10
Everard de Landen
HE WANTED no part of this, this “Voice” telling him to burn the young ones. He wanted no part of wars or factions or covens or books about vampires. And certainly he wanted nothing to do with any entity who said solemnly and telepathically, “I am the Voice. Do as I say.”
The very idea. He had laughed!
“And why don’t you want to slaughter them?” demanded the Voice. “Have they not driven you out of Rome?”
“No, they haven’t. And I do wish you’d go away.”
Everard knew from bad experience that it was not in the vampire nature to collect in groups except for evil, and that fighting other blood drinkers was a foolish enterprise that ended only in ruin for all involved. He had long chosen to survive alone. In the hills of Tuscany not far from Siena, he kept a small refurbished villa staffed by mortals, and in the evenings the rooms were his alone. He was coldly hospitable to the immortals who now and then called on him. But this Voice wanted it to begin all over again, and he would not listen. He went into Rome or Florence to hunt because they provided the only really safe and rich hunting grounds, but he would not go into Rome to burn.
Seven hundred years ago he’d been made in France by a great vampire named Rhoshamandes who had created a line of de Landen vampires, as he called them—Benedict, Allesandra, Eleni, Eugénie, Notker, and Everard—most of which had no doubt perished over the centuries, but Everard had survived. True he’d been captured by the coven of the Children of Satan, those infamous superstitious vampires who made of their miserable existence a religion, and he’d served them, but only after he’d been tortured and starved. Sometime in the Renaissance years, he couldn’t remember precisely when, he’d been sent by the vicious little Parisian coven master Armand to the Children of Satan in Rome to find out how the coven fared. Well, the coven had been in ruins, and Santino the coven master had been living a blasphemous existence in worldly clothes and jewels flouting all the rules he’d forced on others. And Everard saw his chance. He escaped the Children of Satan, striking out on his own, remembering the things that the powerful Rhoshamandes had taught him long ago before the Children of Satan drove him from France.
Since then Everard had survived many an encounter with others more powerful than himself. He’d survived the terrible Burning when Akasha passed over the world striking down Children of Darkness everywhere without regard to character, courage, merit, or mercy.
He’d even survived a brief and insulting mention in one of the Vampire Chronicles by Marius, who’d described Everard without naming him as “gaunt and big boned” with dusty clothes and dirty lace.
Well, he could endure the “gaunt and big boned.” That was true, and he thought himself quite beautiful in spite of it, but the dusty clothes and dirty lace? It infuriated him. He kept his shoulder-length black hair and his clothes immaculate. If he ever ran into Marius again, he intended to smack his face.
But that was all foolishness really. If he played his cards right, he’d never run into Marius or anyone else, except to exchange a few kind words and then move on. The point was Everard lived with other blood drinkers at peace.
And now this inane Voice, this Voice that came right into his head, bedeviled him nightly with commands to kill and to burn and to rampage. And he could not shut this Voice out.
Finally, he’d resorted to music. Everard had started purchasing excellent systems for amplified music since the beginning of the twentieth century. Indeed the storerooms of his little villa were a veritable museum, as he hated to throw good things away. And so he had windup Victrolas, stacks of thick old black phonograph records that he had once played on them, as well as early electrical machines that had once given him “high fidelity” and “stereo” and now collected dust.
He’d moved on to compact discs, streaming, and the like and so forth, and so putting his iPhone into the little Bose dock that would amplify its music, he flooded the villa with the “Ride of the Valkyries” and prayed the Voice would go away.
No such luck. The imbecilic, bad-tempered, and childish little monster continued to invade his thoughts.
“You are not going to persuade me to burn anyone, you idiot!” Everard snarled with exasperation.
“I will punish you for this. You are young and weak and stupid,” said the Voice. “And when I do accomplish my purpose I will send an ancient one to destroy you for your disobedience.”
