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with the news round the world when Lestat is in trouble。 Gabrielle； she looks just like him； except she's a woman； totally a woman； that is； sharper of feature； small…waisted； big…breasted； sweet…eyed in the most unnerving and dishonest fashion； gorgeous in a black ball gown with her hair free； more often dusty； genderless； sheathed in supple leather or belted khaki； a steady walker； and a vampire so cunning and cold that she has forgotten what it ever meant to be human or in pain。 Indeed； I think she forgot overnight； if she ever knew it。 She was in mortal life one of those creatures who always wondered what the others were carrying on about。 Gabrielle； low…voiced； unintentionally vicious； glacial； forbidding； ungiving； a wanderer through snowy forests of the far north； a slayer of giant white bears and white tigers； an indifferent legend to untamed tribes； something more akin to a prehistoric reptile than a human。 Beautiful； naturally； blond hair in a braid down her back； almost regal in a chocolate…colored leather safari jacket and a small droopy brimmed rain hat； a stalker； a quick killer； a pitiless and seemingly thoughtful but eternally secretive thing。 Gabrielle； virtually useless to anyone but herself。 Some night she'll say something to someone； I suppose。
Pandora； child of two millennia； consort to my own beloved Marius a thousand years before I was ever born。 A goddess； made of bleeding marble； a powerful beauty out of the deepest and most ancient soul of Roman Italy； fierce with the moral fiber of the old Senatorial class of the greatest Empire the Western world has ever known。 I don't know her。 Her oval face shimmers beneath a mantle of rippling brown hair。 She seems too beautiful to hurt anyone。 She is tender…voiced； with innocent； imploring eyes； her flawless face instantly vulnerable and warm with empathy； a mystery。 I don't know how Marius could ever have left her。 In a short shift of filmy silk； with a snake bracelet on her bare arm； she is too ravishing for mortal males and the envy of females。 In her longer concealing gowns； she moves as a wraith through the rooms around her as if they are not real to her； and she； the ghost of a dancer； seeks for some perfect setting that she alone can find。 Her powers certainly rival those of Marius。 She has drunk from the Eden fount； that is； the blood of Queen Akasha。 She can kindle crisp dry objects into fire with the power of her mind； levitate and vanish in the dark sky； slay the young blood drinkers if they menace her； and yet she seems harmless； forever feminine though indifferent to gender； a wan and plaintive woman whom I want to close in my arms。
Santino； the old saint of Rome。 He has wandered into the disasters of the modern era with all his beauty unblemished； still the big…shouldered； strong…chested one； olive skin paler now with the workings of the fierce magical blood； huge head of black curling hair often clipped each night at sunset for the sake of anonymity perhaps； unvain； perfectly dressed in black。 He says nothing to anyone。 He looks at me silently as if we never talked together of theology and mysticism； as if he never broke my happiness； burnt my youth to cinders； drove my Maker into century…long convalescence； divided me from all fort。 Perhaps he fancies us as fellow victims of a powerful intellectual morality； an infatuation with the concept of purpose； two lost ones； veterans of the same war。
At times he looks shrewd and even hateful。 He knows plenty。 He doesn't underestimate the powers of the ancient ones； who； eschewing the social invisibility of centuries past； now walk among us with perfect ease。 When he looks at me； his black eyes are unflinching and passive。 The shadow of his beard； fixed forever into the tiny cut…off dark hairs embedded in his skin； is beautiful as it always was。 He is all in all conventionally virile； crisp white shirt open at the throat to show the portion of the thick curly black hair that covers his chest； a similar enticing black fleece covering the visible flesh of his arms at the wrists。 He favors sleek but sturdy black coats lapeled in leather or fur； low…slung black cars that move at two hundred miles an hour； a golden cigarette lighter reeking of bustible fluid； which he lights over and over again just to peer into the flame。 Where he actually lives； and when he will surface； nobody knows。
Santino。 I know no more about him than that。 We keep a gentlemanly distance from one another。 I suspect his own suffering has been terrible； I do not seek to break the shiny black fashionable carapace of his demeanor to discover some raw bloody tragedy beneath it。 To know Santino； there is always time。
Now let me describe for the most virginal of readers my Master； Marius； as he is now。 So much time and experience divide us now that it is like a glacier between us； and we stare at each other across the glowing whiteness of that impassable waste； able only to speak in lulled and polite voices； so mannerly； the young creature I appear to be； too sweet…faced for casual belief； and he； ever the worldly sophisticate； the scholar of the moment； the philosopher of the century； ethicist of the millennium； historian for all time。
He walks tall as he always did； imperial still in his subdued twentieth…century fashion； carving his coats out of old velvet that they may give some faint clue of the magnificence that was once his nightly dress。 On occasions now he clips the long flowing yellow hair which he wore so proudly in old Venice。 He is ever quick of wit and tongue and eager for reasonable solutions； possessed of infinite patience and unquenchable curiosity and a refusal to give up on the fate of himself； or of us； or of this world。 No knowledge can defeat him； tempered by fire and time； he is too strong for the horrors of technology or the spells of science。 Neither microscopes nor puters shake his faith in the infinite； though his once solemn charges…Those Who Must Be Kept； who held such promise of redemptive meaning…have long been toppled from their archaic thrones。
I fear him。 I don't know why。 Perhaps I fear him because I could love him again； and loving him； I would e to need him； and needing him； I would e to learn from him； and learning from him； I would be again his faithful pupil in all things； only to discover that his patience for me is no substitute for the passion which long ago blazed in his eyes。
I need that passion！ I need it。 But enough of him。 Two thousand years he had survived； slipping in and out of the very mainstream of human life without punction； a great practitioner of the art of being human； carrying with him forever the grace and quiet dignity of the Augustan Age of seemingly invincible Rome； in which he was born。
There are others who are not here now with me； though they have been on The Night Island； and I will see them again。 There are the ancient twins； Mekare and Maharet； custodians of the primal blood fount from which our life flows； the roots of the vine； so to speak； upon which we so stubbornly and beautifully bloom。 They are our Queens of the Damned。
Then there is Jesse Reeves； a twentieth…century fledgling made by Maharet； the very el