Foster Fledgling
Chapter Four
For his part, François was content to walk along side Louis, feeling safe for the first time in many nights. He thought he was just about the luckiest guy on earth. He had no doubts that had he not seen Louis walking Mojo that night, or if Louis had not responded to his plea, he would have perished within a week, from exposure or starvation or simply despair. Louis saved his life, and gave him a home. Who could ask for more than that? He was smart and patient, so kind, so generous. He seemed equal parts brother, father, and friend, none of which had ever been a part of François's brief mortal life. François adored him.
After a half hour's meander, they found themselves at the Riverwalk Mall. It was past closing time, but Louis walked up to the doors, anyway. He motioned for François to be quiet, and after scanning the area for any stray passersby, walked to a clear area, and began climbing the wall. After a heartbeat's hesitation, François followed him.
Apparently, Louis was very familiar with the setup of the building, for he made straight for a window on the second floor, and it opened with little difficulty. He climbed inside, and dropped soundlessly onto the floor. François joined him, his heavy boots making an echoing clatter on the tile floor. Louis shut the window behind them, and held a finger to his lips, listening. In a moment, satisfied that they were alone in the building, he smiled at François.
"I will have to teach you to walk more quietly," he said. "But for now, come along. We need to get you some clothes of your own."
"But, the stores are all closed," François protested. "How can we get through the gates?" He pointed to the heavy metal chain gates over all the shops. "What about the security?"
"That is no problem," Louis replied. "Trust me, François. I won't allow you to be harmed. We're in no danger here." He began walking determinedly down the dark halls, and François followed closely at his side. Louis stopped before a clothing store, and with the merest tug, lifted the heavy gate, breaking the tiny alarm device with one blow of his hand. François gaped.
"A little something Armand taught me," he commented. They stepped inside the shop. "Here you are, François," Louis said, spreading his arms. "Take whatever you like. Do you know what size clothing you wear?"
"Um," François shook himself out of his stupor. "Yeah, I think so. What should I get?"
"Whatever you like," Louis replied, making his way toward the rear of the store and the cash registers. "Pants, shirts, stockings - socks, you call them now - under linens. We'll stop at another place for boots."
François looked about to say something, then reconsidered, and remained silent. In a determined way, he began rummaging through the racks of clothes. He found a pair of jeans that fit, and grabbed several pair in that size, along with some shirts, sweaters, underwear, and at Louis's suggestion, a suit in dark blue, with the accouterments to go with it. "We can have a suit tailored for you later," he explained. "But it is a handy thing to have, and this will do for now. We can have it altered elsewhere. And of course, you'll need evening wear," he added, more to himself than to François.
They shoved the clothes into the back pack, and when it was full, Louis located another similar pack for the rest, which he carried. François insisted upon leaving three of the rolls of bills on the counter to pay for the clothes and the damage. They left the clothing shop, and visited a shoe store next, where François indulged his fancy in a pair of black western boots, along with new sneakers and a few dozen pairs of socks. Again, he took Louis's suggestion, and found a pair of plain, black oxfords that would "Suit any formal occasions," as Louis put it. They left more of the drug money at the counter, and made their way back to the window where they'd entered.
"You do this a lot?" François asked, once they were outside and safely on their way back toward Royale Street. .
"God, no!" Louis laughed. "Only when I truly need something, which isn't very often. Of course, Lestat does this sort of thing all the time, and sometimes I come along. Strictly to keep him out of trouble, you understand. Not that anyone can do that," he added.
They passed by Jackson Square again, and Louis walked around to side of the cathedral. "Just a brief stop, and then we can go home," he explained. He climbed a short way up the wall, and reached over to pull open one of the large stained glass windows, pulling gently so that it made only the slightest noise in protest. He held down his hand, and helped François to climb up beside him, then they both slipped inside.
"Lucky thing that window was unlatched," François whispered, following Louis up the side aisle toward the altar.
"It isn't exactly luck," Louis answered, also keeping his voice low. "Some time ago, I . . . made arrangements."
François waited for Louis to explain more, but no explanation was forthcoming. Louis made his way up to the front of the church, and François followed, genuflecting as he passed the altar and the Presence Light. They stopped before the row of votives, and Louis paused to light a candle.