“Oh, stuff it up your chimney, you vain little nuisance,” said Everard. “If you are so high and mighty and capable of doing this, why are you talking to me at all? And why aren’t you blasting all the blood drinker tramps of Rome on your own?”
Who was this fool, some ancient one buried deep underground or walled up in some ruin somewhere desperately trying to control others and ultimately draw them to his prison? Well, he was doing a very bad job of it with all this incitement to war and idle threats.
“I shall make you suffer,” said the Voice, “and turn off that infernal music!”
Everard laughed. He turned the volume higher, took the iPhone out of the dock, put it in his pocket, connected the earpiece, and went out for a walk.
The Voice fumed but he could hardly hear it.
It was a lovely route he took downhill to the walled city of Siena. And how Everard loved the place, with its tiny winding medieval streets that made him feel safe, made him think of his Paris.
The Paris of today terrified him.
He even loved the bright-faced and gentle tourists who flooded Siena, pretty much enjoying what Everard enjoyed—wandering, gazing into shopwindows, and sitting in the wine bars.
Everard liked the shops and wished more were open after dark. He often sent his mortal servants down to purchase stationery for him, on which to write his occasional poems, which he then framed and hung on his walls. And he purchased scented candles and bright silk neckties.
Like many of the old ones made in the Middle Ages, he favored ornate and big-sleeved shirts, tight-fitting pants that were almost like leggings, and fancy mostly velvet coats. And these things he ordered online with his big dazzling Mac computer. But the town had fine men’s gloves, and golden cuff links and such. Lots of glittering accoutrements.
He had a lot of money, accumulated over the centuries in many ways. He wasn’t hungry. He’d fed in Florence the night before, and it had been a long slow delicious feast.
And so on this cool and mild evening, under the Tuscan stars, he was happy even though the Voice grumbled in his ear.
He entered the town with a nod to the few people he actually knew who gave him a wave as he passed—“the gaunt one with the big bones”—and followed the narrow street in the direction of the Cathedral.
Soon he came to the café he liked the most. It sold newspapers and magazines, and had a few tables set out on the street. Most of the patrons were inside tonight, as it was just a little chilly for them, but for a vampire the weather was perfect. Everard sat down, switching the music feed from Wagner to Vivaldi, whom he liked much better, and waited for the waiter to bring him his usual, a cup of hot American coffee which of course he could not and would not drink.
Years ago, he used to go to great lengths to make it appear that he ate and drank. Now he knew it was a waste of time. In a world such as this where people consumed food and drink for amusement as well as nourishment, nobody cared if he left a mug full of coffee on a café table so long as he left a generous tip. He left huge tips.
He settled back in the little iron chair which was likely made of aluminum and began to hum with the Vivaldi violin music as his eyes passed over the darkly stained old fa?ades that surrounded him, the eternal architecture of Italy that had survived so many changes, just as he had.
Quite suddenly his heart stopped.
In the café across from him, seated at an outdoor table with their backs to the tall building behind them, sat an ancient vampire and what appeared to be two ghosts.
Everard was too terrified to even take a breath. At once, he thought of the threat of the Voice.
And here sat this ancient one not fifty feet from him, the color of waxen gardenias with bright deep-set black eyes and short well-groomed snow-white hair, looking directly at Everard as if he knew him, and beside him these two ghosts, clothed in bodies of particles, though how he knew not, both staring at him too. These creatures appeared friendly. What was the chance of that?
These ghosts were magnificent. No doubt about that. Their bodies appeared wondrously solid, and appeared to be breathing. He could even hear their hearts. And they wore real clothes, these ghosts. So very clever.
But ghosts had been getting better and better at passing for human for centuries. Everard had been seeing them in one form or another ever since he was born. Few had been able to form particle bodies for themselves in those long-ago days, but now it was fairly common. He frequently glimpsed them in Rome in particular.
But of all the modern apparitions he’d seen on city streets throughout Europe, these two were absolutely the best.
