon the bricks. Two comfortable chairs had been placed before the mantel, and he dropped into one of these, pleased to see that the furnishing were trickling in; he hated an empty house. Someone, probably David, had set up a chess board on a small table between the chairs. No one seemed to be about, so he warmed himself, and used the time to scan the rest of the house, to see who had turned up this evening.

David Talbot was around, of course, poking about in the attics, rummaging through boxes Lestat had had shipped from one of his other houses. Trust the Talamascan to find something to study. Marius was suddenly struck with a vision of piles of moldy diaries, dusty, ancient clothing, broken bits of furniture, and the other various detritus that their kind tended to accumulate over the space of several lifetimes, and smack in the middle David, happy as a child in a toy shop. Marius laughed merrily to himself.

He searched more, and found Gabrielle, sitting on the roof, gazing up at the stars. It was anathema to a solitary soul like her, spending this much time in civilization, surrounded by so much evidence of human occupation and so many of her own kind. He knew, without asking or even searching her mind, that she longed to be away, off in the wild places among the beasts. She much preferred her Savage Garden to her son's. It was a measure of her affection for Lestat that she had stayed this long.

He was pondering whether he should join her on the roof, when he felt the feather touch of another mind in his own.

Good to see you again, Roman, the voice said, gentle as a whisper.

Marius smiled. Contrary to Gabrielle, Khayman could not long stay away from those he cared for, and spent most of his time visiting one or another of the coven. His presence was always calming; moreover, since he was the eldest among them, indeed, the eldest of any in the world, known to them or not, he possessed a strength that was a contradiction to his gentle demeanor.

And you, Egyptian, Marius sent him in return. Join me for a match? I fear David is going to cancel on me, and I had my heart set on a few relaxing games.

He felt the soft laughter in response, and presently Khayman appeared at his side, settling into the opposite seat with a warm smile.

"How long have you been here?" Marius asked, making his opening gambit, and noting with amusement that the ancient had adopted a thoroughly modern attire as befitted his apparent youth.

"A few hours," Khayman responded, leaning forward to move one of the carved figures on his side of the board. "I did some sight seeing, took a tour, and rode the ferry boat. So many interesting mortals."

"Mmm," Marius studied the board, and moved one of his own. "I assume you've seen him?'

"Yes," Khayman's visage grew sorrowful. "He is quiet, but still his mind is chaos." He shook his head, and nudged a pawn forward. "His Pretty One is so very worried."

"He hasn't tried to remove the chains, has he?" Marius asked sharply, moving a knight.

"Oh, no, he won't do that. I . . . asked him not to." Khayman smiled again.

Marius sighed in relief. Khayman had great skill in mental manipulation. Marius was also adept, and while he had no qualms about using it, after the previous evening's events, he seriously doubted that he would have been very successful with Louis. Fortunately, Khayman had no such history, and Louis probably never noticed his gentle persuasive touch.

"Thank you, my friend. That eases my mind considerably."

"Where is the young one?"

"Which young one?" Marius captured one of Khayman's men, and smiled broadly. "You're not paying attention to the game, Old Man. You're letting me get away with murder."

"I suppose I am," Khayman replied, grinning sheepishly. "I am distracted. So many things going on." He looked carefully at the board before making his next move. "I was referring to the new one. The Pretty One's child."

Khayman always referred to Louis as 'The Pretty One,' and it was a testament to Louis's affection and respect for the elder that he tolerated it - but only from Khayman. Anyone else who addressed him as 'Pretty One' would incur his infamous wrath - and suffer his revenge in the form of the equally infamous Pointe du Lac practical jokes.

Marius smiled. "Yes, François. Of course. Now who's not paying attention? He's out with Amadeo and Daniel. They'll be back here, later."

"I am so looking forward to meeting him. The Pretty One loves him so . . ." The logs on the fire shifted, throwing sparks out into the room. Khayman rose, and took up the poker, shifting the logs around and tossing on another. "So, do we know for certain whose he is?"

"Three guesses, and the first two don't count," Marius sighed. "Lestat's, of course. Who else?"

"But," Khayman frowned, and captured one of Marius's men, "The Pretty One says is it not so. He says that Lestat could not have done it."

"He is merely unable to accept the truth." Marius leaned back into the chair, and shook his head. "François has remembered it now, when he saw Lestat last night, apparently it triggered some memory."

"He thinks the child is confused," Khayman said. "It is possible, I suppose."

"Unlikely," Marius replied. "Amadeo has seen into the boy's mind, even before François had his full memory back, Amadeo said he could recognize who it was."

"Really? Oh, dear," Khayman studied the board for a moment, and then reached over to topple his king. "I concede. Armand could see this? He could tell it was the Brat?"

"Yes." Marius began to set up the board again. "You take first turn this time, old friend."

"Very well," Khayman nodded. "Tell me honestly, Roman. Do you think the Brat will recover?"

"I want to say yes," Marius replied. "I want him to recover. He has survived so many other things." He sighed, and rubbed his eyes, which seemed suddenly on the verge of tearing up. "A world without that damnable creature scarcely bears conscious thought."

"I know what you mean," Khayman agreed, looking into the fire. After a moment, he tilted his head to one side. "I think he will be fine. He seems calm enough now."

"Does he?" Marius looked up hopefully. "I haven't seen him yet. I suppose I should go down there. I doubt that Louis has been out to hunt yet."

"No," Khayman frowned. "David Talbot told me that The Pretty One has not left his side since he rose this evening." He turned to Marius. "He doesn't take care of himself."

"He never has," Marius agreed. "I think, though, that François may be a good influence on him in that respect. There is nothing like being responsible for a fledgling to force one to put things in perspective."

"True enough."

The game long forgotten, they sat in companionable silence for a space, and then Marius rose to his feet.

"I suppose I should tend to my own responsibilities," he said. "If you will join me, perhaps we can convince Louis to abandon his vigil long enough to hunt."

"Gladly," Khayman said, following the Roman out of the cozy room and down to the cellars.

As they walked along the passage, they could hear Louis's soft voice, rising and falling in irregular cadence. When they entered the small room, they found him seated on the floor beside Lestat, an oil lamp at his elbow, reading aloud from a large, leather bound volume.

"Lestat," he said, standing to greet them, "look who's come to see you."

Lestat looked up dully at Marius and Khayman, then closed his eyes and sighed.

Marius looked to Louis questioningly.

"Lestat," Louis said, gesturing to the hallway, "I'm going to step right out here. I won't go far."

Another sigh.

They stepped out into the hallway, and moved away from the door a few steps. Under the electric lights, the effects of Louis's self-imposed deprivation were evident. His eyes were bright with hunger and surrounded by darkened flesh that made them seem more than ever two glowing emerald lights. His cheeks were even more gaunt and thin than usual; Marius thought he looked like nothing so much as a consumption victim.

"Pretty One, you look like death on a cracker," Khayman observed, running a hand through the ebony locks.

"Where in God's name did you hear that?" Louis asked, staring at him.

"Oh, somewhere," Khayman replied, leaning over to kiss him on both cheeks.

"Very accurate phrase," Marius smiled, wondering himself. "Louis, we are here to relieve you. We will sit with Lestat, you will go and hunt."

"No," Louis shook his head. "Lestat needs me to stay here. And anyway, I am not hungry." He made to turn around and go back to his vigil.

"Yes, you are, Pretty One," Khayman said softly, taking hold of Louis's arms and pulling him gently away from the room. "You are hungry, and you need to eat. Come along, I'll go with you. We can come right back." As Khayman worked his spellbinding powers on the younger vampire, Marius watched in fascination as Louis's features relaxed, and his eyes glazed slightly. "That's it, Pretty One, you come with me, and you'll feel much better." With a nod, Louis allowed Khayman to lead him away from Lestat's cell and down the hall. He would probably be angry about it later, Marius mused, but it was for his own good.

As they disappeared around the corner, Marius took a deep breath, and went back into the small room.

Chapter Eighteen

Lestat did not look up as Marius sat beside him. Someone had provided a pillow for him to rest his head; most likely, this had been the ever-considerate Louis. Marius picked up the book Louis had been reading.

"Hmm. The Prisoner of Zenda. How appropriately melodramatic." He smiled, placing the book on a small table, and then turned his attention to Lestat. "How are you this evening, Brat?"

Lestat spared him the briefest accusatory glance, and sighed.

"Oh, that's how it is, is it?" Lestat made no reply. Marius frowned, and made up his mind; traumatized or not, a brat was a brat, and he knew how to deal with such behavior. "I suggest you stop this catatonic act, it's only serving to upset Louis, you know. You're not fooling me for a minute, I know you can hear me, Lestat. I also know that you are fully capable of speaking."

Still no response. This gave him pause; if Lestat had not responded to such a direct challenge, he was truly in distress. Still, there was always hope. Marius was resolved to do everything in his power to bring Lestat back to his senses. A plan formulated in his mind, but he must work fast. Louis would be returning soon, and after his performance the previous night, Marius had no doubts that he would make a strong protest. He had no desire to further upset the sensitive young man: after all, his intentions were noble, motivated by love, and besides, Marius truly was fond of him.

"Well, have it your own way. I only came down here to keep you company. If you cannot show the least amount of courtesy, I'll just leave you here alone." He rose to leave.

"You told Louis you'd stay." The voice was hoarse and weak, barely audible, but petulant, nonetheless. Pure Lestat.

"I wondered if you were still there," Marius smiled, relieved; this was a good sign, a very encouraging sign. Perhaps he was not too far gone.

"Just barely, no thanks to you."

"You sound much more yourself tonight." Marius sat down again, arranging his long legs carefully. "It's good to hear."

"Oh, good," Lestat said, brightly. "Then you can let me out of here."

"No, Lestat, not yet." He shook his head, and smiled gently.

"You have no right to keep me here like this," Lestat said, struggling against the chains.

Marius reached over and put his hands to Lestat's shoulders, stilling him. "I'm sorry, truly I am. But, it's for your own good, you must realize that."

"Hah."

"You'll thank us later."

"You know, that's exactly what my father used to say to me." Lestat gave him a smile, but it was entirely devoid of mirth. "He'd always say that, just before he or my brothers would beat the living daylights out of me."

"This is hardly the same thing," Marius replied dryly.

"It is to me," Lestat retorted. "I have done nothing, nothing to deserve this!" A tear rolled down his cheek to splash onto the floor.

"You are not being punished." Marius brushed the blond mop away from Lestat's face, and let his hand linger, soothingly.

"My God, it's because of Armand, isn't it?" Lestat turned his face up to Marius, his eyes wide and brimming over with tears. "I know you blame me for his death, and you're right. It was my fault, I know that."

"No, Lestat," Marius brushed the tears from his face. "I can't blame you for his death, he's not dead. You only imagined it. Amadeo - Armand, is perfectly fine. I saw him only this evening."

"Don't lie to me," Lestat shook his head, weeping in full force now. "I know how you loved him, I know what he meant to you, and now he's gone. I know what it is to lose a fledgling. You don't have to pretend for my benefit."

"I am not lying to you, Lestat." Marius bent to look directly into his eyes. "I give you my word, as the son of a Roman senator, as someone who loves you more dearly than words can speak - No, better, I give you my word as his maker, I swear to you that Armand is alive and well."

"But - but, I saw him! I saw him go out to the steps of the cathedral, to meet the dawn." Lestat nodded firmly. "I saw him burst into flames."

"Now, how could you see that?" Marius asked, putting his arms around the sobbing young man, and pulling him into a semi-upright position. "Think about it logically. If you had been there to see him burst into flames, that means that you also would have faced the sun. Since you are not even singed, you obviously were not exposed to the sun. Therefore, you did not see it." Marius felt rather proud of himself; it was a handy piece of deductive reasoning, and Lestat did seem to be thinking it over, at least.

"I - I don't actually remember seeing it," Lestat admitted, after a long moment. "No, I never saw it. I never saw either of them do it, not Armand, and not Mael."

"Mael?" Marius asked, surprised to hear the name of his old acquaintance. He suspected that for whatever reason, Lestat had hallucinated Armand's death as some manner of revenge; gods knew, everyone in the coven was purely sick of hearing Lestat whine about that damned shove off the tower a century ago. But Mael? Lestat barely knew Mael, and to the best of Marius's knowledge, the Druid had not even been in the country for several years, not since the fiasco with Akasha. For that matter, even if he had, it was doubtful that Mael had done anything to incur Lestat's wrath to such an extent that his chemically altered psyche felt compelled to destroy him. "You thought he immolated himself as well?"

"Yes, the morning after Armand did." Lestat looked to him hopefully. "Is - Is Mael still alive, too?"

"What? Oh, yes, of course he is." It would have been extremely funny, had not Lestat been so devastated by it; Marius had to make a concerted effort not to smile. He resolved to pay a visit to Mael as soon as Lestat was himself again.

"So, I didn't kill them?" Lestat sighed, and Marius thought he saw a hint of the old spark in his eyes.

"No, you didn't kill them, and they did not kill themselves. There was no great religious movement given new life, no miracle to inspire the faithful. You are, well, innocent of any of that."

"I see." Lestat was quiet for a moment, his tears finally ceasing to roll down his face, the sobs relinquishing their grip upon him.

"Good. I'm glad you can see reason, now." Marius breathed a sigh of relief.

"So, if I have indeed done nothing wrong," Lestat's eyes narrowed, the accusatory glint returning. "Then pray, why am I trussed up like something out of a butcher's window?"

"I told you, it was for your own good," Marius repeated. "You would have harmed yourself or someone else. You were out of control. Don't you remember what happened last night?"

"I remember talking to Gabrielle," Lestat said, sniffing quietly. "And Louis, I remember Louis."

"I see," Marius continued to stroke Lestat's hair, but looked away thoughtfully. "You don't remember a boy?"

"What? A boy?" Lestat stared off into the middle distance. For an instant, there was a tiny spark of recognition, but it immediately faded. He shook his head. "No, I don't remember any boy, just David, and you, and that bitch Maharet." His eyes flamed with anger, and he looked nearly himself again. But, it was gone in a moment, replaced by the haunted, confused fear of the past two nights. "Marius, please, if you love me, get me out of here. I just want to go home. I want to go home with Louis, to my house."

"You must stay here, Lestat," Marius said softly. "Just a little while, only until you are yourself again."

"But I am myself!" Lestat struggled against the chains again. "I am me, I'm the vampire Lestat!"

"You know what I meant," Marius smiled. Madness or no, Lestat was still the most damnable creature. "You will be released when you are no longer . . . ill."

"You all think I'm mad, don't you?" he accused. "You think I made it up, all of it. I can accept that maybe they didn't kill themselves, if you say Armand is alive, you wouldn't lie about that. But, the rest, it was real."

"No, Lestat, it was not what you think."

"You don't believe me, you don't believe that I saw . . . what I saw."

"I believe you had visions," Marius said, carefully choosing his words. "I believe that you saw and did something, but it was not what you perceived it to be. I don't think you're lying, no one thinks that. No one doubts your sincerity, only . . . the accuracy of your perception of what actually happened."

"Then let me go," Lestat pleaded. "Let me show you the proof. I have proof, Marius, I have proof!" He turned his eyes toward the table. "Up there. You see it? The Veil, I have the Veil of Veronica."

"Ah, yes, the Veil," Marius obligingly gathered up the bit of stained cloth. "Lestat, I know that you believe this is a holy relic, but I am afraid you are mistaken."

"I saw it, Marius," Lestat protested. "I saw it when she wiped His Face, I used it myself, I helped her."

"You used it to wipe blood off a face, that much I do believe," Marius unfolded the cloth square, and held it out to examine it. There was no face, no miraculous image; it was merely a bloodied handkerchief, of exceptionally fine quality, of course, and with the letters LdL embroidered in red silk. "You see? Please, look closely, Lestat."

Lestat peered at the cloth as Marius held it up. "That isn't it, Marius." He scowled. "Where is it? The one I brought back with me? What have you done with it?"

"This is it, Lestat," Marius said firmly. "This is your handkerchief, the one you had with you last night. See?" He pointed out the monogram. "I would not try to deceive you."

"It's gone," he whispered. "The Image, it's gone." He began to weep again.

"Hush," Marius folded the cloth again, and returned it to the table. "It was only a delusion, it was never truly there. You must believe me, Lestat."

"Why?" Lestat demanded. "Why should I believe you? You weren't there. You never believed, anyway. You had your Roman gods, not that you ever - "

"Religion is not the question here," Marius interjected mildly. "The point is, you were deluded. That is the same cloth you had with you, it hasn't changed. The only difference is, you can see it for what it is now."

"You mean I can't see it," Lestat said bitterly. "The Image is gone."

"You were hallucinating, Lestat," Marius said firmly. "You drank poisoned blood. It caused you to hallucinate."

"But I didn't imagine it!" Lestat protested. "You saw my clothes! You saw my eye -"

"Your eye was perfectly fine."

"Then why couldn't I see!" Lestat blinked his left eye, as if remembering its absence. "Explain that! Why couldn't I see out of it? Why couldn't I feel it?"

"It is a form of hysteria, that's all." Marius reached out to stroke Lestat's hair again, exerting the slightest suggestion to calm him.

