Foster Fledgling
Chapter Three
They walked along the banquette, heading away from the tourist-infested parts of the Vieux Carré, through the quieter sections and beyond, where Louis preferred to hunt.
"Listen to the night, François," Louis said, softly. "Listen to the sounds of the people inside," he gestured to the row of shotgun houses as they passed. They stopped before one house, and Louis put a hand on the boy's shoulder, stopping him. "Can you hear what they're saying?"
"Um," François cocked his head to one side, his expression intense. "There's a woman saying 'If you don't give me that remote, you're gonna pay,' and a man laughing, I think." He looked up at Louis in surprise. "Hey, how can I hear that from out here?"
"It's your new senses, p'tit," Louis smiled. "You are capable of many things now, things that you couldn't do before. Now, come along, you've eavesdropped enough. It isn't polite, and we don't want to attract attention."
"Wow," François looked back at the house, and smiled himself. "That's so cool."
"I expect you'll discover that you can do many more 'cool' things," Louis said, taking his arm to pull him along. "Right now, though, I think a more practical lesson might be more appropriate. Now, we re going to run, and you must keep up with me."
In an instant, Louis was gone, and François looked up to see him standing perhaps a quarter mile away, waving him to follow. Taking a deep breath, François ran as fast as he could, and before he could even exhale, he ran straight into Louis, who caught him easily.
"There you go," Louis laughed. "You see?"
"Yeah!" François was grinning ear to ear now. "That's so awesome! It's like, the Flash or Impulse, or something!"
"It is amazing," Louis agreed. "Now, this time, I want you to stay beside me. Do you think you can do that?"
"Oh, yeah!" François nodded enthusiastically.
Louis sprinted off, and in a heartbeat, François was at his side. The foot traffic was very light at this time of night, and the few mortals they passed took nor more notice of them than a shadow. Cars and buildings passed by in a blur, and in a few minutes, Louis reached out, and tapped François on the shoulder. They stopped, and François looked around to find they were at City Park.
"How do you feel now?" Louis asked. François, panting a little, just grinned at him. "Good," Louis said, slapping him lightly on the back. "I'm glad you understand. There is just one more thing I want to show you." He led François to the corner, where a newspaper box stood. "Grasp the handle, here, and twist it off," he demonstrated with a quick motion of his wrist.
François hesitated for a moment. "Louis, I can't -"
"Yes, you can," Louis insisted. "You are stronger than you know, François. This is what I wanted you to understand, this is what I have been trying to teach you tonight. You have immense power, incredible power, unlike anything you have ever known. Now, please, do as I asked." He smiled warmly at François, and nodded.
François paused, then nodded in return. He wrapped his fingers around the handle, and took a deep breath. He twisted his hand, and with a brief, tooth-gritting screech, the handle broke free. He stared down at the metal loop in his hand, then looked up at Louis, incredulous.
"You see?" Louis said, pointing to the wreckage of the paper box. "You did that. I bet you didn't even believe me, did you?" François shook his head sheepishly. "It's alright, I didn't expect you would." He relieved François of the handle, and tossed it away.
"I'm sorry, Louis," François said, following him into the park proper. "I was afraid it would hurt my hand. I mean, I knew you wouldn't tell me to do something to hurt myself, but I just - well, I was just afraid." He looked at the ground. "I guess you think I'm pretty stupid, huh?"
"François!" Louis said, sternly. "I don't ever want to hear you say that again!" He put his hands on François's shoulders, and pulled him around to face him. "Of course I don't think that! Mon dieu, what an idea!" François looked about to burst into tears, and belatedly, Louis realized that he had frightened him. Gently, he pulled him close into an embrace. After a moment, François returned the affection just as warmly, wrapping his arms tightly around Louis.
"Hush, now," Louis said, softly, as François snuffled into his shoulder. "I only want you to realize, you have nothing to be ashamed of, you are a very intelligent, clever young man. You figured out what had happened to you, didn't you, without anyone to tell you?" The boy shrugged, and nodded. "You learned to hunt, to hide from the dawn. No one taught you that, you learned it on your own."
"Yeah, I guess so," François sniffed, and nodded again.