One ghost, the nearest to the ancient vampire, appeared to be a man of perhaps fifty with wavy iron-gray hair and a somewhat-noble face. His bright eyes were crinkled with a friendly expression and he had an agreeable almost pretty mouth. Beside him sat the illusion of a man in his prime with short well-groomed ashen hair and gray eyes. All were neatly dressed in what anyone in this day and age would call fine and respectable clothes. The younger male ghost had a proud bearing and actually turned his head and looked about him as if he were enjoying these moments in the busy little street no matter why the trio had come here.
The vampire with the full well-groomed white hair gave a little nod to Everard, and Everard went silently crazy.
He sent the telepathic message, Well, damn you, blast me if you intend to do it. I’m too frightened to be civil. Get on with it but first, first, I demand that you tell me why.
He killed the music from the iPhone. He didn’t want to die with a soundtrack. And he fully expected to hear the Voice raging and cackling exultantly. But the Voice was not there.
“Miserable coward,” he muttered. “You order my death and decamp without even remaining here to witness it. And you wanted me to burn down the Roman Vampire Refuge in the Via Condotti. Well, you’re ugly and you’re mad.”
The ancient vampire across the way rose to his feet and gestured in a decidedly friendly manner for Everard to join them. He was not overly tall and he was very delicate of build. He took a chair from a nearby table and placed it in their circle. He waited patiently for Everard’s response.
It was as if Everard had forgotten how to walk. All his life in the Undead he’d seen vampires burned by others, seen that horrific spectacle of a living breathing creature going up in a personal inferno because some older more powerful vampire—like that contemptible, condescending Marius—had decided he or she should die. His legs were wobbling so badly as he crossed the street, he thought he would at any moment collapse. His narrow tailored leather jacket felt heavy and his boots pinched and he wondered inanely whether his blue silk tie had a stain on it, and whether the cuffs of his lavender shirt were sticking too far out of his coat sleeves.
His hands were shaking visibly as he reached to accept the hard icy hand of the old vampire. But he managed it. He managed to sit down.
The ghosts were smiling at him, and they were even more perfect than he’d thought. Yes, they breathed, they had internal organs, and yes, they were wearing real clothes. Nothing illusory about that dark worsted wool, or linen and silk. And no doubt all this superb “tissue” could vanish in a twinkling, and the costly clothes would drop to the ground on top of the empty shoes.
The old vampire placed a hand on Everard’s shoulder. He had small but long fingers and he wore two stunning gold rings. This was a traditional way vampires greeted each other, not with embraces, not with kisses, but with the placing of the hand on the shoulder. Everard remembered that from times when he had lived amongst them.
“Young one,” he said with the characteristic pomposity of the elder blood drinkers, “please, do not be afraid.” He spoke in Parisian French.
Up close the ancient one’s face was truly impressive, very fine of feature with exquisite black eyelashes and a serene smile. High cheekbones, a firm, discernible, yet narrow jaw. His skin did look like the petal of a gardenia in the moonlight, yes, and his white hair had a subtle silvery sheen. He hadn’t been Born to Darkness with that hair. Rhoshamandes, Everard’s maker, had long ago explained that when some of the ancient ones were badly burnt their hair was white forever after. Well, it was that kind of magnificent white hair.
“We know you’ve heard the Voice,” said this ancient one. “I too have heard it. Others have heard it. Are you hearing it now?”
“No,” said Everard.
“And it’s telling you to burn others, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Everard. “I have never harmed another blood drinker. Never had to. Never want to. I’ve lived in this part of Italy for almost four hundred years. I don’t go into Rome or Florence to fight with people.”
