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And then how easily he'd wept when greeting Louis and Armand and his lost fledgling, Antoine, whom he'd long ago consigned to history, alive here and thriving with Benji and Sybelle. How considerately he'd held Antoine's hand as the other stammered and trembled and tried to express his love, and how patiently he'd kissed Antoine and assured him that they would have many nights together, all of them, and they would come to know each other and love each other as never before.
"We must all come to the table and talk of what's happening," Lestat had said, so easily assuming command. "Armand, I say let's do this in the attic ballroom. I'll be there as soon as I've taken Rose safely down to the cellar and talked with her. And Benji, you must be there. You must shut down broadcasting long enough to be there, do you understand? No one can absent himself or herself. The crisis is too great. Maharet, Khayman, murdered, their house burned, Mekare gone. The Voice is inheriting the wind, and we have to hold this tent together against it!"
Gregory was tempted to applaud. It was fireworks in the front hallway.
Armand had agreed at once as though it were the most natural thing in the world to do what Lestat wanted.
But wasn't it what they all wanted?
And what a dashing and beautiful figure Lestat was. The James Bond of the Vampires indeed. How had he managed under such pressure to show up at Trinity Gate in a fresh and show-stopping ensemble of Ralph Lauren wool plaids and pastel linen and silk, with brown-and-white wing-tip shoes, and his full sh
ining mane of blond hair--just possibly the most fabled head of hair in the vampire world--tied at the back of his neck in black silk beneath a diamond brooch that might have ransomed a king but likely not his son, Viktor?
The plaid coat was a long hacking jacket, exquisitely like a frock coat of an earlier time when fashion had been more daring and consciously romantic, and it fairly well concealed some sort of weapon, a large weapon that he carried--scent of wood and steel--without losing its beautiful shape and cut.
Oh, this was the blood drinker of now, the vampire of now, for certain. Who else could better grasp that now was the Golden Time for all the Undead, transcending all ages past, and who else better to take the helm at this perfect moment? So what if it had taken this crisis to bring him to himself?
Beside Gregory, Zenobia, Avicus, and Flavius evinced the same complete admiration and fascination, Flavius laughing softly under his breath.
"He is all that anyone ever said he was," he whispered to Gregory.
And Gregory felt that giddy ridiculous feeling so many mortals have described over the millennia--of utter devotion to another so well expressed in the old phrase "I'll follow him anywhere!"
And Gregory did feel that. Yes, I would follow him in whatever he decides to do and put all my strength, all my gifts, at his disposal. But didn't all the others feel precisely the same thing? Hadn't all the arguments and uneasy conversations stopped? The whole house had assembled in the drawing room, the hallway, on the stairs. Weren't all united? Didn't even Gregory's beloved Sevraine and the inscrutable and ever-diffident Notker the Wise stare at Lestat with the same complete submission? Even Lestat's mother, slouching against the front door in her dusty khaki, was eyeing her son with a certain iron satisfaction, as if to say, Well now, maybe something will indeed happen.
Rose, poor Rose, poor mortal Rose, poor tender terrified Rose with her huge searching blue eyes and her thick blue-black curling hair. The sooner she was brought over the better. A mortal mind could be damaged beyond repair by what this girl had witnessed.
She was clinging to Lestat, like a shivering bride in her white silk dress, trying so desperately and selflessly to keep her weeping silent, and he, like a mighty bridegroom, held her in his arms, reassuring her once again as he gave her over to Louis. "Give me one precious moment, my dearest," he said to her, "and I will be with you. You are safe now."
Gregory stared astonished as Lestat gestured for his mother to step aside, and opened the front door. He went out onto the little portico and stared right at the young fledglings gathered three deep on the pavement in the deep shadows of the giant trees that crowded the narrow street, whose electric lamps had been mysteriously disengaged several nights ago.
A roar went up such as Gregory had never heard from assembled blood drinkers in all his life. Not even the old armies of the Queens Blood had ever roared in such support for a leader.
All this while, these young ones had defied Benji's warnings, gathering hour by hour to watch the house, and struggling to glimpse the faces that appeared at the windows, scrutinizing each passing car for new arrivals, though in fact arrivals seldom if ever came by car, and those that did, managed to slide into the underground garage beneath the third townhouse of the assemblage.
Not a single immortal within the house had dared to acknowledge the existence of these desperate creatures, not for an instant, except Benji through the radio broadcast only and always urging them gently not to gather, and to please go away.
Yet they had come, and now they remained, irresistibly drawn to the only place around which they had hope.
And this bold bright gentleman vampire, Lestat, went right down the steps now to the pavement to greet them.
Reaching out, he drew them to himself in a huge tight circle, telling them all in his commanding voice to be wise, to be careful, and above all to be patient!
All around Gregory, blood drinkers within the house moved to the windows to watch this absolutely unprecedented spectacle--the peacock prince with his dark creamy skin and impeccable clothes, taking the time to talk to his subjects, and they were indeed his subjects, the rambling, scrambling baby vampires all trying to assure him of their love, their devotion, their innocence, their desire for a "chance," their pledge to feed on the evildoer only, to have no more quarrels, no fights, to do what he wanted, what he said, to have his love and his protection as a ruler.
And all the while, the iPhones were flashing, even cameras were flashing, and the taller stronger males were struggling to appear gentlemanly as they sought the front ranks, sought to grip his hand, the females throwing him kisses, and those in the back jumping up and down to wave to him.
Beside Gregory, Benji Mahmoud was overcome with joy.
"Do you see this?" he shouted and jumped in the air now as if he were still the twelve-year-old boy he'd been when the Dark Blood took him.
"I am so sorry," Lestat said to the crowd in the most genuine and persuasive voice, "that I have taken so long to come to my senses, to know your needs, to know your desperation. Forgive me that I let you down in the past, that I ran from you, that I hid myself from those whose love I'd sought and then disappointed. I'm here now and I tell you we will survive this, do you hear me, and Benji Mahmoud is right. Out of the mouths of babes! He's right. 'Hell shall have no dominion!' "
Again, the roar went up from them as if a tempest had hit the narrow street. What in the world did the mortals in those buildings across the way think of such things? What about the few cars that tried to make their way towards Lexington or Madison Avenue?
What did it matter? This was Manhattan where a crowd this size might loosely assemble outside a nightclub or for a gallery opening, or for a wedding, and were they not quick to get out of the way of the mortal world if they had to? Oh, the daring of it all, to go right out there and speak to them, to trust that such a thing was possible.
Sixty centuries of superstition, secrecy, and elitism were being overturned in one precious moment.
