Following up on some ideas (dangerous things) and being unable to leave well enough alone (even more dangerous..), here
          this is. I’ve indulged the foolish impulse to meddle with the status quo where Lasciate Ogne Speranza concluded to produce
          this little horror, but it should be able to stand on its own. Happy reading, and as always, comments are welcome...

          Lev

          Spoilers: Up to MtD, maybe. And Lasciate.

          Disclaimers: I’m not even getting peanuts for working on this. Characters belong to Anne Rice, Random House and
          whoever else lays claim to them. I’m not taking part in custody battles.

          ~~~
          Who is it? I turn, faster than any mortal could, but there is no one there. And yet I feel it, the unmistakeable sense of being
          watched. It is an instinct you hone when your survival has depended on it for centuries. I am not wrong.
 

          It has been going on for some weeks now, this intermittent awareness of someone else lurking just behind me, trailing me as
          I stalk my prey or just move through the city in my nocturnal activities. I am not used to sharing the shadows.
 

          I do not feel fear, only frustration, and my next victim knows it. As I let him fall cold from my grasp, his gurgling cries still
          ringing in my ears, I sense it again, that other presence. I whirl around, hands tensed into claws, ready to face this wretch
          who has guaranteed him or herself a very painful, messy death.
 

          Nobody.
 

          I snarl at the shadows, but they are disappointingly empty.
 

          Back to the job of disposing of the body. Despite this..annoying situation, I cannot be as boorishly untidy as that. Etiquette.
          One simply does not leave one’s waste lying around, even in this circumstance. Such carelessness also provokes inquiries,
          unnecessarily predisposing one to being hunted for, if not found. An inconvenience I can do without.
 

          There now, is a thought. Am I being hunted? Who would dare? Rogue vampire, I would have suspected once, but I believe
          that breed is extinct now, exterminated by Akasha’s flaming will. Talamasca? I have yet to come into contact with them
          personally, but what have I to worry about? What are they but mere mortals dabbling in witchcraft and the mystical, with
          no concept of what they are really dealing with?
 

          But do I underestimate them? From Lestat’s accounts of them, they are a pervasive..organisation is the word for it. A
          clandestine group with complex hierarchies, history, and an unrevealed objective.
 

          It is curious, actually, that I have not encountered them before, given that they are apparently well enough aware of Marius
          and Armand to possess his triptych. Perhaps I escaped their surveillance because of the scarcity of my prolonged
          associations with mortals, or even other vampires since I took my leave of the coven.
 

          So I have had a few more encounters with other vampires of late. And I have been bored enough to seek some amusement
          from playing with my food. Have I finally “showed up on their radar”, to borrow a modern expression? Are they trying
          frantically to fill the vast gaps in their dossier “Santino”? I wonder if they do interviews.
 

          We will see how much patience I have for this game. Not much, I suspect. And when it runs out… Woe betide the poor
          would-be detective who will discover first-hand that the tales of the Vampire Santino hold only a fraction of the terror of
          the truth. I am usually kind enough to leave my victims whole and dead, like this one, but oh, what I can do with the other
          options... My apartment is not soundproofed because I enjoy singing in the shower.

Part 2

        hwarted fury. I know before I initiate the spin that I will face only an empty alleyway. There, the parallel shadows, draped
          over brick and bitumen, and I have sent only trashcans flying. This no longer holds potential for amusement, and has become
          something of an annoyance. For some nights now, I have been compelled to forsake the comfort of my apartment because I felt
          the intruder’s presence as I was about to return home to rest.
 

          I have had to reconsider the nature of this..irritant. That I can detect no fleeing mortal presence puts in doubt the initial
          suspicion that I am dealing with the Talamasca. Even a very skilled mortal cannot match the power of the Dark Gift. Unlikely.
 

          I then come to the supposition that I am loath to make; it must be another vampire, and since there are only a small number of
          us left, it must be one of those I already know.
 