“I know,” said the ancient one. It was a pleasing voice, a gentle voice, but then all the old ones had good voices, at least as far as Everard had ever observed. What he remembered more than anything else about his maker, Rhoshamandes, was his seductive voice, and that voice luring him into the forest on the night he was Born to Darkness against his will. Everard had thought the lord in the castle was summoning him for an erotic encounter, that afterwards he’d be dismissed with a few coins if he’d managed to please, and that he would have tales of tapestry-covered walls and blazing fires and fine clothes to tell his grandchildren. Ha! He could remember Rhoshamandes talking to him as if it were last night: You are surely one of the most beautiful young men in your village!
“My name is Teskhamen,” said this ancient one who was looking at him with such mild, gracious eyes. “I come from old Egypt. I was a servant of the Mother.”
“Doesn’t everyone say that these days, since the publication of the Vampire Chronicles?” asked Everard angrily before he could stop himself. “Do any of you ever cop to having been a renegade or some clever menace who wheedled the Blood from a Gypsy blood drinker in a ragged caravan?”
The ancient one laughed out loud. But it was a good-natured laugh. “Well, I see I have indeed put you at your ease,” he said. “And that didn’t prove to be hard after all.” His face grew serious. “Do you have any idea who the Voice might be?”
“You’re asking me?” Everard scoffed. “You must have two thousand years in the Blood. Look at you.” He glared at the two ghosts. “Don’t you know who he is?” He flashed back on Teskhamen. “That little monster’s driving me crazy. I can’t shut him out.”
Teskhamen nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that, but it is possible to ignore him. It takes patience and skill, but it can be done.”
“Oh, blah, blah, blah, blah, BLAH!” said Everard. “He sticks his invisible needle through my temple. He must be in the vicinity.”
He glared again at the two ghosts. They didn’t even shiver. Sometimes ghosts did that when you glared directly at them. The apparitions shivered or quivered, but not these two.
The one who appeared to be an older man extended his ghostly hand.
Everard took it, discovering it felt entirely human and that it was warm and soft.
“Raymond Gallant,” said the ghost in English. “If you’ll allow it, I’m your friend.”
“Magnus,” said the younger male ghost. His was a marvelous face for anyone, ghost or blood drinker, or mortal, for that matter. His eyes crinkled again agreeably as he smiled and he did indeed have a particularly beautiful mouth, what people call a generous mouth, as well formed as the Apollo Belvedere. His forehead was beautiful, and his hair moving back from it in waves of ashen blond was handsome.
Those names rang a bell, but Everard couldn’t place them. Raymond Gallant. Magnus.
“I don’t think the Voice is in the vicinity,” said Teskhamen. “I think he can be anyplace that he wants to be, anywhere in the world, but it does seem he can only be in one place at a time and of course that ‘place’ is inside a blood drinker’s mind.”
“Which means what, exactly?” demanded Everard. “How’s he doing it? Who is he?”
“That is what we would like to know,” said Raymond Gallant. Again he spoke in British English.
Everard switched into English immediately. He liked the brashness of English, and he had become entirely used to it as the language of the world today. But Everard’s English was American.
“What are you, a blood drinker, doing with two ghosts?” he asked Teskhamen. “No offense intended, believe me. It’s only that I’ve never seen a blood drinker keep company with ghosts.”
“Well, we do keep company,” said the iron-haired apparition, the one who appeared to be an older man. “We have for a long time. But I assure you, we have no evil designs on you or anyone.”
“Then why are you here and asking me questions about this Voice?”
“He’s inciting violence all over the world right now,” said Teskhamen. “Young blood drinkers are being slain in small towns and cities everywhere. This happened once before but we know the cause of that massacre. We don’t know the cause of what’s going on now. And blood drinkers are being quietly annihilated in out-of-the-way places and even in their private sanctuaries without anyone taking notice.”
“Then how did you notice?” asked Everard.
“We hear things,” said the ghost named Magnus. Deep, smooth voice.
Everard nodded.
“There’s an American vampire out of New York broadcasting about it,” said Everard with a faint sneer. There was something insufferably vulgar about those words, and he was mortified suddenly to have spoken them, but at once the three beings all confirmed agreeably that they already knew.