"But, my clothes were torn, there was blood everywhere. I'm not like that, I'm neat when I hunt." There was a hint of pride in his voice.

"Your clothes were damaged, yes," Marius agreed, pushing the mental sedative a bit more. "But it was not from some time-traveling journey. It was mortal blood, from your mortal victims. And your clothes were damaged because you were, well, falling down drunk, as they say."

"I was not drunk," Lestat said, dryly. "I have fed from drunks before, many time, in fact, and one particular drunken Creole comes to mind." He smiled softly. "Ah, Louis. Louis was so . . . Where is Louis? I want to see him." He looked around the small room. "Why isn't he here?"

"He had to go hunt." Lestat's shields were down, and Marius was able to search through his jumbled, rambling thoughts. The utter chaos of the night before was still there, but it was giving way to something a bit more clear and organized. "He has other responsibilities now, too. He'll be back soon."

"I don't want to be alone," Lestat whispered. "I'm afraid he'll come back if I'm alone."

"Who will come back?" Marius made tiny adjustments, altering a memory here, clearing up a foggy one there, all the while imbuing Lestat with a sensation of calm and peace. "Louis will be back soon. Did you mean Louis?"

"No!" Lestat shook his head emphatically. "I want him to come back, I want Louis. No, I mean, him." He lowered his voice. "Memnoch. The devil. I'm afraid he'll come back, and take me back there. I don't want to go. I can't go there. I can't face them. There's too many, I can't do it."

"Back where, Lestat?" Marius asked softly, continuing to stroke his hair comfortingly. "Too many what? Face whom?"

"Back to Hell, where all my victims are," Lestat whispered. "All the people I've hurt, they're all there, waiting for me. She's there, too. I can't face them. I don't want to. I won't do it."

Marius didn't need to use his preternatural abilities to know exactly who she was. "You can't go back there, it was just a bad dream."

"It was real, Marius, it was as real as you are," Lestat protested. "I saw them, I saw so many of them. I saw Roger, he was there, and he told me."

"Roger?" Marius furrowed his brow, remembering. "Oh, yes, the drug lord? You stalked him, didn't you? You followed him for weeks, and took the little drink from him."

"Yes, that's him," Lestat nodded as much as the chains would allow. "You know about Roger?"

"Yes, Louis has told us of him. He used drugs, didn't he? And you drank from him. You killed him, too, finally, didn't you?"

"Yes, but he didn't hold it against me," Lestat said, his voice filled with wonderment. "He forgave me for killing him."

"You do remember that he had used these drugs, don't you?" Marius asked, searching through Lestat's jumbled memory for any sign of the drug lord. "You know this, that he was altered, so to speak."

"Yes," Lestat admitted. "He liked it, I think."

"You know what those chemicals can do to mortals, yes?"

"I suppose so," Lestat admitted. "But that can't harm us, surely."

"Lestat, listen carefully to me." He eased him down again on the floor, making him as comfortable as possible without removing the chains that bound him. He put his hands on either side of Lestat's face, and kissed him, gently, as a father might kiss a favorite child.

"Listen to me carefully, my child. You drank polluted blood. It had a hallucinatory effect upon your mind. You did not go to heaven or hell, you did not travel back in time to the creation of the world, nor did you go back to the age of Augustus. Remember, I lived in the East, and during that era, Lestat; I think I would have remembered hearing of another vampire in the neighborhood."

"But -"

"Quiet!" Marius used his sternest tone, much like the one his father had utilized millennia before to quell detractors in the Roman Senate. It still worked; Lestat shut his mouth without another word, a miracle in itself.

"Now, you will listen to me. You did not time travel, you did not drink from Christ; you drank from a mortal, from several mortals, right here in New Orleans, a few weeks ago. You did not travel to Judea, you were not on the Via Dolorosa, you did not see the Crucifixion. You hallucinated those things. You did not use your handkerchief to wipe the blood off the face of the Messiah, it was not transformed into a holy relic. It was merely blood, the blood of one of your victims, or your own." Marius was actually quite certain which mortal's blood it was, but this was not the time to bring up that particular detail.

"You did not bring about the deaths of Armand and Mael and whomever else you think you killed. They are both alive and well. You did not have any relic, it is just a soiled handkerchief. It did not start some revitalization of a church, it did not spur on any fanatical woman.

"For once in your life, you did not bring about some huge disaster of epic proportions."

Lestat was quiet for several minutes, gazing into space as he thought over what Marius had told him. Finally, he shook his head. "I don't know what to think anymore."

"That's understandable," Marius said, softly. "You just think on it for awhile, and you will see the sense in what I say."

He shook his head again, wearily. "I'm very tired, I don't want to think about it any more. You're confusing me."

"Very well," Marius sighed. It was a start, at least the ranting had ceased, and he had done a bit of mental housecleaning. "It's enough for now." He checked his watch. "Louis will not be back for a bit, would you like me to read to you?"

"Alright," Lestat said, his voice weak and fatigued again. "That would be a good thing. I can't think about these things now, I need the distraction."

Marius retrieved the book from the table, and opened it at the place where Louis had thoughtfully placed a silk marker. Lestat closed his eyes, and lay his head back on the pillow. Marius began to read aloud, all the while keeping a tenuous link to Lestat's mind. He had expected Lestat to succumb to the exhaustion, and fall into a mortal sleep, but although he did quiet down, and seemed to relax considerably, he remained awake. Marius continued to read to him, and several hours passed before Lestat finally closed his eyes, and slept.

Chapter Nineteen

With a quick mental probe to assure himself that Lestat was indeed slumbering peacefully, Marius rose, and made his way upstairs again. He had just begun to stoke up the fire in the hearth when he heard noises in the outer hall. Presently, Louis and Khayman appeared, Louis looking worlds better for having fed; no doubt Khayman had extended his persuasive skills over him, to induce him to feed well.

After exchanging a few pleasantries, the Egyptian excused himself, and left Marius and Louis alone.

"He wants to speak with Gabrielle," Louis explained. "He said he wants to understand why she prefers the wilds to civilization."

"I think it's more likely that he wants to understand why she doesn't crave the constant company of others, as he does," Marius laughed. "He cannot comprehend such a thing. He has to surround himself with people, our kind or mortals, it doesn't matter."

"He doesn't care for solitude," Louis said, as he took a seat by the fire. He would never admit it, but he regretted not wearing a heavier coat; New Orleans was experiencing one of its rare snow falls. He held his hands out toward the blaze, enjoying the warmth. "Neither does Lestat. Might I ask, who is with him now?"

"He's asleep," Marius replied.

"Who is with him?" Louis repeated.

"No one, just now." Marius picked up the poker, and began jabbing at the embers. "He's fine, Louis. Don't worry, he's sleeping very well, resting. I can hear him if he wakes." When the fire was to his liking, he sat down opposite Louis.

"I should go to him," Louis said, rising. Marius shot him a stern look, and reluctantly, he sat again. "He needs me," he insisted, in his quiet way.

"Lestat has more than enough nursemaids," Marius said. "Besides, I was able to reason with him tonight, I think he will be calmer now."

Louis looked at the older vampire suspiciously. "Did you meddle with his mind?"

"I read his thoughts, if that's what you mean, yes," Marius admitted. "His mind is a jumble right now. He is beginning to come out of these delusions, and it is confusing him."

"He needs someone to stay with him," Louis insisted. "Isn't it bad enough he's chained like some animal, but he has to be kept in solitude? That's how the very worst criminals are punished." His tone was as mild as ever, but his passion was evident in the fire that burned emerald in his eyes.

Marius considered exerting a little "meddling" on him as well, but decided against it; Louis was ever one to listen to reason. "Lestat will be fine, at least until tomorrow night. He will sleep, I did make a slight suggestion to that end." He leaned forward, placing a hand on Louis's knee. "You must know, I would never allow any harm to come to him."

"Yes, I do not doubt your affection for him," Louis agreed. "You do know, of course, that he feels much the same toward you." Now it was his turn to dole out the stern looks. "That is why it hurt him so, that you helped her do this to him." He did not add that it had pierced him to his very soul as well to see it done to Lestat.

"It pained me to have to do it," Marius admitted. "He is like one of my own children." He sat back in his chair. "That brings us to what I wanted to discuss with you."

"What is that?" Louis asked, politely. He realized that regardless of his opinion on the matter, Marius was not about to allow him to leave, at least until he'd had his say on whatever it was. Better to save his strength, in case Lestat needed him later.

"Children. More specifically, yours."

"François?" Louis asked, alarmed. "What is it? Has he been harmed? Where is he?" He leaned forward, ready to jump to his feet.

"No, no," Marius waved his fears away. "He's perfectly fine, he's at a film with Amadeo and Daniel." Louis sank back in his chair, relieved. "I merely wished to discuss how you intended to care for him, if you're going to be sitting with Lestat every night."

"I asked Daniel to see to his hunting tonight," Louis replied. "I shall not leave him to fend for himself, and at any rate, he is fully capable of hunting on his own." He gave a small, sad smile. "He learned very quickly, even Armand commented upon it."

"Yes, I'm certain he's fully able to survive," Marius smiled back. Even after two centuries, Louis still was not comfortable in his role as a killer, despite the fact that he was perhaps the most ruthless of them all. "He seems an exceptionally bright boy. But I wasn't speaking of merely survival skills, I meant, how are you going to care for him? Teach him what he needs to know to get along in the world, spend time with him, show him affection" He spread his hands expansively. "How do you intend to raise him?"

"I see," Louis nodded. "I don't intend to shirk my responsibilities, if that's what you mean." He rose, and stood next to the fire, resting one arm on the mantel and holding the other hand to the heat. "I want to give him the mortal lifetime he should have, if you understand what I mean."

"I believe I do, Amadeo related to me something of what you told him, but I'm not entirely clear," Marius replied. "Please, explain."

"He never had a childhood," Louis said, staring into the flames. "His mother was a . . ." he took a deep breath, paused, and went on. "She was unfit. Leave it at that. He was never cared for properly. He was forced to take on responsibilities that were not his, forced to grow up long before he was prepared for it." He lifted his eyes, and looked at Marius. "He never had the opportunity to simply be a child. I intend to give him that chance. For as long as he desires it, he must be allowed to be a child."

"Amadeo is concerned about that. He fears you'll try to -"

"I am well aware of what Armand thinks," Louis interjected. "I assure you, he is wrong. I know that François will mature, despite what appearances may indicate. I am not quite the idiot as some might think." He smiled ruefully, and returned to his chair. "There is no Peter Pan, Marius, even a fool such as I knows that."

"No one thinks you a fool, Louis," Marius said firmly. "But it is very difficult, I know, when your eyes see a child's form, to make your intellect recognize the adult inside." He laughed lightly. "Then again, when one looks at Lestat, it is difficult to see past the brat inside to recognize the adult's form."

Louis laughed, and nodded. "I cannot disagree with you on that point." He leaned back in the chair, and relaxed visibly. "I don't think there will be any problem with François. In many ways, he is so very mature already," Louis said, sadly. "I don't know that I can give him back what he has lost, not entirely. But I will try. There are things that he needs to learn, things he should experience, that he has missed. I want to give him the chance to do all those things."

"How do you propose to do this?" Marius inquired, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

"I want to give him the chance to have fun, to be carefree," Louis replied. "Just the chance to be a boy, free from a man's responsibilities. I don't think there's ever been much of that for him, that kind of freedom."

"You think you can give him all this?"

"Yes, I do," Louis said evenly.

"Pray, how?" Marius inquired gently. "You have the noblest of intentions, my young friend, but it is a tall order. François is what, fifteen years of age?"

"Yes, so he's said."

"Fifteen years is a long time. Do you honestly think that you can make up for that?" His expression grew distant. "Take it from one who knows all to well, Louis, that some wounds can never be completely healed, no matter how hard you try to help."

"I understand." It required no mind-reading skills to know what memories haunted Marius. "But, I do believe I can make a difference for François. I have seen the results already."

"If anyone of us can accomplish such miracles, it would be you," Marius smiled, and reached over to pat Louis's knee. "But, please, tell me, what do you plan to do? How will you give him back his stolen childhood?"

"I have given it a lot of thought," Louis replied, happy to see that Marius did not dwell on any supposed mistakes of his past. "I think a stable, safe home life, to begin with. And kindness for one thing, he has never known much kindness. And discipline. He's a good boy at heart, I know that, but still a child needs discipline, tempered with gentleness and fairness, of course. And education. He is such an intelligent boy, so bright. Do you know, he figured out, all on his own, what had happened to him. He did research until he found the answers." Louis beamed with pride. "He has a desire to learn, to study, I can see it in him."

"A scholar, like you." Marius commented.

"More like David, or yourself," Louis replied modestly. "He must have the best education possible. Whatever opportunities I can provide for him, whatever our nature will permit, of course. The very best money can provide." He smiled again. "Might as well put these fortunes to some good use for a change."

"You seem to have thought of everything. But I do think you've forgotten something rather important."

"Oh?" Louis leaned forward eagerly. "Please, tell me. I value your insights."

"What about love?" Marius asked gently. "A child needs love. Especially a child like François, who's had none."

"You have to ask?" Louis stared at the elder vampire. "Love? Of course, love. That above all else. He is my child, Marius, mine." He pounded his chest with his fist. "You listen to me. I may not have fathered him, I may not have given him this life, but he is mine, all the same." His eyes gleamed with the intensity of his words. "Love him? Of course I love him, how could I not? How could anyone not? What a question, and for you of all people to ask." Louis looked genuinely hurt.

"I thought as much," Marius said calmly, smiling and sinking back into his chair. "I only wanted you to be sure yourself."

Louis continued to stare at him for a moment, then smiled, and fell back against the buttery soft leather. "I cannot imagine how one could spend any time with him and not love him," he said softly. "I think I did from the moment I first saw him." He shut his eyes, picturing the ragamuffin in the garden, with his notes and that damned book. "From the very first moment, yes."

"So, apparently, did Lestat," Marius commented.

Louis snapped his eyes open. "We don't know that for a fact."

"Don't we?" Marius raised one eyebrow. "François has said it was Lestat. The child should know."

"But he doesn't know, that's just it," Louis protested. "He cannot remember, he has said as much."

"Obviously, his memory returned."

"He was very frightened, it was very confusing for him. He doesn't know it, not for a fact."

"Louis," Marius said gently. "He does know it, and you do, too. You know it, your human heart tells you he speaks the truth. You cannot deny it forever, you know."

"I just can't believe it," Louis shook his head. "I can't believe Lestat could do such a thing. Not even he could be so cruel, not after - " he swallowed hard. "Lestat couldn't do such a thing, not a second time. Not to one so young."

"He didn't knowingly do it," Marius offered. "He was mad, out of his mind."

"Even so . . . "

"Louis." Marius's voice was gentle, and his manner kind. "You know it is so. To deny it is to make François out to be a liar. You don't want that, do you?"

"No." Louis hung his head. He knew that was exactly what he'd done, last night when he'd insisted that François was wrong. The boy had immediately changed his story, and Louis had allowed himself to believe that all was well. But it wasn't right, not at all. He had made François lie, and worse, had made it clear that he preferred the lie to the truth. His face flushed with shame. "No, I don't want that. He's a good boy, I don't want -" He took a deep breath, and raised his head to look at Marius.

"No. I don't want that. You're right. I can't deny it." He rose to his feet again, and returned to his post at the mantel. "Very well. Yes. Lestat made François, gave him the Dark Gift, while he was off on this . . . bender. Fine." He turned to face the Roman.

"But I want something understood. I don't want anyone questioning Lestat about this, not until he's well again. No questions, no mentioning it to him, no mind meddling, none of it."

"I think that can be arranged," Marius said, somberly. "May I ask, though, why?"

"It would upset him, Lestat I mean," Louis replied. "François, I can explain it to him, make him understand the whys and hows. I'll be there for him, he won't be alone." He permitted himself a small smile of parental pride, the corners of his mouth curling upwards just the slightest bit. "He'll be fine, he will adapt as he's adapted to everything else. But Lestat is not ready to be confronted with such a shock."

"When do you think he will be?" Marius asked, thinking: François is not the only one who can adapt. "He'll have to know sometime. It's inevitable he'll find out, the coven is not large."

"That must be my decision," Louis insisted. "François is my son, Lestat is his maker as well as mine. I believe that should give me some rights."

Marius looked with pleased wonderment at the young man standing before him. "Louis, I can't believe I'm hearing this from you."

"I won't back down on this, Marius. Nothing to Lestat. Is it agreed?"

"Yes, of course. It's just that, well, it's so unlike you." He nodded in approval. "I think fatherhood suits you."

Louis exhaled slowly, and waved away the comment. "Oh, well, it was bound to happen." He smiled gently. "Can't always be the spineless wonder, you know."

"I've never thought you were, Louis," Marius said seriously. "As a matter of fact, I've always admired your strength."

"I believe you must be the only one in the entire coven who feels that way."

"Not at all. Your strength is not so obvious, but it is there for those who take the time to look."

"I don't try to leap tall buildings with a single bound, you mean," Louis chuckled. "I doubt that I could do that even if I tried, anyway.

"It has little to do with what you are, but who you are," Marius replied. "It is something you've always possessed, I suspect. Probably, it's why the Brat was attracted to you."