          The first motive that comes to mind is Revenge. Although Marius and I were on..non-hostile terms when we last met, I have
          known it to be an uneasy peace. What passed between us was not some playground spat, to be forgotten when recess is over. He
          will never forgive me. I have no illusions about that. But the question is, could something have pushed him over the edge,
          demolished the restraints on his stifled resentment? I studied the accounts of him before we embarked on our mission of
          destruction, but I have known little of him since. He may have been a noble lord once, but such roles are transient. Games
          played to satisfy mortal sensibilities and pacify them while we feed our dark hungers. What is he now? He has recovered his
          child now, but things are not the same.
 

          Armand.. Could it be? The child I stole has long since grown up, and possibly his appetite for vengeance as well. But surely he
          must know that in my own way, I loved him. Although I made him into someone else in the process…
 

          Or does vigilante justice explain my torment? An outsider looking to pay me back on behalf of the wronged parties? Daniel
          cannot possibly have the power. How potent is Armand’s virgin blood?
 

          I cannot believe Pandora would do this, though she holds Marius dear enough to carry it out for his sake. I would like to think
          that I am well enough acquainted with her for her to spare me this. More than deceiving others, I excel at deceiving myself. A
          sullen trek through a frozen wasteland together compared with a love she waited decades of her mortal life to marry. Of course
          I would win her favour from the pillar of marble and virtue. It does not make sense for her to have waited this long before
          carrying out her punishment though.
 

          It is ridiculous, this baseless guessing. I have yet to verify anything, conclude anything. I am still on the street, still on edge. I
          must know what this is, why this is. I want it out of my life, and I will do whatever it takes to be rid of it.

Part 3

        riven to yet another hotel room by what I still know only as the unwelcome presence. Granted, I am not living in squalor
          or sub-humanly cramped conditions, but this is still very much an experience I can do without.
 

          So I resort to what I am..reluctant to do, to say the least. I ask for their help because I have no choice. I cannot be certain that
          I will get help, or if I will even be heard out, but in this circumstance, I cannot not try.
 

          Priorities, I must remind myself. Peace before pride.
 

          I lift the receiver of the telephone. Sleek white, plastic, and a throwaway lightweight. Nothing like the comfortable weight of
          the antique telephone I have in my home, but it is better than the brown monstrosity sitting at the bedside table of
          yesterday’s room.
 

          I put my misgivings on hold and dial the number listed in my address book, the number I have never used. I prefer this
          method of contact. It is less abrupt, less intrusive, and I hope it gives less away.
 

          International number. The hotel is going to charge me a small fortune for this call. I shall just have to make another one
          over the next few nights.
 

          The repetitive ring is put to an end by a click from the other side.
 

          “Hello?” Clipped British tones greet me.
 

          “David?” My voice with its accents must be as distinctive to him as his are to me, but can he place it? We are barely
          acquainted, have hardly spoken to each other on the rare occasions of the “Night Island coven” gathering, of which there
          have been perhaps two since his rebirth into darkness. “This is-“
 

          “Santino.” We simultaneously complete the identifier. He does know who I am after all. And he pronounced my name
          correctly as well.
 

          “How are you?” Lovely, his automatic politeness, in no way condescending. I expected the gruff demand of “what do you
          want”, but I like this better. The problem now is how to answer that innocent question. Words must be carefully chosen. I
          cannot sound too desperate.
 

          “Santino?”
 

          “I am well, David,” I try to cover the searching lapse quickly. “I called because there are some things I have to ask you.”
          This, instead of the truth of “I need your help”.
 

          “Go on,” he answers affably.
 

          I hesitate. Now that I have gotten this far, where do I go from here?
 

          “Has Lestat been up to any trouble lately?” Not that I really suspect him of anything, but I am taking wild stabs in the
          dark. I start at anything that remotely resembles a target.
 

          Laughter from the other end of the line. “Is he ever not up to mischief?”
 

          “I suppose it goes against all his principles,” I reply, trying to return a little of the lightness to cover up the fact that
          something is amiss. “Is he with you?”
 

          “Upstairs. Would you like to speak to him?”
 