“Benji Mahmoud,” said Teskhamen.
“He’s as addle-brained as the Voice,” said Everard. “The little numbskull thinks we’re a tribe.”
“Well, we are, aren’t we?” asked the ancient one gently. “I always thought we were. We were in olden times.”
“Well, not now,” said Everard. “Listen, this Voice thing promised to destroy me if I didn’t do its bidding. Do you think it has the power to do that? Can it do that?”
“It appears to work in a fairly simply way,” said Teskhamen. “It rouses old ones to burn others, and young ones to burn their lairs. And I suspect it depends entirely on finding gullible and susceptible servants. It seems to have no other plan.”
“Then it can rouse some gullible or susceptible one to stamp out me.”
“We’ll tell you what we can to prevent that,” said Teskhamen.
“Why would you bother?” asked Everard.
“We truly are all one tribe,” said the iron-haired ghost softly. “Human, vampire, spirit, ghost—we’re all sentient creatures bound to this planet. Why can’t we work together in the face of something like this?”
“And to what end?” asked Everard.
“To stop the Voice,” said Teskhamen with just a trace of impatience. “To prevent it from hurting others.”
“But we deserve to be hurt,” said Everard. “Don’t we?” He was surprised to hear this come out of his mouth.
“No, I don’t think that we do,” said Teskhamen. “That’s the kind of thinking that has to change. That’s the kind of thinking that will change.”
“Oh, wait, don’t tell me!” Everard declared. And in a mock-American voice he said, “ ‘We are the change that we seek’! No? Tell me you believe that, and I’m going to fall off this chair and roll into the street laughing.”
The three smiled at him, but he could sense that, polite as they were, they did not like being mocked, and he was suddenly sorry. It penetrated to him with amazing sharpness that these three had been nothing but kind and courteous and that he was behaving crossly and stupidly, wasting these moments, and for what?
“Why can’t we come together,” asked the younger male ghost, “to achieve some kind of peace for the realm we share?”
“And what realm is that?” asked Everard. “Since you’re a ghost, my friend, and I’m flesh and blood, no matter how loathsome I am?”
“I was a human being once,” said the younger ghost. “I was a blood drinker for centuries after that. And I am a ghost now. And my soul has been my soul in all three forms.”
“Blood drinker,” murmured Everard. He was marveling, studying the face of this ghost again and that generous, kindly mouth and the expressive eyes. “Magnus!” he said with a start. “Not Magnus the Alchemist.”
“Yes, that’s who I was,” replied the ghost. “And I knew you in those old times, Everard. You were made by Rhoshamandes and I was made, so to speak, by Benedict.”
Everard laughed out loud. “Methinks it was you who made Benedict all right,” he said. “Stealing the blood from him and making him the laughingstock of blood drinkers everywhere. And so you’ve become a ghost, a ghost of a blood drinker.”
“I don’t think I’m the only one in this world,” said Magnus, “but I’ve had help from my closest friends here, help in becoming what you see before you.”
“Well, it bears no resemblance to the wicked old hunchback I knew,” Everard said, but he was immediately sorry. He looked down and then up. “I regret those words,” he whispered. “I beg your pardon.”
But Magnus was smiling. “No need to be sorry. I was a frightening creature. One of the great advantages of being a ghost is that you can perfect the etheric body much more profoundly than ever you could the physical body even with the Blood. And so you see me as I had always wanted to look.”
It was shaking Everard to his bones that this was Magnus, the Magnus he’d known, yes, and the Magnus who’d made the Vampire Lestat, the fledgling who’d changed vampiric history. And yes, he could somehow see through this dazzle and gloss the Magnus that he had known, that wise and brilliant alchemist who’d begged Rhoshamandes so eloquently for the Blood, that healer who’d worked miracles amongst the poor, and studied the stars with a bronze telescope before ever Copernicus had become famous for it.