"Oh, no," Louis shook his head emphatically. "Lestat wanted my plantation. Didn't you read my book?" He laughed again.

Marius chuckled as well. "No one ever truly believed that, not even you, Louis."

"Well, perhaps not," Louis allowed, taking a seat once more. "But things were very different then. He was a very different man. As were we all."

"Yes, that's true enough," Marius agreed.

They fell into a companionable silence then, enjoying the warmth of the now blazing fire. After some time, they heard noises from the back of the house.

"Unless I'm much mistaken, that will be Amadeo and the children," Marius said.

Marius was proved correct in a matter of moments, when Armand, Daniel, and François raced into the room, skidding to a stop when they saw the elder vampires sitting by the fire.

"Louis!" François immediately ran to Louis's side. "I missed you tonight." He knelt beside the chair, and threw his arms around Louis.

"I missed you as well, François," Louis replied, returning the embrace, and kissing the boy on both cheeks. "I'm sorry I was detained, it took longer than I expected."

"That's okay," François replied. "I got to ride in Daniel's car, and we went to Marius's house, and then we went to a movie."

"You've had a busy night," Louis smiled. He rose to his feet, taking François's hands and pulling him up as well. "These aren't your clothes, what happened to your suit? Oh well, never mind. You can tell me all about it later. It's been a long night for you. I think we should return home now."

"Yeah, okay," François replied, sounding not terribly disappointed.

"Marius, thank you for your advice," Louis said, taking his hand Roman style, wrist to wrist. "I will take it much into consideration."

"My pleasure, Louis," Marius said, also rising. "François, you may visit my home anytime you like." He extended his hand to the boy, who hesitated a moment, then shook his hand warmly.

"Armand," Louis drew him into an embrace, and kissed him. "Thank you, my friend. For everything."

"Louis." Armand's eyes met his for a long moment, and he nodded. He looked to François, and his face warmed with genuine affection. "Ragazzo, you look after him. He tends to forget things."

"Okay, Armand," François grinned.

"I can look after myself," Louis replied, kissing Armand again before turning to Daniel. "Daniel, I hope he wasn't any trouble?"

"Nah," Daniel shook his head. "We had a blast. Even got you a present. We left it at the house, when we stopped to let the dog out."

"Hmm…" Louis looked apprehensive, but Daniel's face was utterly innocent. "I expect I'll regret that later. In the meantime, may I borrow one of your vehicles? I don't think it would be good for François to walk home in this weather."

"Sure, Lou," Daniel grinned, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a ring of keys. "Just remember, you have to drive on the right side of the street." He tossed the keys to Louis, who caught them deftly with his left hand. "By the way, you owe me. Rams lost."

"Thank you, I was aware of that," Louis smiled. "I'll add it to your tab."

François quickly embraced Armand and Daniel, and then they made their way to the rear courtyard again, and climbed into the still warm car.

Chapter Twenty

"I didn't know you could drive," François said as he settled into the seat.

"Of course I can drive," Louis replied. "I don't usually need to, but as I said, it's a bit too cold for you. Here, you must fasten you seat belt, it isn't safe to ride without it." He reached over, and pulled the strap over François, snapping it into the buckle. "There, is that too tight?"

"No, it's okay," François shrugged. "Daniel didn't use the seat belts."

"Oh, Daniel." Louis shook his head. "He is not always the most . . . careful man."

"Well, I like him." François squirmed in his seat. "Wait a minute, I think I'm sitting on something."

"What is it? Do you need to get out of the car?" Louis hoped not; it was getting late, and he didn't want to delay going home any longer than necessary. He fastened his own safety belt, and started the engine.

François slid forward slightly, and reached beneath him. "Oh, I forgot!" He pulled out something and handed it to Louis. "It's a present for you. I got it for you when we stopped for gas."

Louis looked at François's gift. It was a billed cap, in bilious green and neon yellow, constructed of what appeared to be plastic mesh. On the front was emblazoned the legend "Nothing Runs Like A Deere" in the same gaudy colors. It was quite possibly the most hideously ugly article of clothing he had ever seen; considering Lestat's often dubious tastes, that was saying a lot.

"Do you like it?" François asked eagerly.

Louis thought a moment before responding. He looked at François, who smiled back at him with such affection; it was obvious that François had given him this monstrosity out of love, and would undoubtedly be hurt if Louis didn't seem to appreciate his gift. He was just a child, after all, and probably didn't realize how inappropriate it was. Louis took comfort in the fact that eventually, François could be taught sartorial propriety; Lestat was beyond all hope in that respect. Inwardly, Louis sighed; he'd just have to use the same strategy he used with Lestat in similar circumstances.

"This is very kind of you, François," Louis said, finally. "Thank you for thinking of me." He reached over, and ruffled the boy's hair. François grinned back at him, and Louis started the car and pulled out of the courtyard.

"Louis, look at the snow!" François pointed out the window at the flakes blowing around the street lamps. "Isn't it pretty?"

"Yes, it's beautiful," Louis agreed. "I don't care for driving in it. I'd hate to have to drive out to Pointe du Lac in this."

"Pointe du Lac?" François asked. "I thought that was burned a long time ago."

"Well, yes it was," Louis replied, braking lightly to allow a streetcar to pass. "It was burned to the ground, a long time ago." He touched the accelerator and they moved off again. "But I built a new house, in a different place, and gave it the same name."

"Oh. That's kind of nice, huh?" Frankie toyed with the hat, and eventually put it on, back-to-front.

"Yes, it was a bit self-indulgent, I suppose, to call it that. Still, I always regretted burning it."

Suddenly, they hit a slick patch, and the car began to slide sideways, giving him a moment's panic. The car fishtailed for a few feet before coming to a slow stop; fortunately, there were no other vehicles around, and they had not slid far enough to hit any street lamps or other objects. No harm done. Still, it was unnerving; Daniel was obsessive about his collection, and the MG was one of his favorites. Louis didn't want to think about trying to explain how he'd managed to totally destroy the vintage automobile just driving across town. Then, too, there was François to think about; what if he'd been injured? What if he'd been killed? How could he live with that? He couldn't bear to lose another child.

"Louis?"

François was speaking to him. He woke from his frantic musings.

"Yes?"

"Are we stopped here for some reason?" François pointed to the traffic light ahead of them. "It's green, we can go now."

"Oh, yes, sorry." Louis shifted back into gear, and pressed the accelerator. They moved ahead, but considerably slower than they'd previously run. "This kind of weather is so nerve-wracking to drive in. I never should have borrowed Daniel's car. We should have taken a taxi."

"I like this car better," François said, running his hands over the leather of the seats. "It's pretty, and it's really fast, too."

"What do you know about it being fast?" Louis asked, the suspicion evident in his tone. "How far did Daniel take you tonight? And how fast was he driving?"

"Louis, what does it mean?" François said, a little too quickly. "Pointe du Lac, I mean. What does that mean in English?"

"It means, point of the lake, a piece of land on a lake." Louis gave him a quick glance, only taking his eyes from the road for a few seconds. The rapid change of subject was answer enough; he'd have to have words with Daniel later. "It was our name before we left France."

"You were born in France?" François asked. "I thought you were born here."

"I came to Louisiana when I was very young, but I remember the trip," Louis replied. "It took a long time, and I remember thinking it was very funny that we left France in the autumn, and when we arrived here, the weather was warm. Unlike tonight," he added, under his breath.

"I bet you can remember a whole lot of stuff, can't you?"

"Yes, I suppose so," Louis laughed. "You can accumulate a lot of memories when you've lived as long as I have."

They drove past the Royale Street house, and François looked at Louis curiously. "Why didn't we stop?"

"There is no carriage house, I mean, garage, there," Louis replied. "I have another property not far away, we'll leave Daniel's car there." They traveled a little further, and presently stopped before a warehouse near the river, a large, squarish building running the length of the block. Louis reached into the glove compartment, and took out what looked to François like a small, black remote control. He pressed a button, and a large section of the building's wall slid open. Louis drove into the building, and the door slid shut behind them. He drove to the back of the building, and into a large freight elevator. He pressed another button on the remote, the elevator gate closed behind them, and after pressing another button, they were lifted up to the top story of the building. The movement stopped, and the gate opened again. Louis smoothly backed the car out and around, and drove to the other side of the building, where numerous dark shapes lurked.

Louis pulled up to an empty space, and shut down the engine. "Here we are. It's not a long walk at all from here."

"This place is huge!" François exclaimed, as he climbed out of the car. "It's like the Superdome!"

"I don't think it's quite that large," Louis laughed, joining Francois and putting an arm around his shoulders. "The other floors are used by one of my businesses, but this floor is only accessible to us." They began walking back toward the elevator.

"Wow," François stopped, and ran his hand over the finish of a sleek, black car parked next to the MG. "Corvette Stingray," François read, touching the logo admiringly. There was another identical Stingray next to it, and two Ferraris, in rich emerald and deep midnight blue respectively, beyond it. They passed a long-nosed Jaguar, in a deep rich, burgundy red, and François marveled at the leaping cat on the hood, stroking the chromium with his finger. Next to it was a black Porsche that looked for all the world like a crouching panther, and a trio of stretch limousines with mirrored windows. They passed four Mercedes Benzes, all completely identical save that each was a different color. Nearly every sports car François had ever heard of was represented - Mustang, GTO, Trans-Am, Lamborhini, Thunderbird, and others even he didn't recognize. All were black and with tinted windows; in fact, all the cars he passed had either tinted or mirrored glass. François commented on this.

"It is a matter of security, I suppose you could say," Louis said, as François made faces into the windows. "Mortals can't see inside. Sometimes, street lights make our skin look a bit . . . unnatural."

"We glow in the dark," François grinned.

"Yes," Louis grinned back at him, and realized that in the harsh lights of the warehouse, they both were doing exactly that. "We glow in the dark."

François noticed that all of the cars had license plate starting with either LPL or LL, then a two digit number. He knew how expensive customized license plates were; he'd only ever known three cars with plates like those, and they'd all been owned by his mother's drug-dealing friends. "Do you own all of these cars, Louis?"

"Some are mine, but most are Lestat's," Louis replied. "Those are his." He pointed to a brace of massive Harleys. "Lestat's idea," Louis shook his head. "I was scared to death of the damned things at first." He laughed softly. "Lestat claims it's just like riding a horse, but horses were never anything like this. Still, it is closer to riding a horse than driving a car. I think that's why I enjoy them."

"Can I sit on one?" François asked, staring at the hulking black machines. "Please? I promise I'll be careful."

"Certainly," Louis nodded. "I'll hold it, I don't want it to fall on you." He grabbed hold of the back of the seat, holding it steady as François swung his leg over the bike.

"Wow, this is too cool!" François gripped the handlebars, and put his feet on the pegs. "I wish I could drive one of these," he said.

"That's out of the question," Louis said sternly. "It's far too dangerous, especially for a child like you. No, François, I can't allow that." He smiled slightly. "Perhaps someday. But not now. You're too young."

François made a face, and then shrugged. "Okay," he said, and then proceeded to make revving noises, leaning over the handlebars.

Louis watched him play, and marveled again at the human capacity for adaptation. True, François was no longer human, in the strictest sense, but some things remained the same, mortal or immortal. François was a vampire, and a successful one - more successful than himself, Louis thought with dark humor. He could kill, and do it with consummate skill, and aside from those first pangs of guilt, do it without so much as a second thought. Yet, he was little different from other mortal boys his age, from what Louis knew of them. Louis had seen how his eyes grew wide at the sight of the array of automobiles and the motorcycles; neither had he missed the way François's eyes followed any pretty woman they passed when walking together. He seriously doubted that it was completely normal for a fifteen year old boy to play at make-believe, as François was doing - even in his own time, most young men at that age had abandoned toys for more serious pursuits. Louis had some little thought that quite possibly it was not an entirely healthy pastime. Then again, François's mortal life had not been anything remotely normal, and being a vampire was not a commonplace thing, either. Louis had told everyone that he wanted to give François a childhood, and if that included allowing him to play, well, that was not such a bad thing.

As Louis stood there, he had a sudden inspiration. Obviously, a motorcycle was far too dangerous for a child - it was dangerous for adults, for that matter, and especially for certain two-hundred-year-old vampires with a complete lack of common sense - but a bicycle, perhaps now, that was an idea. That would not be dangerous, not for one of their kind. Seeing how he played on the motorcycle, Louis was certain that François would enjoy such a gift. Louis saw youngsters riding bicycles all over the Quarter during the warmer months, even at night. It would allow François some semblance of mortal life, as well. He wondered if the boy had ever owned a bicycle; well, no matter, he could have one now. But, that could wait.

"François, cher, that's enough for tonight, it's getting late."

"Okay, Louis. Can I play with it again, sometime?"

"Of course, but not tonight. Come along, now."

François climbed off the Hog, and followed Louis across the large room. He could see numerous other vehicles parked in the warehouse, some ordinary models, nothing spectacular, but well maintained all the same, and many more which François recognized as being astronomically expensive. He thought it looked very much like a parking lot for an expensive, exclusive club. As he followed Louis into the elevator, it suddenly hit him how ironically well that description fit. They were an exclusive group, his newly found family - and it had cost him his very life to join.

Louis pressed a series of buttons on a keypad beside the floor buttons, the gates closed, and in a matter of moments they were on the street, walking towards Royale Street and home. There were very few people out on the streets; the locals, unaccustomed to the severe weather, had fled for warm homes, and any tourists had long ago abandoned their wanderings, heading for their hotels and hot drinks.

They paused for a few minutes at the gates of Jackson Square, watching the rare sight of snow falling on General Jackson's statue, and marveling at the tiny patches of white on the steeple of the cathedral. The old city was deserted, and combined with the absence of taxis and buses, the sight was eerily beautiful.

"Is this what it looked like before, Louis?" François asked, moving to stand close beside the elder vampire. "Back when you were mortal?"

"Something very like it," Louis replied. Looking at the old square, the buildings and the cathedral, the benches, it was all very much the same as it had been during those long, gas lit nights of the nineteenth century. "A bit later than that, actually. But, yes, it does."

"We going in tonight?" François asked, gazing up at the cathedral clock. "There's still some time, I think."

"Not tonight," Louis shook his head. "I think we've done enough for one night. Tomorrow night, perhaps, if you wish." He put his arm around François, hugging him close, and planting a kiss on his head. "Besides, Mojo probably misses us."

They hurried through the empty streets, and within minutes were back inside the old town house. François romped on the floor with Mojo while Louis got a fire blazing in the hearth, and before long, they were all warmed through.

"François?" Louis called, as he settled into one of the chairs before the hearth. "Please leave Mojo for a bit, and come in here."

Presently, François dropped into the chair beside Louis, and Mojo curled up on the carpet before them. "This is nice, Louis," François said, spreading his hands before the blaze. "It feels good."

"That is one thing that makes such weather tolerable," Louis agreed, stretching out his long legs, and rubbing Mojo absently with one foot. The dog moved closer to the convenient foot, while simultaneously staying as close as possible to the fire; it was something he did often, and it never ceased to amaze Louis at the animal's ingenuity.

"He's got it good," François commented, grinning.

"Yes, and he knows it," Louis agreed, smiling. "François, I wanted to discuss something with you. This is very important, and I need you to listen carefully."

"Okay, Louis," François pulled his feet up into the chair, and wrapped his arms around his knees.

"Good." Louis smiled back at him. "You know where I was tonight, I assume?"

"Yeah," François nodded. "You had to stay with Lestat. He's, um, sick."

"Yes," Louis sighed. No time to think about that now. "Lestat is not well, and it's unlikely that he'll be himself again very soon. You understand, don't you, that I must stay with him?"

François was quiet for a moment, and then nodded again. "I understand. You're his fledgling, and he needs you there."

"Yes, that's part of it." Louis noticed that François had picked up the terminology very quickly; no doubt spending the evening with Armand and Daniel had had something to do with that. Then, too, François was a fast learner. "Lestat is my maker, and he's also my friend. I love him very much." He paused, unsure of how to continue. This was delicate ground he treaded, and the last thing he wanted was to make François feel unwanted or unimportant to him.

"I know, Louis, and it's okay," François said, his voice gentle. "I know you have to be with him. I miss you, but I understand." He looked Louis straight in the eyes. "I'm not jealous, if that's what you think. Honest, I'm not."

Louis breathed a sigh of relief. "You do realize how very important you are to me, François?" He gave the boy a smile. "You are every bit as much a part of my life now, as Lestat."

"Really?" François's eyes were wide with wonder. "You really mean that, don't you."

Louis nodded. "Yes, as I told you, you're my child now. I will take care of you. And that includes seeing to your welfare."

"What do you mean?" François asked. "You've been taking care of me, I mean," he shifted in the chair, leaning closer to Louis. "Like, tonight. You were with Lestat, but you had Daniel take me out. You are taking care of me, and besides," he gave Louis a curious look, "the Welfare people can't know about us, can they?"

"The welfare people?" Louis stared at him, puzzled, for a moment. Then, he understood. "Oh, no, not that kind of welfare," he laughed. "No, I mean, your upbringing. Specifically, your education."

