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.
Foster Fledgling - Chapter Sixteen
E-Mail the Author