François knelt before the small shrine, also lighting one of the small candles. It occurred to him that the situation was bizarre in the extreme. He was a murderer; he had just killed a human being, and not just killed, but had drunk his blood, stolen his money, and hidden his body in someone else's tomb, and here he was in a church, lighting a candle before the shrine of the Blessed Virgin. Murder! It was a heinous sin, a mortal sin of the very worst sort. It was an act which, a few weeks before, would have horrified and shocked him. Yet, he felt no revulsion, but instead gratitude; gratitude for Louis's kindness and concern, for having found a friend, a teacher, and a protector, gratitude for an end to the burning, gnawing hunger that had tortured him for so long. He knew, in his heart, that he ought to feel guilty, but he was overwhelmed instead with this gratitude; oddly, this lack of remorse gave his conscience more trouble than the actual act itself. Still, unorthodox as it might be, he felt that he ought to give thanks for his good fortune. He bowed his head for a few moments. Crossing himself, he rose and looked around for Louis.
Louis had taken a seat near the front of the church, and was gazing up at the altar and the painted ceiling, his arms comfortably spread out along the back of the wooden pew. François joined him, and pulled out the kneeler, propping his feet upon it and sitting back.
"You come here a lot?" François asked. He spoke softly, but in the immense silence of the church, his voice seemed harsh to his ears.
"Yes," Louis said, pulling one knee up and wrapping an arm about it. "I find it a pleasant place. The familiarity is comforting." He pointed to the altar piece. "I can recall when that was new, how amazed everyone was at the work." He shut his eyes, and smiled slightly. "I can still see the families filling the rows, back when it was the old church, before the fire. The scent of the candles, the beeswax, the incense . . . very little has changed." He sighed. "My family built that church, you know, we and the other planter families. My brother's funeral mass was here, it was actually quite beautiful, really. And of course, my mother's also, and then much later, my sister's. I couldn't attend those," he said, "I was as I am now, and funerals were always in the morning in those days. That was very difficult for me. At any rate, I suppose that is in part why I come here. I always light candles for them. Always." He was silent for a moment, then opened his eyes. "My funeral was here, as well. For obvious reasons, I did not attend." He smiled wryly, and rose to leave.
François said nothing, but genuflected and followed Louis out to the foyer. Louis took out his wallet, and removed all the bills from it, folding them one by one and placing them into the poor box. François watched him, and then swung his pack off his back. He reached inside, and pulled out the last of the rolls of money.
"Are you certain you want to do that?" Louis asked. "You don't have to, you know, just because I did. You may keep it, if you wish. I don't mind."
"I know," François replied. "But, I guess we don't need it, do we?"
"No, we don't," Louis agreed. "We have all that we need."
"That's what I thought." François looked at the tiny slot in the box, then back at the rolls of money in his hand, then up at Louis. "They won't fit." He walked over to the shrine of St. Therese, and lit a votive. "I shouldn't keep it," he said somberly. "It was drug money, anyway, blood money." He paused a moment, and then laughed softly. "Blood money, that's pretty good." He looked up at Louis again, and grinned.
"That was terrible," Louis said, laughing himself. "Daniel would love that, he makes the most hideous puns."
"Sorry," François laughed again. "Anyway, I don't want it." He lay the rolls on top of the poor box. "Somebody will find these tomorrow, I guess."
"Yes," Louis agreed. "And we should be getting home, anyway."
"Why?" François asked, as they went back inside the church to the window where they'd entered. "It isn't anywhere near dawn, is it?"
"No," Louis said, pulling François up and out the window, "we still have several hours. But there are things I need to do, and it isn't good to stay here too long."
Louis carefully shut the window, and they walked down the dark alley. Louis paused at the back of St. Anthony's Garden.
"Last night, you didn't think you could climb that fence," he said, pointing to the iron fence. "What do you think now?"
"I think I'm pretty lucky you showed up," François replied. He threw his arms around Louis, and embraced him tightly. "I don't know what-" his voice broke off.
"Oh, p'tit," Louis said, returning the embrace. "You mustn't even think of that, not now." On impulse, Louis kissed the top of his head, and smoothed his hair. "Now, hush, dry your eyes."
François dug in his pockets and found the handkerchief, and quickly dried his face. "Good, that's much better," Louis said. "Now, let's go, Mojo is probably wondering what has happened to us."
They were back at the townhouse in no time, and were met at the door by Mojo. François dropped the back pack on the floor, kneeling to throw his arms around the dog.
"I've never had a dog before," François said, scratching behind Mojo's ears. "Does he know any tricks?"
"Oh, yes," Louis replied, picking up the back pack, and taking it and the bag he carried over to the table in the dining room. "He can shake hands, and roll over, and he loves to play ball." He disappeared for a moment, and returned with a basket of dog toys. "These are his," he explained, setting the basket down beside François. "If you'd like to play, you should go into the courtyard. He tends to get a bit rambunctious."
