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He killed the music from the iPhone. He didn't want to die with a soundtrack. And he fully expected to hear the Voice raging and cackling exultantly. But the Voice was not there.
"Miserable coward," he muttered. "You order my death and decamp without even remaining here to witness it. And you wanted me to burn down the Roman Vampire Refuge in the Via Condotti. W
ell, you're ugly and you're mad."
The ancient vampire across the way rose to his feet and gestured in a decidedly friendly manner for Everard to join them. He was not overly tall and he was very delicate of build. He took a chair from a nearby table and placed it in their circle. He waited patiently for Everard's response.
It was as if Everard had forgotten how to walk. All his life in the Undead he'd seen vampires burned by others, seen that horrific spectacle of a living breathing creature going up in a personal inferno because some older more powerful vampire--like that contemptible, condescending Marius--had decided he or she should die. His legs were wobbling so badly as he crossed the street, he thought he would at any moment collapse. His narrow tailored leather jacket felt heavy and his boots pinched and he wondered inanely whether his blue silk tie had a stain on it, and whether the cuffs of his lavender shirt were sticking too far out of his coat sleeves.
His hands were shaking visibly as he reached to accept the hard icy hand of the old vampire. But he managed it. He managed to sit down.
The ghosts were smiling at him, and they were even more perfect than he'd thought. Yes, they breathed, they had internal organs, and yes, they were wearing real clothes. Nothing illusory about that dark worsted wool, or linen and silk. And no doubt all this superb "tissue" could vanish in a twinkling, and the costly clothes would drop to the ground on top of the empty shoes.
The old vampire placed a hand on Everard's shoulder. He had small but long fingers and he wore two stunning gold rings. This was a traditional way vampires greeted each other, not with embraces, not with kisses, but with the placing of the hand on the shoulder. Everard remembered that from times when he had lived amongst them.
"Young one," he said with the characteristic pomposity of the elder blood drinkers, "please, do not be afraid." He spoke in Parisian French.
Up close the ancient one's face was truly impressive, very fine of feature with exquisite black eyelashes and a serene smile. High cheekbones, a firm, discernible, yet narrow jaw. His skin did look like the petal of a gardenia in the moonlight, yes, and his white hair had a subtle silvery sheen. He hadn't been Born to Darkness with that hair. Rhoshamandes, Everard's maker, had long ago explained that when some of the ancient ones were badly burnt their hair was white forever after. Well, it was that kind of magnificent white hair.
"We know you've heard the Voice," said this ancient one. "I too have heard it. Others have heard it. Are you hearing it now?"
"No," said Everard.
"And it's telling you to burn others, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Everard. "I have never harmed another blood drinker. Never had to. Never want to. I've lived in this part of Italy for almost four hundred years. I don't go into Rome or Florence to fight with people."
"I know," said the ancient one. It was a pleasing voice, a gentle voice, but then all the old ones had good voices, at least as far as Everard had ever observed. What he remembered more than anything else about his maker, Rhoshamandes, was his seductive voice, and that voice luring him into the forest on the night he was Born to Darkness against his will. Everard had thought the lord in the castle was summoning him for an erotic encounter, that afterwards he'd be dismissed with a few coins if he'd managed to please, and that he would have tales of tapestry-covered walls and blazing fires and fine clothes to tell his grandchildren. Ha! He could remember Rhoshamandes talking to him as if it were last night: You are surely one of the most beautiful young men in your village!
"My name is Teskhamen," said this ancient one who was looking at him with such mild, gracious eyes. "I come from old Egypt. I was a servant of the Mother."
"Doesn't everyone say that these days, since the publication of the Vampire Chronicles?" asked Everard angrily before he could stop himself. "Do any of you ever cop to having been a renegade or some clever menace who wheedled the Blood from a Gypsy blood drinker in a ragged caravan?"
The ancient one laughed out loud. But it was a good-natured laugh. "Well, I see I have indeed put you at your ease," he said. "And that didn't prove to be hard after all." His face grew serious. "Do you have any idea who the Voice might be?"
"You're asking me?" Everard scoffed. "You must have two thousand years in the Blood. Look at you." He glared at the two ghosts. "Don't you know who he is?" He flashed back on Teskhamen. "That little monster's driving me crazy. I can't shut him out."
Teskhamen nodded. "I'm sorry to hear that, but it is possible to ignore him. It takes patience and skill, but it can be done."
"Oh, blah, blah, blah, blah, BLAH!" said Everard. "He sticks his invisible needle through my temple. He must be in the vicinity."
He glared again at the two ghosts. They didn't even shiver. Sometimes ghosts did that when you glared directly at them. The apparitions shivered or quivered, but not these two.
The one who appeared to be an older man extended his ghostly hand.
Everard took it, discovering it felt entirely human and that it was warm and soft.
"Raymond Gallant," said the ghost in English. "If you'll allow it, I'm your friend."
"Magnus," said the younger male ghost. His was a marvelous face for anyone, ghost or blood drinker, or mortal, for that matter. His eyes crinkled again agreeably as he smiled and he did indeed have a particularly beautiful mouth, what people call a generous mouth, as well formed as the Apollo Belvedere. His forehead was beautiful, and his hair moving back from it in waves of ashen blond was handsome.
Those names rang a bell, but Everard couldn't place them. Raymond Gallant. Magnus.
"I don't think the Voice is in the vicinity," said Teskhamen. "I think he can be anyplace that he wants to be, anywhere in the world, but it does seem he can only be in one place at a time and of course that 'place' is inside a blood drinker's mind."
"Which means what, exactly?" demanded Everard. "How's he doing it? Who is he?"
"That is what we would like to know," said Raymond Gallant. Again he spoke in British English.