"I have to go to school?" Now it was François's turn to look puzzled. "But, they don't have school at night."

"Not public schools, of course," Louis replied. "But, you will have lessons."

"Oh," François said. "Well, if I can't go to school, how?"

"I'd thought to teach you myself," Louis said. "But I think under the present circumstances, it might work better if some of the others taught you. Marius has had considerable experience as a tutor, and David."

"Marius and David?" François sounded less than enthused; Louis pretended not to notice.

"Yes. Marius offered to help with your lessons, as did David, when I first told everyone of you, and I believe I shall take them up on the offer."

"I'd rather have you do it," François said softly. "I mean, not that I don't like them, they're okay," he shrugged. "I like them fine, but I'd rather be with you."

"I know," Louis smiled. "And I'd much rather teach you myself. And I will, at least, some of the time, but for now, I think this will be better. This way, I can spend part of the night with Lestat, and part of the night with you."

"Oh, I see." François nodded, and smiled back. "Well, that's okay, then. Yeah, I think that will work out pretty good."

"Well, François, not good," Louis corrected. "And you really shouldn't say yeah, you should say yes."

"Oh, sorry."

"I can see we'll need to make sure David starts in on grammar," Louis laughed. "I must say, your tutors will undoubtedly be much more interesting than mine were. I enjoyed studying, but I didn't care for their lectures. Or," he rolled his eyes, "their switches."

"Switches?" François asked, furrowing his brow. "You mean, you got a whipping?"

"Oh, yes," Louis made a face. "It was commonly considered to be a necessary part of a child's education in those days."

"My God," François shook his head. "That was one thing I guess I had better, at least my teachers didn't beat me. It was bad enough my mom did."

"Come here, p'tit," Louis said, holding out his arm. François clambered out of the chair, and stood beside Louis, who slipped an arm around the boy's waist. "François, I promise you, you will never be beaten. Not by me, not by Marius or David, nor anyone else. I won't allow it. Besides," he hugged him close, "you're a good boy, I know that. And you're very bright, I know you'll enjoy learning."

"I won't have to cut up a frog, will I?" François grimaced. "We had to do that in school, and I about threw up."

"No, I don't think that will be necessary," Louis replied. "I doubt that such a thing would be very useful to your life."

"I never thought it was anyway," François shook his head. "So, when do I start?"

"Hmm. I haven't made any arrangements with Marius or David yet, so I suppose for tomorrow night we'll have to find something else to occupy you." He put a hand to his chin, and thought for a moment. "Yes, I believe we'll need a few nights to acquire the proper materials." He smiled at the boy again. "For now, we'll find more pleasant diversions. I know Daniel and Armand will be around for some time, I think they wouldn't mind too much keeping you company."

"Cool!" François's eyes lit up. "I hope we get to ride in the MG again."

Suddenly, Louis remembered François's earlier comment about speed. "Then again, I know Khayman was looking forward to meeting you."

"Khayman?" François furrowed his brow, trying to recall the names he'd read in Lestat's various books. "Oh, the one who forgot stuff?"

"Yes, but you shouldn't say such things to him, that happened a long time ago, and anyway, it isn't polite. But, yes, he is the oldest of all of us." Louis smiled suddenly. "He is the oldest, and you are the youngest."

"He's the one who made the Twins," François said, with some awe. "That's so hard to believe, that they lived so long ago."

"He'll be glad to tell you all about it, if you ask him," Louis said. "He tells wonderful stories. So does David, if we can ever pull him away from those books."

"Book!" François jumped up, and ran off into the kitchen, followed by Mojo. In a few moments, they returned, Mojo with a large dog biscuit and François with a paper sack. "I almost forgot, we got this for you tonight."

Louis took the sack, hoping that it was not another gift like the cap. He looked inside, and was surprised to find a copy of Life On The Mississippi. It was an old book, and upon inspection, he discovered it was a first edition, and autographed.

"François, this is lovely," he said, leafing through the pages. "This is so very thoughtful of you. Wherever did you find it?"

"Well, I told Armand and Daniel that I wanted to get you something you'd like," François explained, sitting on the floor in front of Louis's chair. "They said you liked old books like this, and Armand knew where one was, so we went and got it. Oh, and don't worry, we paid for it." He reached into the sack, and pulled out a paper receipt. "See?" He waved the receipt in the air.

"François, this is so wonderful." Louis felt tears coming to his eyes, and quickly sought out his handkerchief. "What a beautiful gift. Thank you, thank you so much." He bent and kissed the boy's forehead.

"I just wanted to do something nice for you, since you've been so good to me," François explained.

"François." Louis found himself unable to speak, and instead pulled François into his lap, holding him close, and kissing his face. François returned the embrace, and squeezed Louis so hard that he had difficulty breathing. He didn't care.

For tonight, it was enough to simply sit together. Louis began to read from the book, and François listened attentively, genuinely enjoying the story as much as Louis did. Some time before sunrise, when François's eyelids began to droop, and the yawns came more frequently, they closed the book for the night, and after sending Mojo to his post in the kitchen, went upstairs.

As he tucked François up in the bed, Louis suddenly felt better than he had since the night before. He knew, somehow, that things would be alright. Lestat would recover, as he always did from one of his adventures. Until he did, Louis would spend half of each evening at his side, doing whatever he could to ease his love's mind back to reality. The rest of each night, however, would belong to François, and Louis would make certain that the child - his child - knew how very cherished he was.

Chapter Twenty-one

The next night Louis awoke in good spirits, and was somewhat relieved to see that François had as well. He hadn't really thought that the boy would be upset by their discussion, but the possibility had occurred to him. Louis knew he'd been neglecting him, and while it couldn't be helped, it did worry him that François might feel slighted. With that in mind, he decided to do something special to make up for it.

They hunted together. François was fully capable of hunting on his own, as he'd ably demonstrated, and despite the undeniable affection he felt for him, Louis was not comfortable having an audience for this most private aspect of his existence. Still, the minimal discomfort he felt was less important than the security it would give to François. This was done quickly, and to Louis's satisfaction, quite efficiently.

They returned to the warehouse to retrieve Daniel's car; Louis wanted to venture a bit beyond his usual haunts, and anyway, the weather was still foul, and unsuitable for walking. They drove out to one of the massive, modern shopping malls far removed from the familiar comforts of the Quarter. Louis had been dragged there by Lestat far too many times, much to his enduring dismay, and had spent several long hours wandering around shops while Lestat indulged in rampant consumerism.

As they walked through the cavernous building, François seemed content to walk by Louis's side, never straying very far, only pausing occasionally to look into a shop window. It occurred to Louis that the boy had probably never had much opportunity to do more than window shop; that would be remedied soon enough. He himself was not over fond of shopping, and tended to avoid such places unless he had specific items in mind. Tonight was one such night.

They stopped before a store that sold electronic equipment. He led them inside, relieved that at least there were not many other customers about. What he had in mind would undoubtedly draw attention to them, and the fewer mortals who noticed them, the better.

"Since I haven't made any arrangements yet with Marius or David, I'm afraid there won't be much for you to do tonight," Louis said. "I don't want you to be bored later on, when I'm with Lestat."

"That's okay, Louis," François said, staring at the bank of televisions lining one wall. "I can always watch TV."

"Yes, well, I expect you'll get tired of that fairly soon. This is going to be something I'll be doing every night, and you can only watch so much television, after all."

François thought about telling Louis that such a thing was unlikely, but decided against it. Louis obviously had some plan, and so far, François had not had cause to complain about his arrangements. "I guess you're right," he said. "There's not a lot on that early in the morning anyway."

"That's been my experience, too," Louis replied. They stopped before a large display of video games and systems. "What about something like this? I know there is an entire club on the Night Island that is filled with these."

François blinked a few times, surprised at the question. He'd thought Louis had stopped here to buy him a Walkman or the like. "Sure! I love video games. I didn't know you had one."

"I don't, I'm afraid," Louis shook his head. "But that's why we're here. Why don't you may pick out whatever you wish, get a few different games, as many as you like. I'll see about getting the necessary equipment."

"As many as I want? Really?" François was wide eyed with surprise. "You mean that?"

"Of course," Louis smiled. "Whatever you want. You look through these, and I'll locate someone to help us."

François began looking over the various games, and Louis disappeared into the crowd, returning a few minutes later with a young man in tow. The clerk explained the merits of each system, while Louis listened attentively and François made his selections; he finally settled on four games, figuring that it would take him some time to get bored with them. When the clerk had finished his spiel, Louis selected the newest, largest, most extensive - and expensive - system. They went to the front, the clerk rang up their purchases, and much to François's surprise, Louis pulled out plastic to pay for it. When it was all finished, Louis graciously thanked the young man for his help, François grabbed up the bags, and they left.

François had thought that they were going straight back to the townhouse then, but Louis led him further into the mall. They stopped at a music store, a book store, and a video store, each time Louis giving François free rein to choose whatever he wished. By the time they finally headed back to where they'd entered, their arms were filled with sacks and boxes. They'd nearly reached the exit when Louis stopped, and led François down another direction.

"I thought you might like to look in here," Louis said, stopping in front of a large toy store. "To be honest, I'm not really very sure what children your age like to do. But since we're here, I thought we might as well stop."

François looked at Louis, and then into the huge store. He wasn't sure what to do. He certainly was not the child that he knew Louis believed him to be, or wanted him to be, or needed him to be. As much as he loved Louis, François had known, almost from the beginning, that in some way, Louis found in him a replacement for Claudia. He'd never admit it, of course, and François would never dream of saying anything about it, but it was there. François could live with that; after all, hadn't he found in Louis a replacement for the father he'd never had? Father, mother, brother, all those things, and he did love Louis, that was undeniable. Could he be the child Louis needed? Did he want to be that child?

He had survived, pretty much on his own, for a long time, and even before he'd been given the Dark Gift, he had seen far too much of the evil side of life; sometimes he felt like he was fifty, not fifteen. He had very few good memories of his earlier life. Where other children could recall their first bike, or a special birthday, or Christmas mornings, François had no such happy memories. Oh, he had memories, that much was true. He could vividly recall the time his mother had knocked out two of his teeth. He could remember being told by a teacher that it was his birthday, and feeling like an idiot that he hadn't known it before. And of course, there was the Christmas that his mother had forgotten him entirely, and had left him alone in their cold apartment while she went off with her boyfriend of the moment. Oh, yes, François had childhood memories; he just didn't have the childhood to go with it.

He looked at the toy store again. It was the kind of place he used to dream about when he was small, seeing the ads on television for toys that he knew he'd never have. Would it hurt him, he wondered, to pick out a few toys? He was fifteen years old, true, and he possessed most of the normal interests and urges of boys his age; he liked girls, even though they tended to terrify him. He liked cars, he liked comic books, he liked music and TV, and he liked the books Lestat and Louis had written, even if he didn't quite understand everything in them. But a part of him still wanted to run into that store, and walk up and down the aisles, and play with the toys he'd never had as a kid. And the more he thought about it, the more he thought, why not? He had no peers to ridicule him, to shame him for indulging in childish games. That realization struck him; he was not a mortal boy, he didn't have to worry about what anyone else thought about his actions.

He looked back at Louis, who had settled onto the convenient bench, and was smiling at him. Louis had given him a home, a family, had spent a huge amount of money on him just tonight alone, had taken him in and for no good reason, really, aside from the memory of a child long dead. Louis had been so kind to him, and had asked for so little in return; really, what had he asked of him? He could allow Louis this little deception that deceived neither of them, but was mutually convenient.

"Yeah, Louis, I think I'd like that!" He smiled warmly, and on impulse, leaned over and kissed Louis, once, on the cheek, the way Louis often kissed him. The response was immediate, and worth the risk of any stares by passersby. Louis's face broke into a huge smile.

"Bien," he said, rising to his feet. "Let's go on in then, so we can be getting back. These packages are getting unwieldy."

An hour later, they were finally on their way to St. Elizabeth's. Between the packages and the two of them, the small sports car was packed to the very windows. As they pulled into the courtyard, they were met by Daniel and Armand, who were apparently just returning from hunting.

"Making up for lost time, Lou?" Daniel asked, as he helped unload his car. "Or are you afraid the economy will collapse now that Lestat is not on a spending frenzy?"

"François needed some diversions," Louis replied, handing over the keys. "I can't have him getting bored every night. He might take up with low companions." He raised an eyebrow at Daniel, clearly indicating just who those low companions were.

"I don't slur your fledgling, Louis," Armand chided, smiling. "You shouldn't say such things about mine. Daniel can't help it if he's incorrigible."

"I suppose not, considering who he's learned from," Louis replied.

Between the four of them, they got all the various packages inside in one trip. As they walked into the large foyer, François was surprised to see Mojo, sitting panting at the base of the stairs. The dog walked over to him, his tail wagging a greeting. François put down the parcels he had, and fussed over the dog.

"What's he doing here, Louis?" he asked, as Mojo rolled over onto his back.

"I thought it best, for now, that we stay here," Louis replied. "I had Daniel fetch him."

"Yeah, we got your clothes, too, Chairman," Daniel said, stepping carefully over Mojo. "I put the stuff in the room next to mine, Lou. Kind of keep an eye on him, you know."

"Thank you, Daniel," Louis said. He wasn't sure if he approved of the proximity, but decided that it was unlikely that anything too untoward would happen. "I thought I'd surprise you, François. I hope you're not disappointed, but I felt it would be more convenient to have our things here."

"Sure, Louis," François shrugged. It didn't much matter to him where he stayed, as long as Louis was there. "Just tell me where everything goes."

"Good. You take what you want to use right away, and Daniel will show you where you can store it." Daniel nodded, and François followed him up the stairs, both of them laden with as many packages as they could carry. Mojo sat at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, and then followed behind François.

"You've had a busy night, Louis," Armand said, dryly. "This is very unlike you."

"The boy needed some diversions," Louis replied. He began to empty the sacks onto the large hall table. "Did you bring the items I asked?"

"Oh, yes," Armand said, watching as Louis stacked videos and CDs neatly on the table. "Everything is set up in the room for him. You know," he sorted through the videos, "it might have been easier and quicker to simply buy the entire store." He smiled, waiting for Louis's response.

"He's going to have a great deal of spare time, and I can't rely on you and Daniel to keep him occupied and out of trouble." He returned the smile. "Besides, he's never had such things before."

"And this?" Armand picked up one of the sacks with the toy store logo. "Was this François's idea, or yours, Louis?" He looked inside. "Lego," he read aloud. "How . . . intellectually stimulating."

"I do own several construction companies, you know," Louis grabbed the bag from him. "It will be good practice, building models. Besides, it's very creative, and at any rate, he wanted these things. I saw no reason to deny him something if it will give him pleasure."

"Oh, no?" Armand picked up another sack, and dumped the contents out on the table. "Hmm. Very noble intentions, but I do wonder if you truly mean that." He pawed through the various items.

"Of course I mean it!" Louis scowled at him. "What, do you think I'm lying? I only want the best for François."

"Yes, of course you do, my mistake." He picked up several oddly shaped packages. "How strange. Somehow, I find it hard to believe that a boy of his years would want to play with little dolls like these."

"Well, François does," Louis retorted, somewhat irked. "And they are not dolls, if you must know, they are called action figures. François told me they're something like toy soldiers. I'm sure he'll learn a great deal about strategy and logic, plotting battles and such."

"Louis," Armand sighed. "You know I only have your best interests, and François's. Are you positive that these . . . toys were his idea?"

"Yes," Louis met Armand's gaze firmly. "I gave him the option, and was fully prepared to accept whatever his decision was. He picked out these things, not I. He can use them, or destroy them. It doesn't matter to me. If he gets bored with these things in a few hours, I'm sure we can find a good use for them. There are several worthy charities in New Orleans."

Armand searched his face for several minutes, probing his mind gently. He was very surprised to find that Louis was not lying, was not even exaggerating. "Very well, I believe you, Caro. Perhaps you are right about him. Perhaps, he does need this -" he searched for the right word. "This regression. This chance, as you put it." He leaned over and kissed Louis, embracing him. "Forgive me for doubting you, Caro. It's just that I don't want to see you hurt. Nor him."

Louis accepted the embrace, and returned the affection. "I understand, Armand. Truly, I do. And I appreciate your concern." He bit his lip, frowning. "I know my own judgment in this case is suspect, and with good reason. I have been worried myself, wondering if I were doing the right thing with him, making the right choices. But he does seem to be thriving, doesn't he?"

"I'd have to say so, yes," Armand admitted. "He is resilient. I have seen a great many fledglings in my time, you know this, and I can see it in him. He has the stamina. He will survive, as long as he is not hindered." He tilted his head to one side, again looking deeply into Louis's eyes, reading his thoughts. "Are you truly prepared for what might come?"

"What do you mean?" Louis asked. "You're talking in riddles, Armand, you know I hate that. Just come out and say what you mean."

"I mean," Armand said, choosing his words carefully. "Someday, he will want to leave. It is inevitable. Fledglings leave the nest." He leaned close, brushing his lips against Louis's ear, speaking so softly that it was barely a whisper. "Can you let him go, when the time comes? Can you bear to lose him, Caro?"

