Foster Fledgling
Chapter Seven
Gradually, Louis became aware of a hand on his face. Slowly, the flood diminished and faded away completely. He opened his eyes to see François looking up at him, gently brushing away the tears.
"Louis?" François asked anxiously. "Are you okay? Did I do something wrong?"
"Nothing, cher," Louis answered. No need to confuse things now, plenty of time for that later. Eternity, if he was very, very lucky. "No, I'm just a bit . . . tired. It is getting late, you know." This was true enough, dawn was less than two hours away. He stored away the memory of those sweet emotions for the time being, and turned his attention to more pressing matters. "It's time you were getting to bed, infants need a great deal of rest."
"Louis!" François laughed, and made a face. "I'm not a baby. My God!"
"You're not even a month old yet, you're a newborn vampire."
"Oh, yeah, I guess so," François grinned. "I didn't think of it like that. That's pretty funny." He laughed again.
"Yes, but it's true. Especially for you, since you haven't had proper care for so long." Louis unwrapped himself from François's arms, and putting his hands on the boy's shoulders, turned him around and marched him into the bathroom. "Now, you have a wash, and I'll get your pajamas for you. Don't dawdle."
"Can I have a shower like before?" François asked hopefully.
"No, not now," Louis snapped on the light, and pointed to the washbasin. "There isn't time, it's too close to dawn. You wash your face and hands, and that will be sufficient." He swatted François on the seat of the pants. "Hurry now."
Louis sought out a clean suit of pajamas - these in emerald silk, with a gaudy stripe - and dropped them onto the marble table behind François. He was pleased to see that the boy was nearly finished, and hurriedly made his own ablutions. For the first time, he actually appreciated Lestat's constant extravagance; having two wash basins was time saving. He stepped back out to give François some privacy, and on impulse, returned to his closet one more time, and located yet another suit of pajamas - green, of course, good God, one would think there was some sort of law! He quickly undressed and donned the night clothes - well, they were still hideous, but at least the cloth was soft and not uncomfortable.
With a start, Louis realized that he had not yet secured the house for the day. He woke Mojo, who was dozing under the desk, and shooed him downstairs. He let Mojo visit the courtyard again, and then closed him up in the kitchen; the servants would arrive within three hours, and they'd let him outside again. Louis had no way of verifying it, but he suspected that they fed him several times during the day, and he knew for a fact that neither he nor Lestat had purchased the box of dog biscuits that had mysteriously appeared on the counter one night. Well, Mojo was an incredibly appealing animal, after all.
After getting Mojo settled for the morning, Louis checked all the entry doors and drew all the draperies. He set the alarms, and returned upstairs. There, he set the locks on all the bedroom doors, automatically locking both Lestat's room and David's even though neither of them were home.
He stopped at what had once been Claudia's room, and ran his hand lovingly over the door. Over one hundred years had passed, yet a night never passed but what he thought of her, and missed her. A century had given the wounds time to heal, but the scars remained, as did the love.
Jessica had felt her presence here, once, felt it strongly enough to flee in terror. Louis had left the Night Island to search through the house then, but had neither felt nor seen any trace of her. And then of course Lestat had had the place redone so beautifully, so obviously motivated by nostalgia and love. If Claudia had been here once, if her spirit had indeed remained, she was gone now. Still, Louis found it comforting to enter this room now and again. She had no other memorial, no final resting place, no marble plaque in the old city of the dead where he could place flowers on All Saints' Day.
Uttering a silent prayer, as he always did, that her tortured soul would find peace, he opened the door, and stepped inside. Lestat had restored the interior as accurately as memory and modern construction skill allowed, and technically it was perfect. The wallpaper was nearly identical to the original, and had cost a fortune to recreate, or so Lestat had informed him, and the mural of the enchanted forest was there again in all its glory. The furnishing were not the originals, those had burned of course, but were of the period, and were well suited to the decor. It was actually very little changed from a century before. Yet, it was no longer her room. There were no multitudes of dolls staring at his intrusion, no fluffy little frocks hung in the armoires, no ribbons strewn about. There was nothing here that spoke of the sixty plus years she'd lived here.