This was Magnus, beloved of Notker of Prüm, later brought into the Blood by Benedict quite deliberately and lovingly. Notker was alive now somewhere, of that Everard was certain. Rhoshamandes had said that Notker’s music would be heard in the snowy Alps when a thousand older blood drinkers had gone to their fiery graves.
Magnus a ghost now.
And the other? This Raymond Gallant, who had he been?
“Are you hearing the Voice now?” asked the ghost named Raymond Gallant.
“No,” Everard answered. “He went silent right before I saw you. He’s gone. I don’t know how I know, but he’s gone. I can sort of feel it when he’s aiming his magic beam at me, as if it were some kind of laser.”
He tried not to stare so much at these two. He glanced uneasily at Teskhamen.
“Has he never said anything to you about his ultimate purpose?” asked Teskhamen. “Has he offered you secrets?”
“Mostly threats,” replied Everard. “He’s so childish, so stupid. He tries to prey on my fears, my … my being so very alone of late. But I can see through his tricks. He speaks of unendurable pain, and near blindness, and that he is powerless to so much as lift a finger.”
“He said those things? Used those words?” asked Raymond Gallant.
“Yes, he says he’s helpless on his own, that he requires my loving assistance, my devotion, my trust in him. As if I should trust him! He says I have powers in me of which I don’t dream, and he talks of blood drinkers hiding in Italy and wants me to burn them out. He’s merciless.”
“But you don’t listen to him.”
“Why should I?” asked Everard. “And what can I do if this is one of the ancient ones and if he wants to destroy me? What can I do!”
“You do know how to hide from the Fire Gift, don’t you?” asked Teskhamen. “Your best way is to simply escape. Travel away from the spot as fast as you can, using the Cloud Gift if at all possible to simply get beyond the attacker’s range. If you can go swiftly down into the earth, that’s even better, because it cannot penetrate the earth. Whoever sends the Fire Gift has to see the victim, see the building, see the target. That’s the only way it can work.”
Everard was no expert on any of this. He was more grateful for this clarifying advice, frankly, than he could say. He had to admit Benji Mahmoud had been saying something similar, but he’d never trusted him any more than humans trusted televangelists.
And Everard had never been formally taught a thing about the higher gifts. He was not going to confess that all he knew of them he’d learned from the Vampire Chronicles, and that he’d been practicing his skills, if that’s what they were, based on descriptions written by disreputable vampire authors like Lestat de Lioncourt and Marius de Romanus and so forth and so on. He let these thoughts roll where they might. Curse the Children of Satan and their rules and injunctions. They hadn’t cared anything for vampiric gifts!
Now the great Rhoshamandes, his maker, that was another matter. What tales he’d told of riding the winds, and, oh, the spells he could cast, the visions he could arouse for Everard and others. Rhoshamandes in his burgundy-colored robes, fingers laden with rings, playing chess at his great inlaid-marble chessboard with those kings and queens and knights and bishops and pawns carved especially for him, to whom he’d given various names. Chess was his favorite game, he declared, because it pitted Mind Gift against Mind Gift.
“Yes,” Magnus whispered. “I remember him so very well. And I often sat at that chessboard with him.”
Everard would have blushed had he been human, to have had his thoughts read that easily, those images examined. But he didn’t mind. He was too fascinated with this ghost of Magnus. So many questions came to his mind: “Can you eat, can you drink, can you make love, can you taste?”
“No,” said Magnus, “but I can see very well, and I can feel hot and cold in a pleasurable way, and I have a sense of being here, being alive, occupying this space, being tangible, and having a tempo in time.…”
Ah, this was Magnus all right, this was Magnus talking, who could talk the night away with Rhoshamandes. How Rhoshamandes had loved him and respected him, throwing a veil of protection about him and forbidding all blood drinkers to harm him. Even after he’d stolen the Blood, Rhoshamandes had not hunted him down and sought to kill him.