          “No, it’s alright.” Do I think Louis capable of such a thing? No. But will I ask? I am compelled to. “Is Louis there?”
 

          “Not at the moment, but he should be back within the hour. Do you have a message for him?”
 

          “No.” I can hear him wondering where I am going with this. “Do you know where Marius is?”
 

          “Hong Kong, when I last heard.”
 

          Click.
 

          David is still on the line, but I did not need the hum of his voice for confirmation. The sound came from another source.
 

          New shadows fall across my feet. As I turn to look over my shoulder, the door swings open smoothly.
 

          “Three strikes, and you’re out.”

Part 4

        almost drop the receiver. Impossible.
 

          Well, this saves me one concern. It is definitely not the Talamasca.
 

          “At a loss, Coven Master? Don’t keep your friend waiting.”
 

          The airy gesture reaches across the room and miles of telephone cable to where David must be reclining in his own leather
          armchair in Lestat’s pleasant little refurbished Rue Royale flat, and casually dismisses him.
 

          “Coven Master”. I have not been addressed as such for a long time, but it is dripping with cool disdain rather than properly
          reverential or fearful.
 

          Words pour out of the telephone, but I cannot comprehend the sounds. Is he expressing concern? Some part of our brain
          enables us to grasp meaning beyond the cumbersome impediments of language. But now is not the time to marvel at the
          divinity of the human construct. I have the devil on my doorstep and an angel at my ear. In a manner of speaking. The angel
          will have to go.
 

          “David? I apologise for cutting this short, but I have..a visitor.” Giveaway statement. What visitors do vampires have?
          Particularly one of my insular persuasion, who does not frolic with mortals. With his enhanced hearing, he must have
          heard the voice ring through the room.
 

          He says nothing. Is he waiting for me to continue? Listening for more clues? He knows nothing yet. Although perhaps I
          wish he did, to tell me what to make of this situation.
 

          Ah, Santino, you have lost your edge.
 

          “Thank you for your help.” I can sense him wondering what I could have gained from his answers, what motive I conceal.
          Suspicion, so naturally human, is second nature to us as well.
 

          “Glad to have been of assistance,” he says finally, voice giving no hint of this.
 

          “Lestat and Louis do not need to know I called.”
 

          “Lestat likes to hear of people taking an interest in him.”
 

          To ask him again to keep this to himself will be to mark this exchange for even more attention. The uninvited guest
          patiently occupying my doorway reminds me that I do not have time to argue.
 

          “As you wish, David. Goodbye.” Was that too abrupt? I have always detested the rituals of social niceties. They make
          interactions too complex, and are the breeding grounds of resentment.
 

          With the telephone receiver back in its cradle, there is nothing else to distract me. No other excuses. I rise from the seat.
 

          “Are you going to come in?”

Part 5

          Casual saunter in, not even watching me. Enough of that over the past weeks?
 

          “You are living your life very differently now.”
 

          Am I being mocked?
 

          “What are you doing here? What are you doing..alive?”
 

          “I came for the pleasure of your company, and unfortunately, I found Death a little harder to come by.”
 

          I am tempted to offer to help, but I hold my tongue. It is too soon to antagonise him. There is much more I need to know.
 

          “Have you been following me?”
 

          A guileless shrug. “I had to know what you had become before coming to you. Such tales drifted about Europe.. That you
          had gone mad, that you deserted the Old Order, that you torched it all in some fit of vengeance. And the reasons all garbled
          by the surviving children of disorder, too long in confusion by the time I returned.”
 

          Is he going to rebuke me for dropping the proverbial ball? For letting what he worked so hard to build up and maintain
          crumble away.. The hopes, the efforts invested in me.. In all those stories, has he heard anything of the greatness I raised the
          coven to before I abandoned it? Our glorious, dark era, when all of Europe, and even those places beyond it, trembled at
          mere thoughts of the faint hiss of our breath, the rustle of our dusty black rags.. Why do I take pride in this now? It means
          nothing to either of us.
 

          “Did you try to resurrect the coven?” Of the deluge of questions coming to me, this seems the most immediately relevant, so I
          voice it first.
 