"I think I'll wait a bit," François said, standing up. Mojo looked up at him questioningly, then began to rummage his snout in the basket, pulling out a huge rawhide bone and chewing on it. "I'm a little cold," François said, joining Louis at the table. "It feels good to be inside."
"Would you like a fire?" Louis asked. François nodded, and they went into the parlor, where a fire was already laid in the ornate fireplace. Louis put a match to the kindling, and within minutes
a pleasant blaze was going.
"This is nice." François sat on the hearth, knees drawn up, watching the flames. "All we need is some marshmallows."
"Marshmallows?" Louis asked, dropping into the armchair opposite him. "I don't understand."
"Oh, it's just something you eat," François replied. "I mean, I used to eat."
"You cannot eat mortal food now, you must realize," Louis cautioned. "It will make you very ill. Your body, your entire make up, has changed now."
"Yeah," François grimaced. "I found that out the hard way, early on." He looked up at Louis. "That's how I figured it out, you know. I couldn't eat food. Not even my favorite stuff, not even a Coke, not even water." He made a face. "It all came right back up. It was really gross, disgusting."
"I can imagine," Louis nodded. "Tell me, please, how did you know to - drink blood?"
"I don't know," François shrugged. "Something just told me. I think it was the smell." He looked thoughtful, remembering. "I saw this guy who'd come out of a bar, he'd been in a fight. He was covered in blood, his nose, you know?" Louis nodded again. "And I could smell it, and it was like -" he paused, his brow furrowed. "Okay, it was like smelling hamburgers cooking, or french fries. Only, not like that. You know?"
"I understand the concept," Louis said. "We didn't have such things in my day, you know."
"Oh, yeah," François said, smiling. "Anyway, I knew that smell, I knew it was what I wanted. It made me hungry." He rose from the floor, and sat in the matching chair opposite Louis. His feet did not reach the floor, and he again pulled his knees up, wrapping his arms around them. "I'm not sure what happened next," he admitted.
"What do you remember?" Louis asked, thinking that François's shoes were making a mess on the upholstery, and then in the same instant, realizing that it didn't matter in the least. "Go on, please. Perhaps it will trigger other memories."
"Okay." He bit his lip, thinking hard. His fang teeth just showed, bright white against his now flushed lips, and Louis noticed that the fangs did not cut into the boy's skin. "I think I must have followed him. I don't really know. The next thing I remember, I was leaning against this wall, and this guy was lying there, dead, and I felt better." He hung his head. "I just, um, left him there," he said. "I didn't know I wasn't supposed to."
"That's all right, François," Louis said, leaning over to pat his arm. "You had no way of knowing, and anyway, I haven't heard anything in the news about it. It must have been explained away somehow." He leaned back. "Please, continue."
"Well, that's really about it," François said. "I figured, hey, I drink blood. Vampires drink blood, so I must be a vampire, there must really be such things. Totally freaked me out. That's when I went to the library and bookstores, and started reading stuff." He shrugged. "The rest you know."
"You fed after that, didn't you?" Louis inquired. "How did you know what to do?"
"I didn't, really," François admitted. "I knew I had the teeth, and I took a chance. Sometimes, I found guys like him, there's always a fight somewhere. They were good, they had money, and I think they thought I was some kind of local color, you know, street kids, hustlers? They always came with me, no questions. Weird, huh?"
Louis nodded, but said nothing, wondering if François had the ability to spell bind. It would help to explain his survival. François continued.
"Mostly, I found a drunk over in the park, and went from there. Like I told you, I didn't think I could handle a sober guy, somebody strong." He grinned suddenly. "I know better now."
"Yes," Louis smiled. "You learned very fast." He rose, and stretched. "We have the rest of the evening. What would you like to do?"
"I don't know," François shrugged. "What do you want to do?"
"I have some business matters I must attend to," Louis said. "Would you like to watch television? A video? Some music?" He opened his arms wide, and bowed dramatically. "My home is yours, Monsieur Gallagher, please do as you wish." François laughed, and Louis thought he had never heard such a pleasant sound in a long, long time. "I have an idea, why don't you wander about the house? Look around, explore all you like."
"Cool!" François jumped up out of the chair. "Can I go anywhere?"
"Of course," Louis replied. "First, though, why don't you take your new things upstairs. You may hang them in my closet for now."
François ran out to the table, and grabbed both bags, then ran up the stairs. Louis watched this, marveling at the resiliency of youth to overcome anything. He followed, more sedately, and by the time he arrived in his room, François had emptied both bags onto the bed, and was arranging things in neat piles. Louis found him some cedar hangers, and cleared out several drawers for his use. François quickly put away his clothes, and then with yet another quick embrace, disappeared into the rest of the house.
Foster Fledgling - Chapter Five
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