"I will not hold him prisoner," Louis said hoarsely. "He will be free to do as he chooses. But I think you're wrong, Armand. I don't think he'll leave. Not all fledglings run away; some are pushed, you know."

Armand pondered this for a moment, thinking of a Venice night, and a group of marauding Children of Darkness. "I suppose you may be right," he said quietly. He gave Louis another kiss before moving away. "Perhaps, since you did not make him, that might make a difference."

"Oh, that's big of you to admit as much," Louis said dryly. "Did it ever occur to you that François might want to stay simply because he's fond of me?"

Armand was silent for a moment, his eyes sparking with restored humor. "I suppose there is that," he said carelessly. "There's no accounting for taste."

Louis scowled at him a moment, and then laughed. The tension dissipated, and they both began looking through the odd assortment of items. It had been a very, very long time since Louis had given such things much thought, but even so, he found these modern toys very strange indeed.
He thought that the so-called action figures looked a lot more like dolls than soldiers, but who knew what modern children thought of such things. He found them peculiar at best, these toys, and some of them he found perfectly dreadful; horrible looking things, grotesquely deformed, some having extra limbs and strange appendages.

"Mon dieu," he muttered, turning one box over in his hand. "This one has two heads!"

"Oh, I recognize that one," Armand said, proffering the one he held. "That's from a film, Louis. You remember, the one we took you to see, with the alien planted inside the human. You remember, the one you claimed gave you nightmares?"

"It did not give me nightmares," Louis insisted, taking the box away from Armand. "I never said that."

"As you say, Louis," Armand said, picking up another one to examine it. "Oh, look, this one is a mutant. Strange how it looks very much like Lestat, don't you think?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Louis laughed. "Lestat doesn't have wings, and the last I checked, his face was not blue."

"Just as well, I suppose. That's all we need, him thinking he needs a line of toys."

Louis dropped the box he was holding. "Armand, that is not even funny." His face was the very picture of terror. "Don't even hint at such a thing!"

"Oh, no, not that!" Armand tried very hard not to laugh, but despite his efforts, a smile slipped out. "Imagine the horror. Thousands upon thousands of tiny plastic Lestats. The mind reels."

"I think that's one of the signs of the end times. 'And it is written, there shall be upon the earth, small brat-like idols,'" he intoned, in mock seriousness. "'And they shall be legion.'" He chuckled.

"Don't forget the publicity, either. 'New, from Mattel, it's the Vampire Lestat!'" Armand said, perfectly mimicking the ubiquitous television ads. "'He sings, he dances, he writes awful books.'"

"And you know that would not be the end of it," Louis shook his head sadly. "Of course, he'd have to drag the rest of us into things, too." He shuddered.

"Vampire Louis sold separately," Armand added.

"Not to mention, the rest of the Vampire Lestat Coven. There's the Vampire Armand - 'Brush his beautiful hair!'" Louis reached over, and flipped Armand's hair into his eyes. "And his companion, the Vampire Daniel. 'Comes with his very own, real, working tape recorder.' Yes, I can see how that one would sell very big."

"And don't forget, the Theatre des Vampires Action Playset," Armand added, running a hand through his hair to straighten it. "The Vampire Louis Matches sold separately."

"Don't forget the Vampire Lestat Harley Davidson motorcycle," Louis said, pointedly ignoring the jibe. "Not to mention the Vampire Lestat Porsche, the Vampire Armand Mini Jet, the Rue Royale Playhouse. Yes, I can just see the profits pilling up." Louis had been stacking the boxed figures, and suddenly the stack toppled over. "There, you see what you've done," he pointed a finger at Armand. "You've frightened the poor little things. They've fainted dead away."

"Oh, well, it probably would never sell anyway," Armand sighed. "Not a feasible idea."

"No," Louis agreed, putting the toys back into the sacks. "Far too many accessories." He nodded somberly. "Why, the Vampire Lestat alone comes with over four thousand individual costumes."

At this, Armand burst into laughter, and Louis joined him. Just then, Daniel and François came back down the stairs, only to find the two elder vampires laughing hysterically, each of them holding a pair of the figures, making the small toys fight each other.

"Geez, Chairman," Daniel said, staring in amazement at his maker. "I guess we'll have to settle for the blocks, huh?"

Chapter Twenty-two

Louis and Armand froze for the space of a heartbeat, then placed the toys carefully back onto the table. They then turned almost as one, and both smiled at their respective fledglings as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be playing with toys.

"François, are you settled into your new room?" Louis asked.

"Yeah," François replied, grinning. He joined Louis at the table, and began collecting the toys, and putting them into the various bags. "It's pretty cool, Louis. It's got a TV and VCR, and a stereo, and everything."

"I even threw in a few extras," Daniel said. "Found a nice old armoire upstairs, and put it in front of the little window. No light will get in now." He picked up one of the toys, and began poking his maker with it.

Armand turned his head, very slowly and deliberately, to glare at Daniel. "All the comforts of home," he said. Daniel quickly put down the toy, and shoved his hands into his pockets.

"That's very kind of you, Daniel, but not really necessary," Louis said, the corners of his mouth twitching as he watched this minute power struggle. "François will be spending his days in the cellars, with the rest of us."

"But, Louis," François protested, putting a hand on Louis's arm. "I don't want to sleep in a . . . box. Why can't I sleep in a bed? Like at home?"

"It is called a coffin," Armand said, without taking his gaze from his child. "It is our nature to sleep in coffins." He turned to François. "We are vampires, Francesco. It's what we do."

"Armand, please," Louis warned. "I am fully capable of dealing with my own child, thank you." He gave François a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, petit. I will be with you. You won't be alone."

"You did it before, Chairman," Daniel offered helpfully, happy to be released from that beautiful, too intense, glare. "I just thought, Lou, in case he wasn't paying real close attention to the time, he'd be safe there."

"You're very thoughtful, Daniel," Louis nodded. "But that will not be a problem, I assure you. François, I want you to promise me, while we're staying here, you'll be downstairs, in the cellar, a full two hours before dawn, at the very least. Will you promise me that?"

"Two hours?" François frowned. "That's kind of early, isn't it?"

"You're very young," Louis said, softly, pulling François around to face him. "You've been caught out before. I don't want it to happen again." He embraced him, and kissed the top of his head. "I'm not saying you must be inside it then, of course, you may do other things, but you must be downstairs, in the room. Will you promise me that much?"

"I don't have to get inside?"

Louis shook his head. "No. Not unless you wish to."

"And you'll be with me, when I do have to?"

"Of course," Louis spoke very softly into his ear. "I know, it's frightening at first. But you'll get used to it, and I promise you, I won't leave you there alone."

He did not meet Louis's eyes. He'd hoped that Louis would back him up in his desire to avoid the cellar and the half dozen intimidating coffins. What Daniel had said was true enough; he'd survived a day spent inside one, and had not really suffered much for it, aside from the first few claustrophobic moments before sleep had overtaken him. But it was the idea that bothered him, the very act of pulling the lid down, that had been the hardest part. He didn't like small, enclosed spaces, he never had. He would much have preferred to bed down on the bare floor, in the cellar, rather than have to feel that lid shutting out the world.

However, François knew, even as he thought this, that he'd do exactly what Louis asked. Even if Louis asked him to climb into that hideous thing, and lie there wide awake, with the lid closed, for hours, he'd do it. How could he not? Louis had taken care of him, and so far, everything he'd taught him, or told him, or shown him, had been for François's own good. But more than that, he knew that it was part and parcel of the unspoken agreement between the two of them. Louis was playing the role of the parent. Considering his age, and the fact that he'd survived for several weeks on his own, François found it a bit of overkill. Still, he understood the purpose of it; what's more, he could see the genuine affection that was at the root of it all. That was good enough for François. If Louis cared enough about him to teach him good habits, and to give him boundaries, François could return the affection in kind.

François nodded. "Okay, Louis. I promise."

"Good!" Louis kissed him again, and gathered up the now refilled bags from the table. "Let's take these things up to your room, and get you settled in there. You still have several hours yet tonight, you may as well enjoy yourself."

"And you, Louis?" Armand asked, one eyebrow raised delicately. "Are you going to join him? Or do you have other plans?"

"Yes, I'll be attending to Lestat now," Louis replied, ignoring the implied jibe. "I expect he's wondering where I am, I promised him I'd read to him." He followed François up the stairs.

"Good luck," Daniel called after them. "He's been in rare form tonight."

"What?" Louis stopped halfway up the steps, and came back down. "Is he distressed?"

"Nothing to worry about, Louis," Armand replied. "He has been weeping copiously, that's all. Really, it's hardly an unusual activity for him. It's one of his favorite pastimes, after all."

"Please be serious, Armand. What do you mean?" Louis asked.

"Okay, look, Lou," Daniel said, taking the parcels that Louis held. "You and Boss are opening up a whole can of worms here, and like you just said, Frankie doesn't have all night. I'll get him all set up, you go deal with Lestat." He dashed up the stairs, joining François who waited halfway up. With a none too gentle nudge from a shopping bag on the seat, François continued on up, followed by Daniel.

Louis watched them disappear, and sighed. "I just hope Daniel doesn't teach him any more bad habits."

"Daniel is very fond of him," Armand said softly, so that only Louis could hear. "They are of a century, I suppose that's it."

"Yes, I'm sure you're right," Louis replied, pointedly refraining from mentioning the fact that Daniel had a history of association with adolescents. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Lestat is waiting." He turned to go.

"He can wait a bit longer," Armand said, putting a hand to Louis's arm. "You won't do him any good, if you're distracted. Are you certain that you are up to dealing with Lestat?"

"Don't be ridiculous, of course I am. He's not that difficult to handle. He's chained up and lying on the floor, for God's sake!"

"Ah, but I'm not talking about that, Louis. I know you, and I know Lestat, too well, perhaps. I know how infuriating he can be. I know how thoughtless he is, how he takes you for granted." He leaned forward, and placed his hand on Louis's. "You're cold. Have you even hunted?" His tone was accusatory.

"Yes, I hunted," Louis retorted. "Don't patronize me, Armand! I can take care of myself quite well. And I think I'm far more qualified to care for Lestat than anyone else. God knows, I've had the most experience living with him."

"That's true enough, but there is such a thing as knowing someone too well." Armand took Louis's arm, and led him over to sit at the base of the stairs.

"Armand," Louis said, reluctantly sitting beside him. "Why are you stalling me? If something has happened to Lestat, I need to know."

"Relax, Louis," Armand replied, smiling with genuine warmth. "He's asleep right now, there's no point in rushing downstairs just to sit on the cold floor and talk to yourself."

"Well, you could have told me that right away, and saved me the worry," Louis complained.

"And spoil all my fun?" Armand laughed.

"Well, if you've quite finished with your little games, I have responsibilities elsewhere." Louis rose to his feet, only to be pulled back down. "Armand. Let go of my coat."

"Sit and talk to me, Louis, just for a few minutes. It's been so long since we had an opportunity to just spend some time together." Armand looked at him imploringly. "Surely, you can give me this little thing, can't you?"

Louis stared at him, and wracked his brain, trying to fathom what risks were involved here. He knew all too well Armand's penchant for playing mind games, especially where Lestat, and Louis's relationship with him, were concerned. It would be just like Armand to keep Louis from Lestat, if he thought that somehow, it could bring about their separation, and bring Louis closer to him. Still, as Louis gazed into those deep brown eyes, he could see none of the usual rancor there. True, Armand could effortlessly lie in the most convincing manner, and Louis, even more than any of the others, was prone to believing him.

But try as he might, Louis could sense no hidden agenda here, no possible ulterior motive. Could it be that Armand was truly seeking only a moment's companionship, as he said? He had to admit, tonight aside, it had been some months since they'd spent any length of time together. With a pang of guilt, Louis belatedly realized, too, that the past week had not been easy for Armand, either. Learning that one of your oldest friends believed you dead, and indeed, had in effect killed you in his own fevered imagination, could not be a pleasant revelation. Of course, as always, Armand presented a facade of total, detached unconcern, but Louis knew that more often than not, that was merely self defense. Perhaps he was only seeking the solace of a trusted friend. Besides immensely enjoying each other's company, there existed between them an unbreakable bond; even after everything, the love that they had shared a century before had never completely disappeared.

"Very well, just for a bit," he relented, allowing a small smile.

"Good," Armand nodded. "I knew you'd see reason eventually." He looked about to say more, but didn't. They sat in silence for the space of a few seconds.

"Is that all?" Louis asked, finally.

"No. I wanted to speak to you about Francesco."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Louis threw his hands in the air, exasperated. "How many times do I have to say it? I'm not an idiot, he's free to grow up -"

"That's not what I mean," Armand spoke quietly, but firmly. Louis blushed slightly, and Armand went on. "I have complete faith in you to do the right thing, Louis." It was a lie, and Armand knew that Louis knew it, too, but he wasn't in the mood to argue the point, and anyway, it didn't matter at the moment.

"I beg your pardon," Louis apologized. "Please, go on."

Armand frowned. "Tell me, what do you know of his life as a mortal?"

"I know it was not very happy," Louis replied. "He hasn't said much about it, and I haven't pressed him."

"I thought as much." Armand pulled his knees up, and wrapped his arms around them. "What do you know about his family? Is there anyone who would miss him? Any chance someone will come looking for him?"

Louis shook his head, sadly. "I'm afraid not. I'm given to understand that it was only his mother and him." He laughed, a short, humorless bark. "If you can call her a mother."

"Hmm. Yes, I believe I understand." He didn't tell Louis what François had told him, or of what he'd seen in François's thoughts; nor would Louis understand Armand's plans for rectifying that situation. "So, you don't feel that anyone will miss him? Any mortals, I mean, of course."

"No," Louis sighed. "From what I've gathered, she was hardly the type to willingly go to the police for any reason. And, it's an unfortunate fact that in a city this size, one missing child is hardly going to bring much of an uproar."

"That's what I thought," Armand nodded. He lay his head on his knees, looking sideways at Louis, and smiling a strange, almost mischievous grin. "You've been saying, since you found Francesco, that he is your child, right?"

"Yes, of course." Louis almost laughed. Posed as he was, Armand resembled even more a renaissance angel; all he needed were tiny wings and a cloud for his perch. He kept his composure, however. "I have accepted responsibility for him, I will care for him until he's able, or wants to do so himself."

"Well, here it is. A thought just occurred to me, earlier, when we were talking about him." Armand sat up again, ruining the image. "He has no identification. No birth certificate, no social security number, at least, none that he can access."

"That's true," Louis shrugged, "but what difference does it make?"

Armand sighed. Sometimes, he wondered how Louis got along in the twentieth century. Lestat, for all his faults, at least understood the necessities of modern life; perhaps, Armand mused, Lestat was not entirely useless. He shook himself out of his reverie. "What I mean is, eventually he'll need papers."

"He will?" Louis seemed puzzled.

"Yes, Louis," Armand said patiently, thinking that perhaps, he should have consulted François about this, instead of Louis. "What if you want to travel? He'll need a passport if you intend to travel out of the country." Armand didn't feel it necessary to point out that Louis didn't possess the power to spell bind, and thus avoid such modern hassles. "And he'll soon be old enough to drive, too, he'll need a license, registration, all of those things."

"I hadn't thought of that," Louis admitted. "Can't we just get those things?"

"No," Armand shook his head. "You can't get any of those things without basic identification. And for that, he'll need an identity. Do you see the problem, now?"

"Yes, I do," Louis nodded. "I assume you have a solution in mind?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." He stretched out his legs, and leaned back on the steps, leaning on one elbow. "I can arrange for the proper documents to be made up. It may take some time, and a great deal of money, of course, but it is possible." He grinned broadly. It had been far too long since he'd done any serious hacking, and he was eager to get started. Finding a corrupt official would not be difficult, either, but finding one with enough clout might take some doing.

"Ah," Louis smiled again. "So, what do I need to do? Just tell me how much is needed."

"That's no problem," Armand waved a hand dismissively. "What I want to know is, what name? And what relationship do you want it to reflect?"

"Name?" Louis gave him a peculiar look. "Why, François, of course."

Armand sighed. "François what, Louis? Your name, Lestat's name, his own name, a completely different one - what?"

"Oh, of course, how stupid of me." Louis thought a moment. "Unless he has objections, I think it should be my name, of course. François de Pointe du Lac." He grinned suddenly. "That sounds splendid, don't you think?"

"Very nice, Louis," Armand replied. "I think he'll be pleased. Anything else?"

"Hmmm." Louis bit his lip thoughtfully. "François Gallier. That way, his own name is there. Of course, he'll need to devise some pseudonyms eventually, but that's not necessary right away."

"Good, we've got that much settled," Armand said, clapping Louis on the shoulder. "Now, the relationship. I suggest we make you his uncle -"

"No," Louis said, firmly. "Not uncle."

"Why not? Armand asked, sitting up again. "It's convenient enough, and generally doesn't raise any unnecessary questions."

"No," Louis repeated. "He's my child. I'm his father. If anyone questions it, we'll have the documents to prove it, right?"

"I suppose so," Armand admitted. "Still, though, you hardly look old enough to have a child his age."

"Mortals pay little attention to such things," Louis insisted. "They believe what they're told, especially if it's backed up with legal documents."