“He has a great fascination for me,” Rhoshamandes had said. “And Benedict is to blame for allowing it to happen. But let’s see what he will do with the Blood, poor humpbacked and clever Magnus.”
“Be very careful, Everard,” said Magnus. He looked for all the world like a man of forty-five, or perhaps fifty in these healthy times of plenty and rampant good health, with glowing skin and hair truly the color of ashes. Why hadn’t he made himself flamingly beautiful like the flashy Lestat with that leonine golden mane, and those violet-blue eyes? But as he gazed at Magnus, this seemed a stupid question. This was a splendid being here before him. They were both splendid, these ghosts. And they could change, couldn’t they, anytime they wanted to.
“Yes, but we try not to do that,” said Raymond. “We seek to perfect what we are, not to constantly alter it. We seek to find something that is a true expression of our soul with which to shape what makes up our form. But there’s no need for you to trouble yourself over these things.”
“Stay safe,” said Teskhamen. “Be clever. And if this Voice provokes a gathering of the tribe, consider coming. We cannot stay the same in these times, because nothing now can stay the same, and we must needs meet the challenges as humans are meeting them.”
Teskhamen took a small white card out of his pocket and handed it to Everard. A gentleman’s calling card. On it was written the name TESKHAMEN in golden script, and beneath it was an e-mail very simple to memorize, actually, and a phone number.
“We’re going now, friend,” said Teskhamen. “But if you need us, contact us. We wish you luck.”
“I think I’ll survive this, same way I survived world wars and the earlier massacre, but thank you. And thank you for putting up with my … my disagreeable behavior.”
“It’s been a pleasure,” said Teskhamen. “One last bit of advice. Keep listening to Benji. If there is to be a coming together, Benji will give the word.”
“Hmmm.” Everard shook his head. “A coming together? Like last time? A big showdown to stop the wicked Voice the way the wicked Queen was stopped? How do you have a showdown with a Voice that can pop into the head of anyone at any time and can hear anything perhaps that I’m saying … or even thinking?”
“That’s a good question,” said Raymond Gallant. “It all depends, doesn’t it, on what the Voice really wants.”
“And what is that,” said Everard, “other than to turn us against one another?”
The three creatures rose to their feet. Teskhamen extended his hand.
Everard also rose with obvious respect. “You make me think of better times, you really do,” he murmured in spite of himself. Suddenly he was furious at himself for becoming so emotional.
“And what times were those?” asked Teskhamen kindly.
“When Rhoshamandes was still … Oh, I don’t know. Hundreds of years ago before the Children of Satan destroyed his castle. Destroyed everything. That’s what happens when blood drinkers unite, band together, believe things. We’re evil. We’ve always been.”
The three looked at him calmly without making the slightest response. Nothing in their expressions or demeanor suggested agreement. Or evil.
“And you have no idea at all where Rhoshamandes might be, do you?” asked Raymond Gallant.
“None,” said Everard. And then he found himself confessing, “If I did, why, I’d go to him.” Such strange words coming from him, who had such complete disregard for other blood drinkers, who scorned covens, havens, vampire hostels, and gangs. But he knew he had confessed the truth, that he’d travel the Earth to find Rhoshamandes. Actually, he never traveled anywhere much. But it was good to think he’d travel the Earth to find his old master. “He’s long gone, dead, burned up, immolated, whatever!” he said sharply. “Has to be.”
“You think?” asked Raymond Gallant.
A sudden pain tugged at Everard’s heart. He has to be dead or he would have found me by now, gathered me to him, forgiven me.…
Rhoshamandes had abandoned the wild thick forests of France and Germany in the 1300s. Weary of battling the ever-increasing Children of Satan who had cannibalized his own fledglings to his eternal misery, he had simply left the ancient battlefield.
But Everard had never known the true story. The Children of Satan had had Everard by then, dragging him out nightly to scourge the innocent of Paris. They bragged that they’d driven the last great blasphemer from French land. Had they really? Magnus they had not feared as they had Rhoshamandes.
