Foster Fledgling
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.
Foster Fledgling - Chapter Eighteen
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