"Alright," Armand threw up his hands in surrender. "You win. I'll make the necessary arrangements, then."

"That is very kind of you, Armand," Louis said, leaning over to kiss him, and embrace him warmly. "François will be so pleased."

"Let's keep it a surprise for now, can we?" Armand asked. "It's going to take some time to get everything set in motion. Besides," he laughed, and kissed back, enjoying the closeness, even if it was only for a little while, "Francesco will be kept busy for some time to come, I think. Between the loot you've brought home tonight, and Marius's tutelage, he'll have more than enough to occupy him."

"That's actually a very good idea," Louis said, giving Armand another kiss, and rising to his feet. "Perhaps, we can plan a little celebration, when it's all finally done."

"A party?" Armand asked, quickly hiding his disappointment that the moment of intimacy was over so soon.

"Yes," Louis replied, surprised. "I hadn't thought of that, but that would be a very nice touch. And it would be a good way to get everyone to meet him, I suppose."

"I thought a party was supposed to be an enjoyable occasion," Armand said dryly.

"You may be right," Louis laughed. "Still, there will be time to plan for that, once you've got things arranged." He turned to go, then stopped. "Armand?"

"Yes, Louis?" Armand hoped that Louis wouldn't ask him to join him in the cellars. He and Daniel had already spent the early part of the evening in Lestat's company, listening to him ask himself, over and over and over, how he had believed Armand dead. Armand had little desire to repeat the experience any time soon.

"I want you to know, I appreciate your concern for François." He stepped back beside him, and embraced him once more, brushing the curls away from his face, and kissing him again. "I know, now, that you'll never do anything to bring him harm."

"Of course not, Louis," Armand murmured. "Never."

"Thank you," Louis said solemnly. "Now, I really must go to Lestat. I did promise him." He released Armand from the embrace, and moved off in the direction of the cellar steps. "Good night, Armand."

"Good night, Louis," Armand replied. He watched until Louis disappeared around the corner, and then turned and made his way up the stairs. Plenty of time tomorrow night to begin his masterpiece of hacking skill; tonight, he was in a mood for some simple, innocent fun.

Chapter Twenty-three

Very quickly, François's life at St. Elizabeth's fell into a nightly routine. Louis would be waiting for him when he awoke, shortly after sundown, patiently lying awake beside him in the coffin. While he still would have preferred a nice, comfortable bed, François found that just as Louis had promised, shutting himself up in the coffin did become less frightening, and within a matter of a scant few weeks, he was ready to try it solo. After one night, however, he went back to sharing with Louis; his suggestion that he rest alone had brought a sad, pained expression to the elder vampire's emerald eyes that had cut straight through to François's heart. He immediately recanted his request, and was happy to see that the sorrowful countenance was replaced with a look of pure joy.

Truth to tell, he much preferred the company, anyway. He would have bedded down in one of the filthy tombs in the cemetery, if Louis accompanied him. Lying down to rest each morning in Louis's strong, yet gentle embrace, and waking each evening to see his smiling, affectionate countenance, gave François more happiness than he'd ever known in his too brief mortal life.

François also found, to his surprise, that the routine itself was a comfort of sorts. Life with his mother had been anything but routine; he never knew from one day to the next if she'd be home when he returned from school, or if they'd even have a home. More than once, he'd returned to find their apartment empty, and no trace of his mother anywhere; although he knew where to find her whenever this happened, he loathed having to go to the sleazy bar's back door, to ask for her.

Yes, he much preferred his life now. Each night, he'd rise, share a few pleasantries with Louis and whomever else happened to be about, have a wash, and hunt. Most nights, they went out together, parting only long enough for the actual kill itself; this most intimate of acts, Louis insisted, was best done in private. That necessary task completed, they then spent the next few hours together, doing whatever caught their fancy.

Contrary to what Lestat's books had indicated, Louis was hardly a recluse.

Nearly every night, Louis had something to occupy their time in an interesting and often entertaining way. Frequently, they saw movies, and François discovered that Louis had a seemingly endless knowledge of film, from the very earliest bits of celluloid to the latest of Hollywood's offerings; if a film was not currently showing anywhere, Louis would invariably locate a copy for them to watch, either a video or an actual film copy. While François preferred a more standard fare of comedies and action-packed adventures, he also learned to enjoy the more esoteric fare that Louis preferred. Even when he found the dramas depressing and interminable, and the foreign films incomprehensible in plot, he still treasured the opportunity to share Louis's interests; moreover, he was ever eager to do anything that gave Louis such obvious pleasure.

The theatre was another of Louis's interests, and they attended everything, professional and amateur alike. François didn't mind most of the plays that they attended, and enjoyed some of the lighter fare, especially if there was music involved; he loved it especially, if it was a comedy that made Louis laugh. More serious works were a different story; tedious social commentaries, interminable dramas, and the strange, incomprehensible 'experimental' works left him cold. At first, for Louis's sake, he pretended to enjoy them, but this subterfuge was embarrassingly exposed when he fell asleep during one performance. Much to his surprise, Louis was not angry, or even disappointed; rather, he respected François's right to an opinion of his own. That said, he then asked François to explain what he didn't like, asking him questions and drawing out answers that François hadn't known were there. From then on, even the offerings that he found deadly dull were able to keep his attention, since he knew that Louis would quiz him afterwards; he soon found that these discussions were worth the effort to stay awake.

There were other activities, too, experiences so far removed from his former life that François felt he was in another world entirely. Some were good; others, not so good. Ballet fell into the latter category. Despite his best intentions, and despite his overwhelming desire to share Louis's interests, François found it unbearably dull. No matter how he tried, he couldn't keep interested in it. Louis only asked that he give it an honest effort. François did his best, but invariably, after a half hour, he was fidgeting and yawning. The night he sneaked in a book and Walkman, Louis good-naturedly conceded defeat; from then on, he attended the ballet alone, and François stayed home with Mojo.

The first time Louis took him to an opera, François balked, thinking it would be a similar experience. He tried desperately to find a way out; having little knowledge of this art form aside from what he'd seen on television and cartoons, he expected to see large women with horned helmets screaming and waving swords. Louis insisted, however, and François was glad that he did. Instead of boredom, he found himself wrapped up in an hysterically convoluted plot, and utterly swept away by the music. At first, he found it confusing, trying to follow a translation and keep up with the plot, but by the third visit, he could understand it perfectly.

Even the complicated and slightly uncomfortable suit Louis insisted he wear didn't deter from his enjoyment, and after attending a few performances, François found that he looked forward to donning it; he even learned how to tie the complicated knot for the necktie. He realized that the long coat, and the fancy shirt, were probably very close to what Louis had worn as a mortal. François thought Louis looked magnificent, and knew from the looks they drew, and the random thoughts he picked up, that other people agreed with him. He told Louis of this, although Louis eschewed such praise, claiming that he was quite ordinary; such modesty apparently did not extend to François himself, as Louis was forever telling him how wonderful he looked, until François finally had to insist that turnabout was only fair. Still, it made François very proud, on both counts, and he suspected that Louis felt much the same.

Although they did attend these functions frequently, they were just as likely to spend the evening at home. François treasured these quiet moments, for it was during these pleasant evenings that he and Louis truly came to know one another. Almost from the beginning, François had found in Louis a kindred soul, someone who felt very much as he did about so many things. Learning of Louis's interests, and coming to share them was in many ways merely a confirmation of this.

A love of reading, this they already shared. François had loved to read from the time he was a small child, and one of the few possessions that he'd managed to keep for years was a battered copy of Green Eggs and Ham; in fact, it was in the pack he'd had with him when Louis found him, along with the paperbacks of Lestat's and Louis's books. Aside from reading assignments in school, however, he had never strayed far from fiction, tending to stick to mysteries and fantasy and science fiction. While encouraging him to continue to read these, Louis also expanded his range of material to include poetry, theology, philosophy, and other more serious works.

At first, François found these to be even less interesting than the ballet had been, but again, Louis insisted that he give it his best effort. From the beginning, François would have gladly walked through fire had Louis but requested it, so he dug into the various works with determination; he found, much to his surprise, that after some concerted effort, he could understand what he read, even if he didn't enjoy it, or even agree with it. After a time, he and Louis spent many evenings discussing philosophical ideas. Occasionally, other members of the coven joined in the discussions. It never ceased to awe François; these elder vampires, some who'd lived for millennia, not only did they listen to him, they respected his opinion.

This was not the only contact he had with the other members of the coven, however. Louis wanted him to have a classical education, such as he himself had enjoyed, along with more modern subjects, and sought the help of the others to this end. To the great surprise of no one, save perhaps François himself, he proved an extremely apt pupil, rapidly mastering whatever subject he tackled.

Both Louis and Marius agreed, his first course of study must be language. Almost without meaning to, he had become fluent in French, able to converse easily with Louis in the old dialect; however, his mastery of his native tongue remained sub-standard. Thus, for the first few months of his new life at St. Elizabeth's, François spent several hours every night doing grammar exercises. He found it came far more easily than he'd expected, and within a matter of weeks, had moved on from English to French. Latin and Greek soon followed; by the time he'd been a vampire for six months, François could converse comfortably with Marius in the language of Rome.

Composition came next, and François found he actually enjoyed writing. Marius was uncompromising in his standards, but equally quick to praise good work; François worked very hard to improve. One night, Louis gave him a lovely, leather-bound book, with his name embossed on the cover. It was a journal, Louis explained, to write down his own thoughts, to keep a record of his growth and experiences. Immediately, François began to keep this religiously, writing each night his impressions of what he'd experienced. He found, much to his surprise, that he had a great deal to write.

Other subjects soon expanded his curriculum, following the traditional lines as Louis desired. Rhetoric he found far more enjoyable than he'd expected. As the son of a Roman senator, Marius had vast experience in logic and argument. François became quite adept at defending his position with strong arguments, regardless of whether it was a matter of philosophy or the superiority of one super hero over another. He learned, too, to look at all sides of a question, to think it through carefully before forming an opinion or making a decision.

Marius's skills as an instructor proved to have limits, however. Mathematics was more difficult for François; despite his best efforts, and Marius's seemingly unlimited patience, he found the subject dull, until Armand and Daniel stepped in. Armand taught him the beauty of numbers, the satisfaction of working out complex sums, seeing each problem as a puzzle to be solved. He also convinced Louis to give François money of his own, and then taught François the importance of keeping accurate accounts, of knowing exactly how much money he had, and where it was all kept. Mortals were by nature greedy, and no matter how reputable a human agent might be, he was in the end, merely human; the fortunes amassed over centuries could tempt a saint. Better to know oneself where the money went.

Daniel, on the other hand, taught François how to use arithmetic for more pleasant activities. Studying statistics became far more interesting when applied to a baseball game. In no time, François was computing odds in his head. Likewise, algebra was demonstrated with the use of stock car races, factoring in distances and speeds and laps. Lego block buildings made convenient models to figure out complex geometry and trigonometry problems. Before long, François enjoyed his math lessons as much as his other subjects. Even Marius had to admit, sometimes life was a better teacher than a book; from that point on, the mathematics texts gathered dust on the shelves.

Marius's own deep love of the arts came into play in François's instruction, too. They spent many evenings in Marius's home, examining one work for hours at a time, as Marius pointed out the use of color and hue, light and shadow, composition and form. Through his vast collection, as well as his own skill, he was able to illustrate to the boy the history of western art, often painting rich canvases in words as well as pigments. François also learned to use the various media, happily mixing pigments and experimenting with tempera and oils and watercolors and clay. He studied composition, sometimes working at one subject repeatedly, until he had mastered the technique to his and Marius's satisfaction. Marius found in François an enthusiastic pupil who, if not the most gifted student he'd ever taught, nonetheless enjoyed the creative aspect, and deeply appreciated the works of others.

This is not to say that François was totally without talent or ability. He was, it turned out, quite adept at drawing, filling page after page with pencil and charcoal sketches. His subjects were everything and everyone in sight; Louis, Mojo, anyone else who happened to be nearby, the courtyard, buildings in the Quarter, automobiles, his favorite comic book characters, boats on the river, anything that caught his eye was likely to turn up in his sketchbook. Some of these were very competent works; Louis, of course, immediately had these professionally mounted and framed, and displayed prominently in the old orphanage and the townhouse.

Of all the subjects he studied, however, history was by far François's favorite. Louis was always to be counted on for a vivid description of earlier times, and was especially in his element when talking of his early life in Louisiana, while François listened, rapt. Having lived for so long and in so many places, Marius could be relied upon to recount fantastic stories of historical figures and events; through his eyes, François saw Rome in her glory, medieval Europe, renaissance Italy. David could be dry and dull, but if a particular subject caught his fancy, he would disappear for a night, returning with items liberated from the vaults of the Talamasca, and François could examine firsthand historical relics from many eras. Maharet and Mekare, too, had their imput; Maharet had decendents on every continent, and could spin a great tale. Mekare, although without speech, showed him the panorama of the pre-Columbian Americas.

But aside from Louis, who was always first in François's heart, Khayman was above and beyond François's favorite. He could implant in François's mind images of Egypt before the pyramids were built, Greece and Byzantium in their glories, China and India before any westerners had ever set foot on their shores. Once, he even whisked François away to Athens, flying around the earth ahead of the sun with François in his arms, terrified yet thrilled beyond words; Louis had not been entirely happy about that trip, and it had not been repeated.

François thrived on the work, enjoying the prospect of learning for its own sake. Louis continued to teach him the skills he needed to survive, and began to include more practical matters in his instructions. Louis owned many diverse businesses, and taught this to Francois, as he had been taught by his own father, through practical application; early on, Francois accompanied Louis to all business meetings, and must sit beside Louis and listen attentively, always observing and paying close attention. François enjoyed these excursions, and did his best to be useful to Louis; his ability to sense the emotions of others proved very useful, indeed, in dealing with frequently less than scrupulous mortals. Before long, Louis asked his opinion on most of his business dealings, and took François's comments and suggestions very seriously.

So night followed night. Louis was unfailing in his promise to spend the first part of every evening with François, and just as faithfully, spent the second half with his maker. François missed him, but felt no jealousy; he knew Louis cared for him, loved him, even. He didn't need to spend every waking moment with him to validate it. On a few occasions, François offered to accompany Louis to his vigil at Lestat's side, but was always politely, yet firmly, refused. This was fine with François. While the offer to accompany Louis was genuine, he nevertheless was relieved that it was not accepted. François had encountered The Vampire Lestat only two times in his brief existence, and both times unpleasantness had followed. He was in no hurry. He would gladly wait until such time as his maker was more stable; however, he harbored doubts that it would ever become an issue. In the meantime, he was content with his life.

No, not content. Contentment he'd known before; contentment was managing to get three full meals in a day, or making it home with a new comic without it being stolen by bigger boys, or just getting through a day without his mother hitting him. No, this was something far better, much rarer, more precious. For the first time in his life, François was happy, truly happy and at peace.

Thus passed the first two years of François's life as an immortal.

Chapter Twenty-four

François woke up, and stretched luxuriously. Even though it was past sunset, he felt no pressing need to rise just yet. He was feeling a bit lazy, and since there was no reason not to do so, he indulged himself. As he had every night for the past few months, he relished the fact that he was again able to sleep in a bed. He'd become accustomed to shutting himself into the enclosed space, so that he scarcely thought about it, but even so, some things required a bed; it just was not possible to get a good, satisfying stretch when confined in a coffin.

It had taken some time, but eventually the renovations at St. Elizabeth's had met with Louis's demanding standards, and the coffins in the cellar were more or less abandoned in favor of the more comfortable accommodations upstairs. Several rooms were now available for the use of whomever happened to be in residence, all of them completely secure from sunlight and fitted with every possible luxury.

As he looked around him, François felt a security that had little to do with Louis's near-obsessive caution. This was his room, filled with his things. He had never had a room of his own before, not really, not like this; it still enough of a novelty to awe him when he considered it. There were the bookshelves, filled with enough books to keep him busy for several months to come, even reading at the accelerated speed that his vampire nature allowed. There were the shelves of music and movies, too, favorites that he enjoyed over and over, and the new ones he'd not yet grown tired of. There was his computer, complete with all the accouterments, and a telephone of his own, too. Louis had gotten him a desk, a replica of the one in his own office but smaller so to fit François's smaller stature; right now, it was nearly buried beneath a stack of research books, an annoying reminder of an assignment that he'd been trying to ignore for several nights. There was the dressing room, filled with clean, new clothes, and a pair of armoires, one filled with various toys and games, and the other concealing the television, video player, and stereo that Louis had given him that first night they'd come here.

This was his room; his, François de Pointe du Lac. He never got tired of hearing the sound of that name. He still could not believe that Louis had gone to the trouble of adopting him, legally and all; the night that Louis had taken him aside, and had showed him the papers, François had broken down in tears. Here was irrefutable proof that his old life of fear and neglect was forever gone, replaced with an existence that still seemed too marvelous to be real.

He loved his life now.

