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right star； must always have。
Under moss…hung oaks we talked in civilized voices。 You and I begged him to be cautious。 Naturally； he ignored all we said。
It was all mixed up with the entrancing mortal Dora； who was living then in this very building； this old brick convent； the daughter of the man Lestat had stalked and slain。
When he bound us to look out for her； I was angry； but only mildly so。 I have fallen in love with mortals。 I have those tales to tell。 I am in love now with Sybelle and Benjamin； whom I call my children； and I had been a secret troubadour to other mortals in the dim past。
All right； he was in love with Dora； he'd laid his head on a mortal breast； he wanted the womb blood of her that would be no loss to her； he was smitten； crazed； goaded by the ghost of her Father and courted by the Prince of Evil Himself。
And she； what shall I say of her？ That she possessed the power of a Rasputin behind the face of a nunnery postulant； when in fact she is a practiced theologian and not a mystic； a ranting raving leader； not a visionary； whose ecclesiastical ambitions would have dwarfed those of Saints Peter and Paul put together； and that of course； she is like any flower Lestat ever gathered from the Savage Garden of this world： a most fine and fetching little creature； a glorious specimen of God's Creation…with raven hair； a pouty mouth； cheeks of porcelain and the dashing limbs of a nymph。
Of course I knew the very moment that he left this world。 I felt it。 I was in New York already； very near to him and aware that you were there as well。 Neither of us meant to let him out of our sight if at all possible。 Then came the moment when he vanished in the blizzard； when he was sucked out of the earthly atmosphere as if he'd never been there。
Being his fledgling you couldn't hear the perfect silence that descended when he vanished。 You couldn't know how pletely he'd been withdrawn from all things minuscule yet material which had once echoed with the beating of his heart。
I knew； and I think it was to distract us both that I proposed we go to the wounded mortal who must have been shattered by her Father's death at the hands of a blond…haired handsome blood…swilling monster who'd made her his confidant and a friend。
It was not difficult to help her in the short event…filled nights that followed； when horror was heaped upon horror； her Father's murder discovered； his sordid life at once made by media magic the madcap conversation of the wide world。
It seems a century ago； not merely so short a time； that we moved south to these rooms； her father's legacy of crucifixes and statues； of ikons which I handled so coolly as if I'd never loved such treasures at all。
It seems a century ago that I dressed decently for her； finding in some fashionable Fifth Avenue shop a shapely coat of old red velvet； a poet's shirt； as they call it now； of starched cotton and ample flopping lace； and to set this off； pegged…leg trousers of black wool and shiny boots that buckled at the ankle； all this the better to acpany her to identify her Father's severed head under the leeching fluorescent lights of some immense and overcrowded morgue。
One good thing about this final decade of the twentieth century is that a man of any age can wear his hair at any length。
It seems a century ago that I bed out mine； full and curly and clean for once； just for her。
It seems a century ago we stood so staunchly beside her； indeed even held her； this long…necked； short…haired； spellbinding witchlet； in our very arms as she wept over the death of her Father and pelted us with feverish and maniacally intelligent and dispassionate questions about our sinister nature； as if a great crash course in the anatomy of the vampire could somehow close the cycle of horror threatening her wholesomeness and her sanity and somehow bring her wicked conscienceless Father back。
No； it wasn't the return of Roger； actually； that she prayed for； she believed too totally in the omniscience and mercy of God。 Besides； seeing a man's severed head is a bit of a shock； even if the head is frozen； and a dog had chomped on Roger a bit before he'd been discovered； and what with the strict 〃no touch〃 rules of modern forensics； he was…for me even…quite a sight。 （I remember the coroner's assistant saying soulfully to me that I was awfully young to have to see such a thing。 She thought I was Dora's little brother。 What a sweet woman she was。 Perhaps it's worth it to make a foray into the official mortal world once in a while in order to be called 〃a real trouper〃 instead of a Botticelli angel； which has bee my tag line among the Undead。）
It was the return of Lestat Dora dreamed of。 What else would ever allow her to break free of our enchantment but some final blessing from the crowned prince himself？
I stood at the dark glass windows of the high…rise apartment； looking out over the deep snows of Fifth Avenue； waiting and praying with her； wishing the great Earth were not so empty of my old enemy and thinking in my foolish heart that in time this mystery of his disappearance would be resolved； as were all miracles； with sadness and small losses； with no more than little revelations that would leave me as I had always been left since that long…ago night in Venice when my Master and I were divided forever； simply a little more clever at pretending that I was still alive。
I didn't fear for Lestat； not really。 I had no hopes for his adventure； except that he would appear sooner or later and tell us some fantastical yarn。 It would be regular Lestat talk； for nobody aggrandizes as he does his preposterous adventures。 This is not to say that he hasn't switched bodies with a human。 I know that he has。 This is not to say that he didn't wake our fearsome goddess Mother； Akasha； I know that he did。 This is not to say that he didn't smash my old superstitious Coven to bits and pieces in the garish years before the French Revolution。 I've already told you so。
But it's the way he describes things that happen to him that maddens me； the way that he connects one incident to another as though all these random and grisly occurrences were in fact links in some significant chain。 They are not。 They are capers。 And he knows it。 But he must make a gutter theatrical out of stubbing his toe。
The James Bond of the Vampires； the Sam Spade of his own pages！ A rock singer wailing on a mortal stage for all of two hours and； on the strength of that； retiring with a slew of recordings that feed him filthy lucre still from human agencies to this very night。
He has a knack for making tragedy of tribulation； and forgiving himself for anything and everything in every confessional paragraph he pens。
I can't fault him； really。 I cannot help but hate it that he lies now in a a on the floor of his chapel here； staring into a self…contained silence； despite the fledglings that circle him…for precisely the same reason as I did； to see for themselves if the blood of Christ has transformed him somehow and he does not represent some magnificent manifestation of the miracle of the Transubstantiation。