They told tales of Rhoshamandes’s castle and lands burnt in the daylight hours by rabid monks and nuns driven to do it by the nightly whispers of Children of Satan pretending to be angels. Ah, those times. Those superstitious times when vampires could speak to gullible religious minds and play infernal games with them.
“Well, I can tell you this,” Everard said, denying the pain. “If he’s slumbering underground somewhere under some Merovingian ruin, the Voice won’t get anywhere with him, no matter what state he’s in. He’s too wise for that, too powerful. He was … he was magnificent.”
Sharp grinding memory. Everard going out in filthy rags with the Children of Satan to harry the Parisian poor, slinking into filthy hovels to feed on the innocent, and somewhere near the voice of Rhoshamandes calling: “Everard, break free. Come back to me!”
“Goodbye, Everard,” said Teskhamen, and the three moved off together.
For a long moment, Everard watched them as they walked down the narrow street and disappeared around the corner.
Not a single human being would ever guess what they were. Their human poise was simply superb.
He leaned his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. Was he glad they were gone? Or was he sorry?
Did he want to run after them and say, Don’t leave me here! Take me with you. I want to stay with you.
Yes and no.
He did want to do that, but he simply could not do it. He didn’t know how to do that, how to speak that honestly to them, how to implore them for their help or their companionship. He didn’t know how to be anything but what he was.
Suddenly the Voice was there. He heard it sigh.
“They can’t protect you from me,” said the Voice. “They’re devils.”
“They didn’t seem like devils to me,” said Everard testily.
“They and their laughable Talamasca!” said the Voice. “Be damned!”
“Talamasca,” whispered Everard in amazement. “Of course. Talamasca! That’s where I heard that name Raymond Gallant before. Why, that man was known to Marius. That man …” Died about five hundred years ago.
It was amusing to him suddenly, very amusing. He’d always known about the Talamasca, the old Order of scholars of the supernatural. Rhoshamandes had warned him about them, and their old monastery in southern France. Yet his maker had urged him to respect them and leave them alone. He’d loved them the way he’d loved Magnus.
“For they are gentle scholars,” he’d said in that deep seductive voice of his, “and they mean us no harm. Ah, but it is astonishing. They know as much of us as the Church of Rome, but they do not condemn us and they mean us no harm. They want to learn about us. Imagine it. They study us, and when have we ever studied ourselves? I rather like them for that. I do. You must never hurt them.”
And so their membership included humans and ghosts, did it? And blood drinkers. Raymond Gallant, Teskhamen, and Magnus.
Hmmm. Did all of their human members become ghosts when they died? Well, that would never have worked, surely. There’d be thousands of spectral members floating around by now. That was absurd.
No. It was fairly easy to figure that it was a rare occurrence to recruit a dying member from their ranks to remain with them “in spirit” simply because it was so very rare for any dying person’s spirit to remain behind. Oh, the planet had lots of ghosts, but they were an infinitesimal remnant of all those poor slobs who’d been born and died since the dawn of creation. But how blessed must be the ghosts inducted into the Talamasca with book-educated sorcerers to help them learn to materialize? That’s what Magnus had been driving at. No wonder they’d been so good at it, those two, with their warm ruddy complexions and their shining moist lips.
But the vampire, Teskhamen. How in the world did he become part of them?
Everard ran a quick scan in his mind of what he’d learned about the Talamasca—from Lestat’s writings, and Marius’s memoir. Dedicated, honorable, committed to truth without religious suspicion, censure, or judgment, yes. If their ranks included vampires, the vast majority of the rank and file certainly had never guessed it.
Then there was the great mystery of who had founded the Talamasca. If it turned out to be a vampire, a mere blood drinker, such as Teskhamen, old as he was, well, that would be a crushing disappointment to the others, wouldn’t it?