"Doll, I have something I must tell you," he whispered. He walked around the room, running his hands over the smooth carved oak. "You know you'll always have the largest part of my heart, you will always be my child, my love, my daughter. But I've found this boy, his name is François, and he's going to live here now. He is a nice boy, Doll, I think you will like him." He sat at the escritoire, pulling out the small drawers, which of course were empty. No little books here, not now. "I think he is very much like me. And he's like you, too. He wasn't given a choice, he is a child forever, just as you were. But he's a nice boy, very clever, a good boy. I'm sure you will like him. You will grow fond of him, too, I know it." He rose, and wandered over to the bed, smoothing the counterpane. "I'm fond of him, Doll. I care for him deeply, I . . . I love him. Yes, I do. I love him as I love you. I don't want you to be jealous, you mustn't feel that way. Think of him as your brother. I had a brother, you know, and you remember my sister. I love you, I always will love you. But he needs me, now, Doll, and you are beyond my help. Don't be angry, my little love. He needs me." He patted the bed once more, and went to the door. "He needs me, my Claudia, and I need him."
Louis shut the door behind him, and locked it. He returned to his room, set the lock, and found François still in the washroom, looking at his reflection in the mirror.
"Oh, there you are," François said, grinning at Louis. He held up his hands for Louis to inspect. "All clean, even scrubbed with that brush. Look at them nails!" He pulled his hand up close to this face, peering at his nails, looking from one hand to the other.
"Those nails, François. Not them, those."
"Well, anyway, look at those nails," he replied. "They're so shiny! I never noticed it before, my hands were so dirty from living on the street, I guess."
"Perhaps so," Louis nodded, taking François's hand and pulling him out of the bathroom. Those vampiric senses again, Louis thought with amusement. He reached behind him to flick off the lights. "You know, that's one of the ways we're different from mortals. You can always tell one of our kind by the nails. They're like glass, I always thought." He turned down the bed clothes. "It's something you must learn, how to recognize others of our kind."
"Why, Louis?" François asked, climbing into the bed and leaning against the headboard. "I thought you said nobody will hurt me."
"None of our coven will, of course," Louis replied, climbing in on the other side. "But there are many, many others as well, and I'm afraid not all of them are on friendly terms. Don't worry, though, you're in no danger, I'll take care of you, as will the rest of the coven. You belong to us now, we won't let anyone hurt you." He patted François's knee reassuringly. "But it is a good thing to know, all the same."
"Okay," François yawned. "Look for the fingernails. Got you." He pulled the pillow from behind him, and clutched it to his chest, drawing up his knees and leaning on them. "What else do I have to do?"
"Right now," Louis said, taking the pillow from François and tucking it behind him again, "you need to lie down, and close your eyes. You will fall asleep as soon as the sun rises, and if you're sitting up like that, you could fall and injure yourself."
"I thought nothing could hurt me," François protested, "and anyway, I'm not sleepy yet." He yawned again, but turned his head so that Louis couldn't see it.
"It won't harm you permanently, but it is still painful," Louis said, noticing the yawn. "As for not being sleepy, perhaps we can remedy that. Perhaps I could read to you, would you like that?"
"Okay," François said, lying down and folding his hands behind his head. "What do you have to read?" He sat up again. "Will you read to me from your book?" he asked eagerly.
"NO!" Louis said, emphatically. "I will not read to you from Daniel's book." He reached over and ruffled François's hair. "Coquin! You are terrible, you know that? Now lie down, there's a good boy."
"Oh, okay." He lay down, and Louis tucked the coverlet about him. "Hey, Louis? What's that mean?" François asked. "What's Coke-Ann?"
"Oh, that," Louis laughed. "It means, er, " he opened the drawer and removed a book, then thought better of it, and put it back. "It means, a scamp, a rascal, like that." He pulled the covers up around himself, and reached over to switch off the lamp.
"I thought you were going to read to me," François complained.
"I don't think you'd like what I'm reading," Louis replied. "We'll get some other books for you tomorrow evening, all right?"
"Okay," François yawned again. "But what about tonight?"
"Oh, you still can't sleep?" Louis asked, smiling. "Very well, I suppose I could tell you a story."
"Cool!" François turned over to face Louis. "Hey! I can see in the dark in here, too!"
"Of course you can," Louis laughed. "But you must lie flat, and arrange your limbs." He folded François's arms across his stomach, not uncomfortably. "You may wake up with cramps otherwise," he explained.
"What are you going to tell me?" François demanded. "Is it a good story, with car chases and explosions?"
"Good lord, no!" Louis laughed. "I don't believe I even know any stories like that. No, this is a story Nannain used to tell me when I was a boy."
"Nannain?"
