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oul； you never； never went back to any such place as the low city with the icy water in its streets； where your Father； a thing of myth and nonsense to be sure； drank wine from your hands and forgave you that you had gone to bee a dark and strong winged bird； a bird of the night soaring higher even than the domes of Vladimir's City； as if someone had broken that egg； that meticulously and wondrously painted egg which your Mother so cherished as she gave it you； broken that egg with a vicious thumb； cracked right into it； and out of that rotten fluid； that stinking fluid； you had been born； the night bird； flying high over the smoking chimneys of Podil； over the domes of Vladimir's Town； higher and farther and farther away over the wild lands and over the world and into this dark wood； this deep and dark and endless forest from which you will never escape； this cold and fortless wilderness of the hungry wolf and the chomping rat and the crawling worm and the screaming victim。
Allesandra would e。 〃Wake； Armand。 Wake。 You dream the sad dreams； the dreams that precede madness； you cannot leave me； my child； you cannot； I fear death more than I fear this and will not be alone； you cannot go into the fire； you cannot go and leave me here。〃
No。 I couldn't。 I did not have the passion for such a step。 I did not have the hope for anything； even though no word of the Roman Coven had e in decades。
But there came an end to my long centuries of Satan's service。
Clad in red velvet it came； the very covering my old Master had so loved； the dream king； Marius。 It came swaggering and camping through the lighted streets of Paris as though God had made it。
But it was a vampire child； the same as I； son of the seventeen hundreds； as they reckoned the time to be then； a blazing； brash； bumbling； laughing and teasing blood drinker in the guise of a young man； e to stomp out whatever sacred fire yet burnt in the cleft scar tissue of my soul and scatter the ashes。
It was The Vampire Lestat。 It wasn't his fault。 Had one of us been able to strike him down one night； break him apart with his own fancy sword and set him ablaze； we might have had a few more decades of our wretched delusions。
But nobody could。 He was too damned strong for us。
Created by a powerful and ancient renegade； a legendary vampire by the name of Magnus； this Lestat； aged twenty in mortal years； an errant and penniless country aristocrat from the wild lands of Auvergne； who had thrown over custom and respectability and any hope of court ambitions； of which he had none anyway since he couldn't even read or write； and was too insulting to wait on any King or Queen； who became a wild blond…haired celebrity of the boulevard gutter theatricals； a lover of men and women； a laughing happy…go…lucky blindly ambitious self…loving genius of sorts； this Lestat； this blue…eyed and infinitely confident Lestat； was orphaned on the very night of his creation by the ancient monster who made him； bequeathed to him a fortune in a secret room in a crumbling medieval tower； and then went into the eternal fort of the ever devouring flames。
This Lestat； knowing nothing of Old Covens and Old Ways； of soot covered gangsters who thrived under cemeteries and believed they had a right to brand him a heretic； a maverick and a bastard of the Dark Blood； went strutting about fashionable Paris； isolated and tormented by his supernatural endowments yet glorying in his new powers； dancing at the Tuileries with the most magnificently clad women； reveling in the joys of the ballet and the high court theater and roaming not only in the Places of Light； as we called them； but meandering mournfully in Notre Dame de Paris itself； right before the High Altar； without the lightning of God striking him where he stood。
He destroyed us。 He destroyed me。
Allesandra； mad by then as most of the old ones were in those times； had one merry argument with him after I dutifully arrested him and dragged him to our underground Court to stand trial； and then she too went into the flames； leaving me with the obvious absurdity： that Our Ways were finished； our superstitions obviously laughable； our dusty black robes ludicrous； our penance and self…denial pointless； our beliefs that we served God and the Devil self…serving； naive and stupid； our organization as preposterous in the gay atheistic Parisian world of the Age of Reason as it might have seemed to my beloved Venetian Marius centuries before。
Lestat was the smasher； the laughing one； the pirate who； worshiping nothing and no one； soon left Europe to find his own safe and agreeable territory in the colony of New Orleans in the New World。
He had no forting philosophy for me； the baby…faced deacon who had e forth out of the darkest prison； shorn of all belief； to put on the fashionable clothes of the age and walk once again on its high streets as I had done over three hundred years ago in Venice。
And my followers； those few whom I could not overpower and bitterly consign to the flames； how helplessly they blundered in their new freedom…free to pick the gold from the pockets of their victims and don their silks and their white…powdered wigs； and sit in marvelous astonishment before the glories of the painted stage； the lustrous harmony of a hundred violins； the antics of versifying actors。
What was to be our fate； as with dazzled eyes we made our way through crowded early evening boulevards； fancy mansions and grandly decorated ballrooms？
In satin…lined boudoirs we fed； and against the damask cushions of gilded carriages。 We bought fine coffins for ourselves； full of fancy carvings and padded velvet； and were closeted for the night in gilded mahogany…paneled cellars。
What would have bee of us； scattered； my children fearful of me； and I uncertain of when the fopperies and frenzy of the French City of Light might drive them to rash or hideously destructive antics？
It was Lestat who gave me the key； Lestat who gave me the place where I could lodge my crazed and pounding heart； where I could bring my followers together for some semblance of newfangled sanity。
Before leaving me stranded in the waste of my old ways； he bequeathed to me the very boulevard theater in which he had once been the young swain of the media dell' Arte。 All its human players were gone。 Nothing remained but the elegant and inviting husk； with its stage of gaily painted backdrops and gilded proscenium arch； its velvet curtains and empty benches just waiting for a clamoring audience again。 In it we found our safest refuge； so eager to hide behind the mask of greasepaint and glamour that flawlessly disguised our polished white skin and fantastical grace and dexterity。
Actors we became； a regular pany of immortals bound together to perform cheerfully decadent pantomimes for mortal audiences who never suspected that we white…faced mummers were more monstrous than any monster we ever presented in our little farces or tragedies。
The Theatre des Vampires was born。
And worthless shell that I was； dressed up like a human with less claim to that title than ever in all my years of fa