The queen of the damned - Anne Rice [0]
with love
to
Stan Rice, Christopher Rice,
and John Preston
And to the memory
of
my beloved editors:
John Dodds
and
William Whitehead
TRAGIC RABBIT
Tragic rabbit, a painting.
The caked, ears green like rolled corn.
The black forehead pointing at the stars.
A painting on my wall, alone
as rabbits are
and aren’t. Fat red cheek,
all Art, trembling nose,
a habit hard to break as not.
You too can be a tragic rabbit; green and red
your back, blue your manly little chest.
But if you’re ever goaded into being one
beware the True Flesh, it
will knock you off your tragic horse
and break your tragic colors like a ghost
breaks marble; your wounds will heal
so quickly water
will be jealous.
Rabbits on white paper painted
outgrow all charms against their breeding wild;
and their rolled corn ears become horns.
So watch out if the tragic life feels fine—
caught in that rabbit trap
all colors look like sunlight’s swords,
and scissors like The Living Lord.
STAN RICE
Some Lamb (1975)
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
PROEM
PART I
THE ROAD TO THE VAMPIRE LESTAT
1 The Legend of the Twins
2 The Short Happy Life of Baby Jenks and the Fang Gang
3 The Goddess Pandora
4 The Story of Daniel, the Devil’s Minion, or the Boy from Interview with the Vampire
5 Khayman, My Khayman
6 The Story of Jesse, the Great Family, and the Talamasca
PART II
ALL HALLOW’S EVE
PART III
AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING, IS NOW, AND EVER SHALL BE . . .
1 Lestat:
In the Arms of the Goddess
2 Marius:
Coming Together
3 Lestat:
The Queen of Heaven
4 The Story of the Twins, Part I
5 Lestat:
This Is My Body; This Is My Blood
6 The Story of the Twins, Part II
7 Lestat:
The Kingdom of Heaven
8 The Story of the Twins, Conclusion
PART IV
THE QUEEN OF THE DAMNED
PART V
. . . WORLD WITHOUT END, AMEN
Other Books By This Author
About the Author
I’M THE Vampire Lestat. Remember me? The vampire who became a super rock star, the one who wrote the autobiography? The one with the blond hair and the gray eyes, and the insatiable desire for visibility and fame? You remember. I wanted to be a symbol of evil in a shining century that didn’t have any place for the literal evil that I am. I even figured I’d do some good in that fashion—playing the devil on the painted stage.
And I was off to a good start when we talked last. I’d just made my debut in San Francisco—first “live concert” for me and my mortal band. Our album was a huge success. My autobiography was doing respectably with both the dead and the undead.
Then something utterly unforeseen took place. Well, at least I hadn’t seen it coming. And when I left you, I was hanging from the proverbial cliff, you might say.
Well, it’s all over now—what followed. I’ve survived, obviously. I wouldn’t be talking to you if I hadn’t. And the cosmic dust has finally settled; and the small rift in the world’s fabric of rational beliefs has been mended, or at least closed.
I’m a little sadder for all of it, and a little meaner and a little more conscientious as well. I’m also infinitely more powerful, though the human in me is closer to the surface than ever—an anguished and hungry being who both loves and detests this invincible immortal shell in which I’m locked.
The blood thirst? Insatiable, though physically I have never needed the blood less. Possibly I could exist now without it altogether. But the lust I feel for everything that walks tells me that this will never be put to the test.
You know, it was never merely the need for the blood anyway, though the blood is all things sensual that a creature could desire; it’s the intimacy of that moment—drinking, killing—the great heart-to-heart dance that takes place as the victim weakens and I feel myself expanding, swallowing the death which, for a split second, blazes as large as the life.
That’s deceptive, however. No death can be as large as a life. And that’s why I keep taking life, isn’t it? And I’m as far from salvation now as I could ever get. The fact that