With another stretch, he turned over and reached for the bedside lamp, switching it on and sitting up. He had a good half hour, he knew, before Louis would come for him, time enough to wash and dress and make himself presentable. He still found it strange, that he awakened at the same time as Louis now. It had happened gradually, over the first few months, he'd awakened earlier and earlier, until he settled at about the same time as the elder vampire. He wondered how it was possible, him being so much younger, and it had worried him, some. Louis, however, had assured him that it was understandable; he had Lestat's stronger blood, and Lestat had the ancient blood of Akasha, so that made him very strong for his age. So, he had stopped worrying about it, and enjoyed the extra time they had to spend together.

It was a good thing, too. Now that Lestat had lapsed into a near catatonic state, not speaking, not moving, Louis needed François just as much as he needed his father. Often, if François didn't insist on going out together, he knew that Louis didn't hunt at all. He'd make little excuses, of course, that he'd step out once François was ensconced in the schoolroom, or that he'd take a break later and hunt, but François didn't believe him. He had eyes, after all; he could see, the next night, how drawn and pale and cold Louis was. So, they went out together every evening, and although they separated for the actual kill, François checked to see if Louis had fed. Louis had protested at first, but soon realized that his son was every bit as stubborn as he was.

François chuckled at the memory, and hopped off the bed, running his hands along the shiny paint. He never got tired of looking at that bed. It was glaringly out of place among the other furnishings, the heavy carved oak and rich velvets; a stock car, nearly life-sized, gaudily painted and complete with appropriate decals and logos. He knew it was a bit ridiculous, this child's bed, obviously intended for someone much younger than his seventeen years, but he loved it. He'd loved it from the minute he saw it in a catalogue, and of course, Louis had gotten it for him. He'd received much good-natured ribbing about his "car" from the more mature members of the coven, but he didn't care. It was a comfortable bed, despite the unorthodox appearance, and since he'd been smallish for his age when he was given the Dark Gift, he had no concerns that he would ever outgrow it.

He had a quick wash, and stepped into his dressing room, pulling on jeans and a shirt, sliding his wallet into one pocket, and also remembering to tuck a clean handkerchief into another. He ran a comb through his hair, deciding against trimming it tonight; he was in the mood to be a bit scruffy. On a whim, he searched the bank of clothes until he found a loose, dark vest. He threw it on, shoved his feet into a pair of sneakers, and grabbed his favorite Saints cap, then was out the door and on his way downstairs, his feet pounding down the old steps.

He jumped the last three steps, landing with a satisfyingly loud thump on the hardwood floor. He immediately ran to the back courtyard, to find Mojo. Stepping outside, he saw that Mojo was not on his leash, he was nowhere to be found.

"Why would Louis bring him inside already? It doesn't look like rain," he mused aloud, looking at the twilight sky. Still curious, he returned inside, and made his way to the sitting room. As a rule, the family tended to gather there at the start of the evening, anyone who was in residence; it was a pleasant way to make arrangements for watching Lestat, without making it seem like anything out of the ordinary. But when François stepped inside the paneled room, there was no one there.

"Now, this is weird," he said aloud. "Everyone can't be gone already." He dropped into one of the heavy, leather covered armchairs, and made himself very still. He extended his vampiric hearing, straining his ears to try to locate everyone else.

Ah. There it was. He heard heartbeats, very faint, coming from somewhere. He followed the sound to the old chapel, and paused at the door. He hadn't been inside since that first night he'd come here, and Lestat had reacted so violently to him. For that matter, he hadn't actually seen Lestat since that time; Louis had been adamant about François keeping his distance, and François had been only too happy to comply. Despite the assurances of Louis, and the others, Lestat still scared the hell out of him. All that power, and that temper, and that infamous unpredictability - when combined with François's own vivid imagination, he was certain that Lestat would probably incinerate him on sight.

Right now, however, Lestat still lay on the chapel floor, as he had that first night, only of course now, he wasn't raving. In fact, he wasn't doing much of anything, judging from what François had seen, via Daniel. He lay on the floor of the chapel, silent, unmoving, looking for all the world like a statue François had once seen of a martyred saint - who was it, Felicity? Cecilia? One of those ancient Roman martyrs, anyway.

François hesitated, his hand on the door handle. He could hear voices now, Louis, Armand, Marius, Daniel and David, the usual crowd. He could hear Mojo, panting, whining the way he did when he wanted to be petted.

And another voice. François's heart thudded in his chest. He knew that voice, he'd heard it only briefly, but he knew it. Lestat was awake. Awake, and speaking in a normal tone.

"Oh, hell," François muttered, under his breath. A lump formed in his throat, and he fought back the tears. His hands shook. His knees felt weak. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and tried to pull himself together. He counted to twenty, first in English, then in French, then in Latin. He recited lyrics to himself, he chanted a mantra. In a matter of moments, he was calm again. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve, only afterwards remembering his handkerchief.

"Okay, that's enough of that," he said, squaring his shoulders. "Remember who you are. You're François de Pointe du Lac. You're Louis's child, he loves you. He loved you enough to adopt you, when he didn't have to do that. You belong here, as much as Lestat does."

He took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Lestat sat on one of the gilt chairs, one arm thrown casually over the back, the other hand busy scratching Mojo's ears. Louis sat beside him, looking more relaxed than François had seen in a long time. Daniel and Armand stood off to one side, talking quietly, Armand glancing at Lestat periodically. Marius stood beside Lestat, deep in conversation with him, while David stood near the windows, watching everyone in the room in his quiet, studious, almost sly way.

François slipped inside, and stood in the shadows of the entry way. Mojo noticed him, of course, and came running over to greet him. He knelt, and buried his face in the dog's neck, feeling the soft fur against his cheek. "Mojo, I promise, I won't leave you, no matter what," he whispered. He stood again, and took another deep breath, and walked over to where the others waited.

"Good evening, Louis," he said, leaning over to kiss Louis's cheek. "I didn't know where everyone was. I know I'm not supposed to be in here, but . . . " He let his voice trail off.

Louis stood, and embraced him warmly. He'd been weeping, François noticed, but wasn't now, and seemed in very good spirits nonetheless. "François, cher, never mind about that. I'm sorry I wasn't able to wait for you tonight, but as you can see, I was called down here."

"I see," François replied, and looked from Louis to Lestat, then back. "Is everything alright now? I mean," he swallowed once, hard, forcing his voice to not crack with fear. "Maybe I should leave, I need to hunt." He turned to leave, and felt a hand on his arm.

"I'm not that frightening, am I?" Lestat asked, his voice surprisingly gentle. François turned around, and forced himself to meet the sapphire eyes. "I don't mean to frighten you, really, I don't."

"I'm not scared," François lied. He tried, unobtrusively, to pull away from Lestat, but the marble hand on his arm was unmoving. He gave up, and stood very still. He hoped that Lestat could not hear his heart pounding in his chest. "I'm not afraid of you, Lestat."

"Ah, but you're lying to me now," Lestat laughed. "That's not very polite, you know."

"Lestat, you are deliberately trying to frighten him," Louis scolded. "François, don't worry, he won't hurt you. I won't let him."

"No, " Marius added, emphatically. "We won't. Lestat, behave yourself."

"Oh, stop your worrying, both of you," Lestat replied, grimacing. "François, relax. You're perfectly safe here, all your bodyguards," he gestured to the others, "will make sure I behave myself. Now, sit down. I'd like to talk to you." He patted the chair beside him, and smiled, just showing his fangs. It was a genuine smile, with no trace of rancor or threat, and for the first time, François relaxed a bit. With a final look to Louis, who nodded and also smiled, he sat down.

"So," Lestat said, tilting his head and gazing at François. "You are François, about whom Louis talks endlessly."

"Lestat, that's hardly -"

"Hush, Louis. You'll have your turn, later." He turned back to François. "I think we have some things to talk about, you and I. You have questions, no doubt. I know I do."

"I guess so," François said, shrugging. "I mean, I know what I am, I know how to survive." He glanced at Louis, who smiled encouragingly. "What else is there?"

"There is a great deal else, boy," Lestat said. "I know. I know you want to ask me things. 'Why did I make you?' for one thing." He leaned closer. "Don't tell me you don't want to know that."

"Maybe," François admitted. "I am what I am, now, though, so why does that matter?" He wasn't sure he wanted to know that, to be honest. But he didn't want Lestat to know that. Not just yet, anyway.

"Oh, no, not another one," Lestat groaned, and rolled his eyes. "Louis, you didn't tell me you'd already poisoned the child's mind." He looked back to François. "I do remember it now, you know. I didn't for a long time, but I do now."

"I hear you," François said, smiling slightly. "I had Swiss cheese for a memory, too, for awhile."

Lestat laughed. "That's a good way to put it. Yes, Swiss cheese. I like that." He laughed again, and then looked sharply at François. "You haven't hunted yet, have you? No, of course not," he didn't wait for an answer, but went on. "You can't have hunted, you just awoke, didn't you? Well, that's settled then." He rose to his feet, and patted François on the shoulder. "Come along, then. You'll hunt with me, tonight. I want to see if you've been properly taught."

"Lestat, I don't think that's a very good idea," Louis protested, also rising. "François is - is -"

"Is what, Louis?" Lestat demanded, crossing his arms. "Is not hungry? I doubt that. He's young, and he's just awoken, I'm sure he's ravenous."

"That's not what I meant," Louis began, but Lestat put a hand to his mouth, silencing him.

"Now, Louis, don't be so over protective."

"He has good cause to be," Armand said, walking over, Daniel right behind him. "You are up to something, Lestat. We know you too well. What is your game?"

"I have no game, Armand," Lestat said, gazing on him with a warm, bittersweet expression. "I only want to get to know him, ask him some questions without an audience hovering around me."

"We only wish to protect François," Marius said, mildly. "You are acting entirely out of character, Lestat. We know you, we know how your mind works."

"But that's just it," Lestat said, his eyes narrowing and a smile twitching at his lips. "I haven't been in my mind for some time, I'm out of practice. Maybe," he stepped closer to Marius, grinning widely, showing his fangs to their full glory. "Maybe, I've become a saint. You never know."

"That'll be the day," Daniel muttered. He'd never held any animosity for Lestat, despite the blond vampire's past with Armand. But, he had grown very fond of François in the past two years, and felt a bit protective of him. "You always have some kind of agenda, 'Stat. We just want to make sure Frankie isn't part of it."

"Daniel, you cut me to the quick," Lestat said, his hand over his heart. "Really, all of you, this is beginning to hurt my feelings. I may weep, I really may. I'm still very weak, you know."

"Lestat, don't be so melodramatic," David spoke up, and walked over to join them. "We have legitimate concerns."

"What the hell do you think I'm going to do?" Lestat demanded, throwing his arms in the air.

"That's just it, Lestat," Marius said, quietly, putting a hand on his arm. "We never know what you're going to do. And we want to protect François. That's all."

"Lestat is not going to harm François," Louis said, quietly but with a firmness that brooked no denial. He stepped beside François, and put his arms on the boy's shoulders, pulling him close. "François knows I won't allow that." He looked at Lestat, his emerald gaze intense and unwavering. "Lestat knows this. Don't you, Lestat?"

"Don't be an ass, Louis," Lestat replied. But he didn't break the gaze, either.

"I'm not afraid," François said, speaking up. "I'll go with you, Lestat. I'll hunt with you."

"You don't have to do this, you know," Armand said, reaching out and running the back of his hand down François's cheek. "Don't let him pressure you into this."

"I'm really not afraid, Armand," François said, taking his hand and squeezing it. Silently, he added, "But could you stay kind of close?"

"Of course, Caro," Armand replied, then turned to his fledgling. "Daniel, I think perhaps it would be a good idea if we, too, hunted soon. Don't you think so?"

"Yeah," Daniel nodded knowingly. "I think that's a great idea."

"Lestat," Marius said, glancing at Armand and the younger fledglings. "If François is willing to go with you, we will not stop you. But I will have you know this." He leaned close, speaking softly, but very clearly. "You will not be alone with the boy. One of us will monitor everything. Do you understand?"

Lestat looked into his eyes for a long moment, and then turned away. "Fine." He threw a hand in the air, dismissing the whole matter. "Whatever you want to do. I'm not going to harm the boy, regardless of what you all think." He turned back to Louis, and abruptly took him in his arms. "Louis, I promise you, I will not harm your child. Now, kiss me, and let me go."

Louis blushed, but didn't push his maker away. "Very well, Lestat. Just don't frighten him. He's not used to you, he doesn't understand your . . . sense of humor." He waited until Lestat nodded, and then kissed him, and pulled away. "François?" he said softly.

"Yes, Louis?" François turned away from Armand and Daniel.

"You be a good boy, alright?" Louis smiled at him, and held out his hand. François was at his side in a moment, and Louis embraced him warmly. "You'll be home soon, and we'll talk more then, you and I. Alright?"

"Yes, Louis," François said, standing on tip toe to kiss Louis on both cheeks. "You have to hunt as well, you know. No cheating."

"I promise," Louis smiled. "No cheating."

"If you two are quite finished," Lestat was at the door of the chapel, leaning against the jamb. "I haven't fed in quite a long time. I'm feeling a bit peckish. Could we go?"

"Sorry," François called, and gave Louis another quick embrace. Then, he joined Lestat at the door. "Okay, Lestat. I'm ready whenever you are."

Chapter Twenty-five

François followed Lestat out the great front door, his heart thudding in his chest so fiercely that he was sure everyone within a two mile radius could hear it. If Lestat heard it, however, he made no indication. In fact, he said nothing at all for several minutes, and then only an admonition to François to watch his step over some muddy ground.

François stole peeks at Lestat, wondering if this laconic creature could be the same vampire who'd written so eloquently - and so much - in those three books he'd read. He certainly was every bit as good looking as he'd described himself, especially now that his face wasn't contorted with madness or whatever it was. François could easily understand how he had mistaken Lestat for an angel; all he needed was a pair of wings and a halo.

If only he had a reputation equally as angelic. François knew that he was under constant preternatural surveillance; Armand, David, and Marius were all a warm, if unobtrusive, presence in the back of his consciousness. It gave him some comfort, knowing that they were there. Lestat had given his word that he would not harm him, but François had no way of knowing how trustworthy he really was.

"I meant what I said back there," Lestat said, almost as if he'd been able to read François's thoughts. "I won't harm you, I really won't. You have no reason to be afraid of me."

François started at that, and Lestat laughed.

"That's what you keep saying," François said, careful to keep his tone neutral.

"But you don't believe me, is that it?"

"Whatever," François said, shrugging.

"Well, you can take my word for it."

They stopped walking, and stood in the halo of light from a street lamp. Lestat reached over to touch François's shoulder; and the boy flinched just a bit, his eyes wide with the badly concealed fright. Lestat had seen that look in the eyes of the deer and rabbits he'd hunted as a mortal, and later of course in certain mortals he'd stalked. Lestat half expected him to bolt, make a run back to St. Elizabeth's; instead, he held his ground. Facing down his wolves, Lestat thought to himself bemusedly. And he's not even armed.

He was impressed; the kid had guts. He smiled with genuine warmth. He could learn to like this boy, he thought.

"You're not at all what I expected, you know," he said, patting François on the shoulder.

"What did you expect?" François asked, not flinching this time but not breaking eye contact, either. It seemed that he relaxed, just the slightest bit.

"Some sort of miniature Louis, I suppose," Lestat replied, thoughtfully. "He was forever telling me how you're quiet and studious, like he is."

"Yeah, you right," François said, lapsing back into the patois of his mortal life. "But you know, I'm not exactly like him. Oh, I try to be as much like him as I can, because I want to make him feel good, you know? I mean, he's my father, and I'm very grateful to him for everything he's done for me. I mean, geez, he adopted me and everything. I love him, a whole lot, you know."

"Louis told me about his plan to adopt you, although God knows why he went to the trouble," Lestat said, secretly relieved that Louis's affections were reciprocated. He'd had his doubts, but the boy's devotion was obvious. Still, it wouldn't hurt to test just how deep those feelings went; Claudia had been quite devoted, too. Lestat would not allow Louis to be hurt that way again. Better to test the boy now, and get any deceit out in the open. "He was quite enthused about it, you have no idea how tired I got of listening to him talk about it."

"I'm sure it was quite an ordeal for you," François muttered, rolling his eyes.

Lestat looked at him for a moment, equal parts stunned and amused at the boy's insolence; it was something he himself might have said, in similar circumstances. Still, he wanted to sound out the boy, so he decided to push a bit further. "Ah, but that's Louis for you," he said, carefully gauging the amount of sarcasm in his voice. "He gets some stupid idea in his head, and you can't put him off it."

"It wasn't a stupid idea!" François said, his earlier trepidation evaporating; in its place was a sudden, intensely defensive and utterly foolhardy anger. "You got no room to talk! At least he doesn't go off looking for ways to fuck up other people's lives just for the fun of it!"

"Such language!" Lestat feigned shock, hands over his ears. "My, my. I wonder what Louis would think if he knew his precious little fledgling had such a gutter mouth?" He waited to see what François would do. Would he react as Louis had at similar taunts, and fling himself at Lestat, arms flailing and feet kicking? Would he turn and run, choosing retreat over confrontation? Would he break down in tears? Just what was this child made of? Lestat couldn't wait to find out.

