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That's not true. If I want to, I can make your right hand jump right now.
I made my right hand into a fist.
"A distinct personality?" asked Magnus. "Or a legion of hobgoblins wrapped into one?" It seemed a sincere question.
"Very much a distinct personality. Male. Curious. Loving."
You're nauseating me; I'm going to make you vomit.
"For now," said Teskhamen. He drew himself up. "But I have no choice but to warn you of certain things right in his presence, because there is no telling ever where he is, or in whom he might be hiding, including me. And I have to warn you. He wants more than to be trapped in you. He had a life as a spirit; a personality; we have fragmentary evidence of that, just what Maharet told you and the others when she told you the old stories. But in those stories he emerged as an evil spirit, a spirit who claimed blood and violence...."
"Don't listen to this trash!" said Amel loudly. I was startled by the sheer volume of his voice and Teskhamen saw it. Maybe he heard it.
"Remember, Lestat," Teskhamen said, assuming the gentle tone again, "we are the Talamasca. We know spirits, and we know what we don't know about them. Never trust him. Never give him an inch to take over. Your body is powerful. He picked you on account of your body."
"Fool," said Amel. "Fool," he repeated. "He knows nothing about love; he knows nothing about the suffering of those whom he calls spirits. And what's your body compared to Marius's body or the body of Seth or Gregory or his body, for that matter!"
I looked at Gremt. "Can you hear him too? Can you hear him talking inside my head right now?"
Gremt shook his head. "In the beginning I could, centuries ago, when I was no more than an illusion; in those times I could see him superimposed over the figure of the comatose Queen. When I drew near her shrine, and I did come to her often, I heard a species of relentless singing from him that suggested madness. But no, I can't hear him now. I'm too solid, separate and individual." There was bitterness in his voice. I wondered if he had specifically shaped his voice, its deep timbre, as he had shaped his appearance. Maybe the voice had distinguished itself over time.
Amel started laughing again. A mean mocking laugh.
Another silence fell, and Gremt seemed lost in his thoughts, eyes on the fire. "I came here after him," he said as though speaking to the flames. "I came down into the flesh after Amel, enchanted by his example. And I wanted to be one of you, a human. It seemed so splendid."
"Burn down this house and see what they do," said Amel. "You never do anything to make me happy."
"Has it been splendid?" I asked Gremt.
He looked at me as if the question astonished him. To me, it seemed logical.
"Yes," he said. "It is splendid, but I am not human, am I? Seems I don't age, and can't die. The old story."
"Would it have been more splendid if you had become wholly human, grown old, and died?" I pushed.
No answer. Faint annoyance.
"And so for us you make good company, Gremt," I said. "You understand us."
Silence again and I hated it. Something unspoken in the air. And I thought suddenly of leaving, going ahead up into the sky and over the sea to find Louis. But it was far too soon to leave, just because I was uncomfortable.
"You have quite a sense of gravitas about being the Prince now, don't you?" asked Magnus. His smile was almost innocent, almost pleasant.
"Shouldn't I?" I asked. "Aren't you glad your fledgling and heir grew up to be the Prince of the Undead? Aren't you proud of me?"
"Yes, I am," he said sincerely. "I've always been proud of you, except when you retreat, and give in to your suffering. I haven't been so proud when you do that. But you always come back. Doesn't matter how dreadful the defeat, you come back."
"And does this mean you've been near me, watching me, all these years?"
"No, because I wasn't the ghost you see now all these years. I was another kind of ghost until Gremt rescued me and brought me here and showed me what I could be. After that, yes, I did spy on you. But that wasn't so very long ago."
"Will you tell me more about all this?"
"Some night, surely," he said. "All of it. At times, I write. I write pages and pages of my thoughts. I write poems. I write songs even. I write reflections. The autobiography of a vampire and a vampire ghost who was once an alchemist who sought to cure all the diseases of the world and make broken bones fuse perfectly, an alchemist who sought to comfort little children in pain--." He broke off, and his eyes left me for the flames. "I had written books for you, my heir. Then the night before I brought you to my tower, I burned them."
"Good God, why?" I asked. "I would have cherished every word!"
"I know," he said. "I know that now. I didn't know it then. We have much to say to one another, and you can have at me, you know." He glanced at me again and back to the blazing logs. "You can rail at me for snatching you out of mortal life, rail at me for abandoning you with hard cold jewels and coin when you might have gotten all that for yourself on your own...." Again, he stopped, drifted, and the whole image flickered, but now the flickering couldn't conceivably diminish his seeming power.