"And do you know, I only just realized something," Louis said, turning loose of François to kneel before him. "You said you read all of Lestat's silly books, is that true?"
"Yeah," François said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "I read all of them, a couple of times."
"Do you recall, Lestat asked me how it was that none of the rogues had ever found me in my house on Divisidero Street? Do you recall that?"
"Yeah," François said, sniffing a little. "So?"
"François, you recognized me, you not only knew what I was, you knew who I was." Louis gazed at him in amazement. "You did what all those rogues couldn't do, you . . . you found me."
François was silent for a moment. "Yeah, I guess I did." He smiled at Louis. "I guess you're teaching me a lot of stuff tonight, huh?"
"Yes, I suppose so." Louis rose to his feet, and put his arm around François's shoulder, leading him into the park. "All I had planned to do was to teach you to recognize your strength, to teach you to hunt. You can, you know," Louis said, reaching into his pocket and removing a large white handkerchief. "Here, you should use this, not your coat sleeve. A gentleman doesn't use his sleeve." François took the neatly folded square, and wiped his eyes with it.
They walked along for a time, saying little, occasionally stopping to watch the wind blow through the trees or to listen to the sounds drifting in from around the city. Presently, they came upon a lone man, walking along the peripheral of a school fence. Louis pointed him out to François, and they stopped to watch him.
"You see him?" Louis said, so softly that a mortal standing next to him could not have heard. François nodded. "There is no one else around, that is of the utmost importance. First part of the lesson: no witnesses." François nodded. "Good. Now, the man." He clapped François on the shoulder. "He is the one, p'tit. Come along, and watch closely."
In an instant, Louis had sprinted across the street, François at his heels, to stop just around the corner from the man. As the man turned the corner, Louis stepped in front of him, and before the man could cry out, Louis had him pinned against the school building, teeth at the man's throat.
As François watched, enthralled, Louis killed the man quickly, and dropped the body to the ground. He leaned against the building, breathing hard, his eyes gleaming. François, worried that he was ill, ran to his side. After a moment, Louis bent to the body, looked to François, and smiled, fully displaying the fang teeth still limned with blood.
"François, you must watch. I prick my finger," he touched a finger to his fang, and a drop of blood oozed out. "Here, look closely." François leaned over, and watched, amazed, as Louis let fall a few drops of the blood on the wounds in the man's neck. Instantly, the wounds disappeared. "You see? No sign. And, now the difficult part." He looked about the area, and located a large loose brick. "We must make it appear a robbery gone bad." He took the brick, and struck the dead man on the back of the head. The neck snapped with an loud, sickening crunch. François flinched.
"Yes, I know, it is horrible." Louis said, noting the flinch. "Remember that, p'tit. You must never allow yourself to become accustomed to it, for if you do, if you become inured to the violence, you lose touch with humanity."
He tossed the brick away. "There. Another John Doe. Ah, mon dieu, I nearly forgot. Very bad of me," he shook his head. He took the man's wallet, and removed all the money and charge cards from it. "It is entirely up to you at this point, what to do with the money. You may keep it if you like, although not the plastic, of course." He pocketed the money, and dropped the plastic into a storm drain, along with the empty wallet. "I usually give it away, I have no need. But whatever you do, you must make it look like the motive for the murder.
"Above all, you must never forget that. Never forget, François, that what we are doing is indeed murder. It is necessary for us to live, but it is murder, nonetheless."
"I understand, Louis," François said, solemnly. And, he did understand. He looked at what had been a living, breathing human being just moments before, and in that instant, he thought he understood the meaning of life. He had killed, yes, he'd managed to survive, as Louis had indicated. He'd not even really thought about it, the first few times, some instinct had taken over, and he'd not made any conscious decision. But now, he understood what Louis meant. They had to live, and the only way they could live was through the death of someone else. "Life is really . . .something, isn't it?"
"Yes, François," Louis agreed, smiling sadly. "It is the most precious thing in the world." He leaned down, and looked straight into François's eyes. "I am very glad that you understand that. Many of our kind don't ever learn that." He smiled, very warmly. "I'm . . . proud of you."
