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Armand's magnificent nineteenth-century house--which he'd built in Saint-Germaine-de-Pres--was shut up and maintained by unwitting mortals, full of murals, carpets, and antique furniture covered in white sheets.
He'd refurbished that house for Louis right before the dawn of the twentieth century, but I don't think Louis had ever been at home in it. In Interview with the Vampire he did not so much as even mention it. The fin de siecle with its glorious painters, actors, and composers had meant nothing to Louis, for all his pretensions to sensitivity. Ah, but I couldn't blame Louis for shunning Paris. He'd lost his beloved Claudia--our beloved Claudia--in Paris. How could he be expected ever to forget that? And he'd known Armand was a jungle wildcat among revenants, hadn't he?
Still ... Paris ... I'd suffered here too, had I not? But not at the hands of Paris, no. Paris had always fulfilled my dreams and expectations. Paris, my eternal city, my home.
Ah, but Notre Dame, the great vast cathedral of Notre Dame was as always Notre Dame, and there we spent hours together, safe in the cold shadows in that great forest grove of arches and columns where I'd come more than two hundred years ago to weep over my transformation, and was in some way weeping over it even now.
David and I walked the narrow quiet streets of the Ile Saint-Louis talking together. The fledgling paparazzi were within blocks of us but dared not come closer. The grand townhouse in which I'd made my mother, Gabrielle, into a Child of Darkness was still there.
Gradually we fell to talking again, naturally. I asked David how he had come to know Fareed.
"I sought out Fareed," David said. "I'd heard plenty of whispers of this mad vampire scientist and his ancient guardian angel, and their 'evil' experiments, you know, the gossip of the misbegotten. So I went to the West Coast and looked for him till I found him."
David described the new compound where Seth and Fareed were now, safe and secure in the wastes of the California desert, beyond the city of Palm Springs. Out there, they had built the perfect facilities for themselves--isolated and protected by two sets of high walls and mechanical gates, with tunnels for emergency evacuation and a heliport. They ran a small clinic for mortal incurables, but their real work took place in secure laboratories in sprawling three-story buildings. They were close enough to other medical facilities for their activities to attract little or no attention and far enough away from everything else to have the isolation and land they had needed but could not have in Los Angeles.
They'd welcomed David immediately. Indeed they'd been so hospitable that one could not imagine them being anything but that to everyone.
David had pressed Fareed on a very special issue: how was his mind and his soul anchored now in this body in which he had not been born, his own body being in a grave in England?
Fareed had done every conceivable test that he could on David. He could find no evidence that any "intelligence" existed inside him that was not generated by and expressed through his own brain. As far as he could see, David was David in this body. And his connection with it was utterly secure.
"Before you came into the Blood," Fareed had told David, "very possibly you could have exited this body. You could have been some sort of discarnate entity, a ghost, in other words, capable of possessing other susceptible bodies. I don't know. I can't know. Because you are in the Blood now and very likely this Blood has more securely than ever bound you to your physicality."
Speculation. But David had been comforted.
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He too felt that Fareed and Seth would never seek to use their scientific knowledge against humans.
"But what about their underlings?" I asked. "They were already bringing doctors and scientists into the Blood when I met them."
"Be assured. They pick and choose carefully. The vampire researchers I encountered were like idiot savants of their profession, obsessed, focused, completely devoid of any grand schemes, in love with studying our blood under microscopes."
"And that is his central project, is it not?" I asked. "To study our blood, the Blood, so to speak?"
"It's a frustrating proposition from what I understand, as whatever the Sacred Core is physically, we cannot see it. If it's made of cells, the cells are infinitely smaller than the cells that we can see. So Fareed's working with properties."
David rambled on, but it was science poetry again, and I couldn't absorb it.
"Do you think they're still there, in that same location?"
"I know they are," David said. "They tried a number of others first that did not work out."
Perhaps that was when I was searching for them.
"They're there. You can easily find them. In fact, they would be overjoyed if you would come to see them."
The night was rolling to an end. The paparazzi had retreated to their coffins and lairs. I told David he could keep my suite at the hotel as long as he liked, and I had to head home soon.
But not quite yet. We'd been walking in the Grand Couvert of the Tuileries--in tree-shrouded darkness. "I'm thirsting," I said aloud. At once he suggested where we might hunt.
"No, for your blood," I said, pushing him backwards against the slender but firm trunk of a tree.
"You damnable brat," he seethed.
"Oh, yes, despise me, please," I said as I closed in. I pushed his face to one side, kissing his throat first, and then sinking my fangs very slowly, my tongue ready for those first radiant drops. I think I heard him say the single word, "Caution," but once the blood struck the roof of my mouth, I wasn't hearing clearly or seeing clearly and didn't care.
I had to force myself to pull back. I held a mouthful of blood as long as I could until it seemed to be absorbed without my swallowing, and I let those last ripples of warmth pass through my fingers and toes.