François turned his back on Lestat, and the elder vampire thought for certain that flight would be his choice. But François did not flee; instead, he stood quietly, clenching and unclenching his fists, breathing slowly and deeply. After a moment, his breathing returned to normal, and the hands stopped clenching, and slipped into his pockets.

"But I'm not his, am I?" he said softly.

"What?" Lestat asked. Whatever he'd expected the boy to say, that had not been it.

François turned around to again face Lestat. "I'm not Louis's fledgling, am I?" His voice was calm, normal, as if he'd not just been seething with anger. He might as well have been discussing the weather, or the night's television listings. "Louis doesn't go around making new vampires left and right." He threw back his shoulders, and stared up at Lestat defiantly. "Louis is my father, yes, and I'm very proud and honored to be his son, but I am not his fledgling, Lestat. I'm yours." His eyes narrowed. "Don't you remember that? Or has your infamously faulty memory forgotten that little fact?"

"Ah, so that's how it is," Lestat said, feeling his temper spark, but refusing to give into it just yet. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest, and looked down at the boy, taking advantage of the nearly twelve inch difference in their heights. To his credit, François did not back down; if anything, he stood a bit straighter. Again, Lestat could not help but be impressed. A part of him wanted to tell the boy what a splendid example of a vampire he was, that Louis had done well by him, that he should be very proud of himself, that he, Lestat, was very proud of him.

He chose to ignore that part of himself. "Yes, to answer your question, I do remember it, more or less. As I recall, if it I hadn't been there, you'd be dead now." He watched the boy's face, to see the effect of his words. Nothing. Damn. That had to be Louis's teaching. "Tell me, François, how good is your memory? Do you remember it?"

"Yes."

Lestat waited for several moments, wondering if the boy would stand there all night silently staring at him. Finally, he gave up. "For God's sake, would you just say something!" he cried, throwing his hands into the air.

François continued to silently stare at him, his face impassive. Lestat stared back for a while, and then gave up; it was a battle of wills, and the boy had had the best of teachers.

"Fine, then," Lestat sighed. "Do whatever you want. I need to hunt." He turned to walk away. He hadn't gone more than a half a dozen steps when he was stopped.

"Do you really remember me, or was that just to make Louis feel better?" There was no accusation, no anger evident, just honest curiosity and concern and something else.

Lestat turned back to him. This was a different boy who now stood before him. Gone was the anger, the bravado, the tough guy routine, replaced with something so purely innocent, so vulnerable and utterly without guile, that it was all Lestat could do to stop himself from sweeping him into his arms and embracing him. There was something about this boy, something ineffable, that brought out every paternal emotion Lestat possessed. Was this what Louis had seen that first night? Was this what compelled him to abandon his precious anonymity and not only talk to this young stranger, but to actually take him in and care for him?

Whatever the cause, Lestat found his own anger dissipated as quickly as it had come. He walked back to stand before him. "Yes, I do. I remember you," he said, reaching out again to touch the boy's shoulder. This time, he didn't flinch at all. Somehow, that made Lestat feel better, although he couldn't say why. "It's not very clear, though, and there are a lot of gaps. But most of the salient details are there." He paused, sifting through his spotty memory. "It was in the cemetery, there were some thugs roughing you up, I was on top of that society tomb . . . " He paused again. "It gets a bit fuzzy after that," he admitted. "The rest is just, well, confused images."

"Do you - " François halted, took a deep breath, and then continued. "I mean, why did you - why did you do it? Why not just drink my blood and let me die?" He chewed nervously on his lower lip.

"You want to know why I made you." Lestat stared at him, entranced. The sight of his small, perfectly formed fangs glinting in the moonlight made this otherwise ordinary human habit seem remarkable, a surreal combination of the mundane and the preternatural. It captivated him, fascinating him like a newly born fledgling. But François was waiting for an answer, waiting and staring at him in that painfully polite, yet unforgivably demanding way that Louis did. "Why I gave you the Dark Gift? I can tell you, but you probably won't like it much."

"That's okay. I just want to know."

Lestat stared at him anew; the boy seemed prepared to accept whatever story Lestat told him. He considered whether he should just make up something plausible, something that would satisfy the boy's need for an answer without causing more questions. But he couldn't think of anything right then, and anyway, this child was too much like Louis to believe too easy an answer. Better stick to the truth then, at least, what passed for the truth; he himself wasn't entirely sure what was true and what was false anymore.

"I didn't want to see you suffer anymore," he said, simply. "I saw what they were doing, I knew you were in pain and probably dying, and I just thought I could make it better. I . . . thought you'd suffered enough." He didn't add, "And Memnoch was using you to illustrate the kind of suffering God allowed, the omnipotent apathy, to try to convince me to help him." He looked at François. "I doubt if that's what you wanted to hear, but it's the truth."

"It doesn't matter much, I guess," François shrugged. "I just kind of wondered, but it doesn't matter. Like I said before, I am what I am now, and there's not a hell of a lot to be done about it."

"No, it's a one way ticket," Lestat agreed. He looked at the boy askance. "You don't seem too upset about that."

"Why should I be?" François asked. "No point in worrying about stuff you can't change, right? Waste of time." He pulled his hands out of his pockets, and rubbed at his shoulders. "I'm getting cold, and I'm starving. Are we going to stand around here talking all night, or can we go hunt sometime soon?"

Lestat laughed. "We can go hunt."

They found a brace of victims with little difficulty. Lestat watched with fascination as François hunted with as much determination, skill, and ruthlessness as himself.

"I'm impressed," he commented, as they made their way back toward St. Elizabeth's. "You seem to know what you're doing."

"No shit, Sherlock, what was your first clue?" He rolled his eyes.

Lestat stopped in his tracks, and then burst out laughing. "What the hell does that mean?" he asked.

François looked at him for a moment, and once more anger flashed darkly in his eyes. "It means, you learn real fast how to survive when you're all by yourself." He seemed about to say something more, but then thought better of it. Slowly, the brief flare of temper evaporated. He sighed, and shook his head. "Look, it doesn't matter. Forget it, okay?"

They walked along in silence then, and Lestat thought about what François had said. Suddenly, the meaning behind the words and the anger hit home.

"My God," Lestat whispered. "You were all alone. You didn't know anything." The full impact of what he'd done hit him, then, and he was utterly appalled. This was a new low, even for him; it was quite possibly the worst thing he'd ever done. Not only had he done the Dark Trick on a child, and an unwilling one, but he had then abandoned the boy to his fate without so much as one word of advice. "Magnus at least told me what I was."

"Lucky you," François said dryly, looking away and wrapping his arms around himself. "But hey, I'm a bright kid. I figured it out in a few nights."

"A few nights!" Lestat stared at him, his eyes wide with horror. "Louis didn't tell me that!"

"I'm sure Louis wanted to spare you the gory details."

"Did he?" The sarcasm was not lost on Lestat, although he was very surprised by it. François was turning out to be less than the sweet innocent Louis had made him out to be. Much to his surprise, Lestat found that he preferred this boy to the one Louis had described.

"He's been very worried about you, you know. I guess he didn't want to lay a guilt trip on you on top of everything else."

The implied accusation was clear enough. While Lestat didn't really want to hear what the boy had suffered because of his carelessness - he knew all too well that now that he was "himself" again, the recriminations and scolding would not be far behind - he found that his curiosity was getting the better of him. He did want to know what the boy had suffered after he'd left him, if for no other reason than to fill in a few gaps in his memories of what had happened. And besides, despite the harsh words and the accusations, he found himself growing increasingly intrigued with the boy.

"I know, he's like that," Lestat said, wondering if he should change the subject, or let the boy continue at his own volition. He was terrible at reading people, always had been; hadn't that been at the root of all of his relationship problems? While he was still debating it, the problem solved itself.

"Louis is a good man, and he deserves to be treated a hell of a lot better." François whipped around to face his maker, and folded his arms across his chest. "It's about time someone made you see the consequences of your actions."

Lestat was too shocked to reply, even if he'd had the slightest clue what to say. Frankness and honesty were one thing; this went far beyond that. François raised his eyes to meet Lestat's, and despite his smaller size and youthful appearance, somehow managed to be fairly intimidating. Under other circumstances, Lestat would have found it hysterically funny - but not now.

"I didn't know what had happened to me," François said, meeting Lestat's eyes unflinchingly. "I thought it was a bad trip. I woke up in that filthy, stinking tomb where you'd bricked me in, and beat my hands bloody trying to get out."

There was a hard edge to François's voice that had not been there before, even during his previous spurts of anger; it was as if he was remaining civil by sheer strength of will power alone. It was a sensation that was all too familiar to Lestat; once again, it was very clear that manners and hunting skills were not all that he had learned from Louis.

"Then I tried to eat, and you can imagine what happened. But that wasn't the best part." He stepped closer to Lestat, and lowered his voice to a near whisper, never once breaking eye contact. Lestat wanted to look away, but he couldn't. François continued. "I bet you can guess what happened next, can't you?"

He seemed to be waiting for an answer. A horrific thought began to tickle the back of Lestat's mind, too terrible to contemplate, but still it came, forcing itself to the front of his consciousness, until he had no choice but to recognize it for fact. "My God!" he gasped. "The sun."

Chapter Twenty-six

"Yeah. The sun."

Only then did François break that intense gaze, and turn away. Lestat tried to find the words to express the feelings that washed over him, but none seemed adequate. Failing this, he began to weep; within moments, he had to sit down, right on the curb, holding his face in his hands and sobbing. "I'm sorry," he blurted out, between sobs. "I truly am sorry."

He expected to hear more recriminations, perhaps even receive some sort of physical attack, and resolved himself to take whatever François dealt out, so overwhelming were the feelings of guilt and sorrow and yes, even regret. Instead, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and felt something soft pressed into his hands. He opened his eyes, and saw that he held a white linen handkerchief. He turned to see François, squatting beside him, his face filled with concern.

"It's okay, Lestat," François said, slipping an arm around Lestat's shoulders. "It's history, forget it. It's okay, really."

"I wouldn't have left you alone if I'd been myself," Lestat said, dabbing at his eyes with the handkerchief, and trying, with mediocre success, to stop weeping.

"I know," François said. "Everybody has told me that. And you know, I did survive, and I found Louis. That makes up for everything, all of it." He smiled, then, and his face lit up.

Once again, Lestat thought he saw something of what had attracted Louis in the first place. He took a couple of deep breaths, and regained some semblance of self control. "Do you have any idea how remarkable that is?" he asked.

"No, not really," François replied, dropping down to sit beside Lestat on the curb. "He did say something about nobody ever finding him before. And I know I feel like the luckiest guy in the world, to have him care about me like he does."

Lestat had to smile. "Oh, that old story again. I will give him this, he's very good at hiding in plain sight when he wants to. But you know, he is really quite shy, when you come down to it. You must be something very special, indeed." He reached over, and ruffled François's hair.

"Stop that," François said, but there was no rancor in his voice. He ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it back. "And anyway, I think you're wrong. I think Louis is the special one."

"Oh, you're Louis's, alright," Lestat said, rolling his eyes and feigning irritation. "You've certainly got that idiotic modesty down pat."

"Yeah, but with me it's just an act," François quipped. "I've got too much of that de Lioncourt blood for real modesty."

Lestat stared at him for a moment, and then laughed. "I like you, François. Really, I do."

François blinked a few times, and then flashed him a lop-sided grin. "You ain't so bad yourself, either, I guess."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, reflecting on this mutually unexpected turn of events.

"May I ask you something, seriously?" Lestat asked suddenly. "And will you answer me honestly?"

"Uh, yeah," François answered. "I guess so. What?"

"Do you hate me for what I did?"

François was silent again for a moment. "No," he said finally. "No, I don't. Look, it's like this. Like you said, if you hadn't been there, I would've been killed anyway, and like I said, I'd never have met Louis, or Armand and Daniel, or anyone." He seemed genuinely surprised. "I don't hate you, Lestat. I won't say that I love you," he added hastily, "because I don't know you well enough. But I do like you." He took a deep breath. "And I - I'm glad you did it."

"You are?" Lestat asked, incredulous. "You really mean that?"

"Yes," François replied. "I really mean it. Thank you for giving me the Dark Gift."

Lestat found himself speechless. He'd always believed that no one could refuse the offer of immortality, but to have a fledgling actually thank him for taking his life and making him a vampire? And for it to come from Louis's protégé? This was something that he could never have imagined in his wildest dreams.

"Lestat?"

He felt a nudge, and looked down to see François peering up at him, his face serious.

"What?"

"I said, can I ask you something now?"

"Oh." Lestat ran a hand through his hair, bringing himself back to the here and now. "Yes, of course. Anything."

François bit his lip, and took a deep breath. "Uh, I was kind of wondering. All that . . . stuff that, uh, happened to you, did it, well, you know . . ." He drew his knees up, and crossed his arms over them. "Did it, you know, really happen?"

Lestat's eyes grew distant, and a shadow passed over his face. "You mean, Memnoch, heaven, hell, creation, the Crucifixion, the Veil, all of that?" His voice was very soft, and tinged with something that François couldn't readily identify, something that might have been sadness, but wasn't, exactly.

"Uh huh." He noticed that his own voice was very soft, too. "Yeah, all that stuff."

Lestat looked away into the night for a moment. "I - I honestly don't know," he sighed, finally. "I think so. I believe that it did. Yes, I believe that it did, all of it. But I can't prove it." He turned back to François. "Can you keep a secret?"

"Yes." François answered without even a moment's hesitation, and he meant it. Somehow, he knew that this was something important. "I give you my word."

Lestat leaned close to him, until their faces were only inches apart. "I think that it happened, all of it, but that somehow, it was all made right again. You know, no one knows where I was for several nights. No one can explain that, how no one, not Marius, not Armand, not even Maharet, none of them could hear me. For several nights, I disappeared off the face of the earth. Just like that." He snapped his fingers. "Even when I switched places with Raglan James, they were still able to find me. But this time, they couldn't. I was just - not - here."

François thought about this for a moment. "You know what, Lestat?" he said. "I think you're right. I mean, why the hell not? I didn't believe in vampires before you found me, but you were real all the time, right?"

"Yes," Lestat replied, hesitantly. "I don't quite follow you."

"Well," François spread his hands out in front of him. "The way I see it, it's the same thing. No one else has ever met God or the devil, so they don't know, but you do. That doesn't make it not real, it just means it's -" he stopped, searching for the right words. "It just means that you know something they don't know." He shrugged. "I guess that doesn't make much sense, huh?" He grinned sheepishly.

"It makes about as much sense as anything I've figured out," Lestat admitted.

"You want to know what else I think?" François said, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

"What?" Lestat whispered back.

"I think you just told everyone that it was all bullshit so they'd leave you alone."

Lestat stared at him for a long moment. "I think you're a very perceptive young man, François."

François shrugged, and then abruptly stretched. "It's just what I would have done," he said.

"Somehow," Lestat said, rising to his feet, "I don't doubt that for a moment." He held out his hand to François, and pulled him to his feet.

"What now?" François asked. "Where do we go from here?"

"Well, I suppose we - What on earth?" He was staring at the handkerchief that François had given him earlier. He hadn't noticed the monogram before, neatly embroidered across it in blue thread, FdPdL. "Good God, there really is no end to his foolishness, is there?"

"What?" François asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"This," Lestat held out the bit of cloth. "Sometimes your Papa forgets that this is the twentieth century."

"My what?" François stared at him. "What did you say?"

"Your Papa," Lestat replied, raising one eyebrow to indicate that he thought the answer was obvious. "Louis adopted you, didn't he?"

"Well, yeah -"

"So he's your father, isn't he?"

"I guess -"

"Surely, you don't call him some horrible modern term, do you?"

"No." François didn't feel the need to mention that he had once, and only once, called Louis "Dad;" it had not gone over well; Louis's face had taken on an expression very like that of someone hearing fingernails on a blackboard, and while he'd never said anything about it, François knew better than to try it again.

He looked at Lestat, and shook his head, emphatically. "No, I don't call him anything modern."

"Then, you must call him your Papa."

"Okay," François agreed. "I think I can do that." He frowned slightly. "But only if you think he won't mind."

"I know he won't," Lestat assured him. "And since I'm your maker, I think you should call me-"

"Lestat." François didn't give him a chance to finish. "Don't push your luck, okay?"

Lestat was about to respond, but something about the look in François's eye told him to drop it. No problem; there was time enough to work out the intricacies of their relationship. "Okay," Lestat replied. "Fair enough. Now, I think we should return, don't you?"

"Yeah," François nodded. "Louis - I mean, Papa will be worried about me. And you," he added, with a grin.

"You know how he is," Lestat said, mirroring the grin. "He's not happy unless he's got something to fret over."

"Yeah, well, I'm just relieved that you're back to normal now," François replied. "Now, with all trouble you get into he won't notice stuff I do near as much."

François laughed, and Lestat joined him. Impulsively, he pulled his youngest fledgling into a full hug, and kissed the top of his head. Much to his surprise, the boy didn't protest, but returned the embrace with genuine warmth. Yes, things were going to be alright now. He was sure of it. Yet again, he'd landed on his feet, he'd triumphed as only the Vampire Lestat could triumph.

He released the boy from the embrace, and ruffled his hair again. "Come on, François de Pointe du Lac. It's time we went home."

Fin