They left the body there, and walked several miles in silence. Finally, François took a deep breath.
"So," he said, "that's how you do it."
"Yes, that is how it is done, François," Louis said. "You must kill swiftly, and as painlessly as you can make it. Their deaths will cause suffering to those who loved them, that is unavoidable, but we can see that they do not suffer needlessly. Also, do not intentionally terrify them. Do not - " he paused, searching for the word. "Do not toy with them, do you understand?" François nodded again. "It is enough that we must take their lives. That is necessary. We have no need to cause pain or fright." He made to reach in his pocket, then stopped abruptly. "Ah, if you don't mind? My handkerchief?" He held out his hand, and after a brief, puzzled look, François pulled out the handkerchief Louis had given him. Louis took it, nodded his thanks, and dabbed at the corners of his mouth. "That's better. Another lesson, that; not only is it proper behavior for a gentleman, but it is a matter of safety. You don't want any mortals to see you with blood on your lips."
"That makes sense to me," François admitted. "That reminds me. How do you keep your clothes clean? I mean, what if you, you know, spill some on your shirt?"
"You will learn, neatness comes with practice," Louis replied, handing the handkerchief back to François. "Now, it is your turn. First, listen." François did as instructed, turning his head slightly. "Do you hear that?" Louis asked. The boy nodded. "Good. Now, what do your ears tell you?"
"I hear somebody walking," he answered. "Walking fast, and over . . . that way," he pointed.
"How many?"
"Um . . . One. No, two - no, just one."
"Good." Louis smiled at him. "Now, we walk that way, and eventually, our paths should cross, yes?"
François nodded, and Louis indicated that he should lead the way. They set off toward the cemetery, and in a matter of minutes spotted their prey, a few blocks away. It was a young man, perhaps twenty or twenty-five years old. He wore jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, and carried a dirty backpack. He was smoking a cigarette, and seemed to be waiting for someone; he walked to one end of the block to the other, then back again.
"Now," Louis said, "you must first do what?"
François thought for a moment, then looked up and down the street. "No one else around. So, now I run over there?"
"Yes, you remember. Very good," Louis nodded. "Now, show me. Remember, be swift and painless, try not to frighten him. You can do this, François, I know you can. You know you can. You are stronger and faster than any mortal. I have shown you how to do it. The hunger will do the rest. Now, go."
François bit his lip, and took a deep breath. He ran to the corner, and waited until the boy was nearly ready to turn around and start his return trip. He leaped out in front of the boy, and before the boy even took notice of him, François had him pinned against the wall of the cemetery, and had sunk his fangs into the boy's throat.
The blood poured into his mouth, and he gulped it down, each swallow bringing a sensation of warmth and well-being, a feeling of exquisite pleasure unlike anything he'd ever known. He was gradually aware of a loud noise, a thumping, rhythmic sound. Idly, he wondered why he hadn't noticed the boy's boom-box, and thought it was funny that Louis was increasing the volume. Didn't he just say that they had to be careful, not to let anyone see them? So, why was he cranking up the bass, that was sure to bring somebody out. But, François didn't care, it felt so good to keep drinking, to feel the warmth spreading out, taking away the chill that was always on him anymore, taking away the sting from the burns on his face and hands. He never wanted to stop this feeling.
Suddenly, he was thrown to the ground, and the wonderful blood was no longer pouring into his mouth. He cried out, and searched around wildly, groping and clawing against something in his way, trying to find the boy again, trying to get more of that liquid fire.
"François!" Someone was shaking him. "François, you must listen to me." It was Louis, he was gripping his shoulders, painfully actually, and shaking him. "You must stop fighting me, please, I don't want to hurt you." Slowly, François came back to his senses. Louis stopped the shaking, but did not release him.
"What's wrong, Louis?" François asked. "What happened? Why did you stop me?"
"He was dying," Louis said. "You cannot keep drinking until they die, it is very bad."
"I didn't know, I mean - " François felt very stupid. "I guess I forgot. That was a pretty big thing to forget, hush?"