          Another shrug, this time guiltless. “Why would I?”
 

          So he had left them lost, leaderless, though he knew that without guidance, they were aimless scavengers. It briefly slipped
          my mind that he had filled his role out of a sense of duty rather than devotion.
 

          How would he have reclaimed leadership though? Who remained who would recognise him? I hope that my face is
          forgotten. Which brings me to something else I really should ask.
 

          “When did you rise?”
 

          My own speculations lead me to an estimate of perhaps a few months, just enough for him to recover himself and learn to
          find his way around this new world. With that sleep suit draped on his form, I would have to guess he has found himself
          firm footing.
 

          What brought him back? Something must always draw us, catch our attention and lure us out of Death’s embrace. It may
          be the slightest, most trivial thing. The sounds of screeching guitars. The scent of spring.
 

          A spark of realisation. Did I do it? With my decision to revisit the past, did I, in the course of it, somehow disturb his
          slumber? Did my thoughts burrow through the layers of earth, rousing him from where he should have remained buried?
          Thoughts of his name alone, the phonetic pattern that no one else would have recalled.. Rinier.
 

          “Some months ago,” he says, fingering the service catalogue on the table.
 

          So I was right. What am I to do with him, this newly awakened child cast into a world not his own?
 

          Eyes lifting from the folder, as if he can read my thoughts, he looks straight at me, and adds “This time.”
 

          “This time,” I echo, awaiting an elaboration.
 

          “This time,” he throws back. Are we playing mind games again? I have yet to find that he is capable of being
          straightforward.

Part 6

          “You rose before this,” I ask, trying for simpler answers.
 

          “A number of times.”
 

          Did I detect a slight pause before his reply? Is he being careful with his answers? Does he have some aim in mind that he is
          steering me toward?
 

          “I am not as naively lost in this as you believe.” He arches an eyebrow at me.
 

          Impossible. Centuries have passed. My powers have grown stronger. I am more in control of myself. Or was. And yet.. Can
          he read my thoughts?
 

          “No.”
 

          The whirlwind of impulses leaves me staring at his half-smile. Does he know of my mistrust already? What should I
          conceal from him? How do I conceal anything from him? I am shielding, and yet he has evaded my defences. I must pull
          myself together, marshal my fleeing thoughts better than this.
 

          It is a struggle to regain my calm, but I have had ample practice. Through this inner tumult, he watches me calmly,
          enigmatic expression unchanging.
 

          I wait for him to make the next move. The situation is obviously in his control.
 

          “I’m not reading your thoughts,” he says, after letting me torment myself in the silence. “Your expressions make things
          clear enough.”
 

          With that, he sends me hurtling in another direction. He cannot trawl my mind after all? I am not subject to his scrutiny?
          Do I believe this declaration? Or has he just said it to quiet me? How is it that he still has such power over me despite all
          else I have been through, all else I have overcome? His presence makes me uneasy, and it is not due to some male ego battle
          to establish superiority. It goes deeper than that. On a very fundamental level, I do not trust him. How can I? After
          everything he has done..
 

          He leans back in the chair, and an eerie superimposition strikes me. Seven hundred years fall away, and he is doing the
          exact same thing with the same deliberate smoothness of motion in his torchlit chamber as he receives news of the
          new..recruits. As in characteristic of us, he is unchanged in appearance, except that he is no longer dirt-smudged and in
          tatters, but deftly groomed in a manner that highlights his predatory nature. I have never seen him with anything other
          than tangled hair and ill-fitting clothes, but I am struck by how well he has taken to the look of this time.
 

          “The world has changed a great deal,” he says with a trace of lament, startling me again. Is it mere coincidence that he has
          chosen this topic, or did he take it from my mind?
 

          “The children of the night are gone,” he continues, either ignoring my disquiet or unaware of it. How do I tell? “The old
          ruins that were always place of refuge and home to some of the renegades, or the reticent ones, house only ghosts now.
          Empty and silent. Death truly has taken residence there. What has become of them all?”