"My grandmother," Louis explained. "She used to tell me about the terrible Feu-Follets in the bayous."
"What's a fee-fow-lay?" François asked.
"Feu-Follets are spirits, they look like a flickering flame, or a wisp of smoke. They play tricks on people who wander out at night."
"Sounds like us," François murmured. "Maybe that's what we are, Louis. We play tricks on people at night."
"Perhaps we are," Louis said thoughtfully. "Perhaps that should be your name. Instead of François, I should call you Feu-Follet. What do you think of that?"
"S'okay," François mumbled. "Whatever."
"Once upon a time, there was a boy named François," Louis began. "He lived in a large house on an indigo plantation in the wild country of Louisiana. One night, he didn't want to go to sleep, so he went out to get his horse . . ."
Louis had only just begun to get to the interesting part of the story, when he heard François's breathing pattern change, and knew that sleep had overtaken him. It wasn't the day sleep, just mortal sleep, but it was close enough to dawn that it really made no difference. He leaned over, and kissed François's cheek.
"Good night, Feu-Follet," he whispered. "I promise you, I'll take care of you, always." He lay down, arranging his arms comfortably across his chest. After a moment, he reached out, and slid his arm under François's sleeping form. He pulled the boy close to him, and even in his sleep, François responded by snuggling close. It felt so natural, so completely right. It had been a long time, far too long, since Louis had known the simple pleasure of holding his child through the day, and François was his child, now and forever. He didn't know what forces had brought the two of them together, and he didn't wish to tempt the fates by questioning his good fortune. Some of life's mysteries one simply accepted, graciously and gratefully. He bent his head to kiss François, and pulled him closer still before closing his eyes for the day.
"I love you too, my son."
The next evening, Louis again woke before François. He quickly attended to his nightly rituals of showering and dressing, and then surprised himself by choosing new clothing from his closet. "Mustn't embarrass François by dressing in rags," he told himself reassuringly. "Modern children are sensitive to things like that."
He dashed down to the garden, and brought Mojo inside. The dog followed him inside, and sat, whining, at the foot of the stairs as Louis started up. "I suppose you think you can just come upstairs any time you like now, is that it?" he asked. "Well, come along then," he leaned over and slapped his thigh lightly. Mojo bounded up the steps, racing ahead of him in a beeline for his room. By the time Louis reached the door, the dog was already lying on the floor beside the bed.
François was still sleeping, but he'd turned over onto his side. Louis pulled the covers up more closely around him, and kissed him on the forehead. He'd be up before long, and Louis still had email from the night before which required answering.
He quickly accessed his mail file, and once again tried to read Marius's missive. He forced himself to ignore the omniscient tone, and focused instead upon the content. In a nutshell, Marius emphasized two things; love the child, and educate him.
"Of the first, I have no doubt that you have already seen to that," Marius wrote. "The affection you feel for this boy is evident in every word you wrote. That is good, for as you may recall from what I told the Brat, we must always make our children out of a sense of love. I realize that you did not make this child, but as you have taken responsibility for him, I believe the same rule should apply.
"Education, however, is perhaps equally important. If you wish him to survive, and of course you do, he must learn all he can of the world. The more one knows, the more one can adapt."
Marius went on at some length, detailing what subjects François must study, giving suggestions as to how Louis might address the problem of tutors, which of the family would best be suited to teaching him which subjects, and proposing a schedule of how many hours per night he ought to spend in study.
Louis sent back a note of thanks, and diplomatically refrained from any comment besides "I shall take your suggestions under consideration."
He then went on to the new messages, and pulled up one after another, all saying essentially the same thing: "No word of Lestat." He politely sent a response to each, also including an update on François's development. This took longer than he expected, for despite good intentions to be brief, he found himself expounding at length about how bright François was, how polite he was, how well he got along with Mojo, and so on.
Louis was just finishing a note to Jessica when François woke up, and after fussing over Mojo, wandered over.
"Morning - I mean, evening, Louis," he said, throwing his arms around Louis and hugging him hard. Louis returned the affection, and François gave him one of those lop-sided grins. "Can I play in the shower now?" he asked.
"Of course," Louis laughed. "You know where everything is, now?"
François nodded, and with another quick embrace, disappeared into the bath.
Louis turned his attention back to his computer screen, and pulled up the final message, from Armand. His heart leapt.
"We have found him. He's alive. We're bringing him home now. Armand."
Foster Fledgling - Chapter Eight
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