"It is not your fault, p'tit." Louis turned loose of François, and then reached out to stroke his hair. "I neglected to tell you. I should be apologizing to you, I put you in danger. I am sorry."
"It's okay," François said, looking down at the boy's body at their feet. "It felt so good, though. It was so different from before, it was so . . . good."
"Yes, I know." Louis pulled him back into an embrace. "He was strong, and healthy, and the hunger was great. It is intoxicating." He smiled down at François. "How do you feel?"
François thought a moment. "Better," he said. "I feel really good."
"Good, I'm glad," Louis replied. He let go of François, and stepped back to look at him. "You look much better already."
It was true. The burns on his face and hands had all but disappeared. He was still very pale, paler than Louis, but his face looked far less gaunt, the cheekbones not quite so prominent. For the first time, Louis could see what he actually looked like.
There was no telling what his original skin tone had been, but judging from his present coloring, Louis guessed that he had been blessed with that lovely café-au-lait color that was the legacy of the many cultures that had mixed so freely here. He had a roman nose, a little large but overall well-proportioned to his face. His hair was light brown, almost blond, about collar length and just slightly wavy, the humidity causing it to curl around his ears and his face. He had large grey eyes, tinged with flecks of green and blue, and heavy, straight brows that canted so as to give him a slightly intense look; were it not for his almost perpetual warm, open smile, and that lop-sided grin that Louis found so appealing, he would have looked positively sinister. This visage, taken together with his actual youth, gave him the appearance of utter innocence.
It was an asset which would serve him very well, Louis realized.
François was already rummaging through the dead boy's possessions, putting aside anything that could identify him. Suddenly, he gasped aloud.
"What is it?" Louis asked, kneeling beside him.
"Look at this!" François held up a thick roll of bills. "This pack is full of these!" He reached in, and pulled out more cash. "I bet he was a runner."
"A runner?"
"Yeah, you know, for a dealer. Drugs."
"Ah, I see. I expect you are right," Louis agreed. "However, that matters little to us, you know. It's more important that we dispose of him, the quicker the better."
"Oh, yeah," François said, "I forgot." He shoved the cash back into the pack, and stood up, swinging the pack onto his own back. "Here," he held out a driver's license and a stack of plastic charge cards. "This is everything. Where do you think we should put him?"
"You tell me," Louis replied. "But you must think quickly." He stood, and leaned against the wall, pointedly tapping it with his fingers.
"The cemetery!" François grinned. "Duh!" He tucked the boy's identification into his pocket.
"Very good," Louis laughed. "Now, I will show you. You pick him up."
"Okay."
François lifted the body by the arms, but Louis stopped him, demonstrating how to throw the body over his shoulder. Then, he jumped straight up, and landed lightly on top of the wall, gesturing to François to follow him. Without a moment's hesitation, François hefted his burden, and jumped up, landing beside Louis, albeit more heavily.
They jumped down inside the wall, and Louis led the way toward the back of the cemetery, to a neglected tomb half hidden between several taller monuments. He showed François how to unfasten the marble plaque, and with a single blow, knocked loose enough of the plaster and bricks to open a large hole.
"Now," Louis said, brushing the dust off his clothing, "you may put him in there."
François did as instructed, although it was a bit difficult as the opening was at his shoulder level. Then, Louis showed him how to re-stack the bricks.
"That works real well," François commented, as they fastened the plaque back in place. "You can't even tell from the outside, except for the dust." He stared at the plaster dust and brick fragments, then pulled off his jacket. Using it as a mop, he quickly cleared the area of all but the most innocuous bits of residue. "There," he said, looking to Louis for approval. "How's that?"
Louis beamed at him. "Tres bien!" he said, ruffling François's hair. "That was very clever of you. I've never thought of that."
"The rules, Louis," François explained. "From the Night Island. 'There must be no evidence of the kill.' Isn't that right?"
"Yes, of course," Louis agreed, smiling. "Tell me, François, do you have the entire text of all four of those books memorized?"
"Not exactly," François said, as they made their way back to the wall of the cemetery and climbed back outside. "But I tried to remember the parts I thought were important. I wrote them down in my notebook, I went through all the books a few times."
"Ah, that's what you were writing," Louis said. "So, tell me, before tonight, how did you dispose of them after you were finished? You must have done something, I haven't read in the news about any mysterious deaths."
"Oh, you know," François shrugged. "I dumped them in the river. I found most of them down by the Riverwalk, and around there. Drunks, mostly, and then I dragged them over to the river."
"That was well enough, but you can only use that so many times," Louis said. "From now on, we will hunt in a different area each night, and use a different method to dispose of things."
"Okay," François said. "But, don't you run out of places?"
"New Orleans is a large city," Louis replied. "There are many places that are suitable. Cemeteries are quite useful, especially the older ones. As for hunting, as I said, it's a large city, and sadly, there are many whose disappearance garners no notice."
They headed back towards the Quarter, pausing only long enough for François to drop the boy's identification into a sewer grating. Gradually, as they came closer to the more famous areas and landmarks, the crowds became thicker. They passed tourists draped in Mardi Gras beads, cameras around their necks and go-cups in their hands; one couple, obviously well on the way to intoxication, stopped them and posed beneath a street sign while Louis obligingly took their photograph for them.
Despite the warm jacket, and the hot life coursing through his body, François began to shiver. Louis noticed, and hurried them over to the Café du Monde. Securing a table, he purchased two cups of steaming coffee.
"Louis," François whispered as they sat down. "I thought we couldn't, you know," he made a face. "Won't it make me sick?"
"Yes, very ill. But you needn't drink it," Louis said, picking up the warm cup. "Just hold it, and it should warm you. It feels good, and helps us to blend in."
François picked up his cup, and held it, sniffing it cautiously. He was surprised to find that he was not nauseated by the scent. He found it pleasant, although not appetizing, its appeal more akin to the scent of flowers than to the aroma of food. It did warm his hands, and the closeness of so many other warm bodies also took away some of the chill.
"Let me show you a little trick," Louis said, after they had sat for several minutes. "Watch closely." Surreptitiously, he lowered his cup until it was below the level of the table. Glancing to either side, and satisfied that no one was paying the least attention to him, he dumped the contents of the cup onto the ground, then quickly rubbed his foot over the puddle a few times, spreading the wetness into a large damp splotch. "You see?" he said, placing the cup back onto the saucer. "Empty. Now, you do the same, and then we shall go on."
François repeated Louis's actions, and they rose to leave. Louis reached into his pocket, and pulled out a crumpled wad of bills, leaving several on the table.
"It's a tip," he explained to François. "I come here often, and I've found that if I tip well, the staff tends to allow me to sit as long as I like, without bothering me. It comes in handy."
"You come here a lot?" François asked. "I thought you hung out in a shack somewhere Uptown."
"You mean, my little house that Lestat burned?" François nodded. Louis shook his head. "No, I have not stayed there for some time. Besides," Louis clapped him on the shoulder, "you know where I stay, you followed me there, right?"
"Oh, yeah," François laughed. "What I mean is, I thought you just sat in the dark, and wrote in a book. Stuff like that."
Louis sighed. "Do you remember what I said about the books being mostly true?" François nodded again. "Well, 'mostly' is a very relative term."
"You mean, it's all lies?"
"No," Louis replied. "Not entirely. But Lestat does tend to exaggerate. Especially where I am concerned."
"Wow," François said. "So, you guys don't like, get along?"
"Oh, no," Louis said. "I care for him very much, and he cares for me. I am sure of it. He just, well . . . that is, we can't seem to . . ." His voice trailed off, and François thought it best to leave the subject for the present.
They walked along in a comfortable silence for a space. Louis found it a pleasant change, to have a companion who felt no need to fill quiet gaps with mindless chatter. He found himself becoming increasingly fond of his young protégé. Perhaps it was because François was an avid student, eagerly accepting any instruction given. Perhaps it was because he had bluish eyes and yellowish hair, and Louis had always been a sucker for that combination. Perhaps it was because he was so earnest, sweet-natured, and youthful that Louis was reminded, nearly to the point of tears, of Paul. Or - and this was what Louis told himself, sternly - it was because François needed him.
Foster Fledgling - Chapter Four
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