The queen of the damned - Anne Rice [115]
Then someone had put the coffin in his hand; the tiny coffin that was passed now among those who feasted; the little reminder: Eat. Drink. For Death awaits all of us.
He held it tight; should he pass it now to the King?
He felt the King’s lips against his face suddenly. “Dance, Khayman. Drink. Tomorrow we march north to slay the last of the flesh eaters.” The King didn’t even look at the tiny coffin as he took it; he slipped it into the Queen’s hands and she, without looking down, gave it to another.
The last of the flesh eaters. How simple it had all seemed; how good. Until he had seen the twins kneeling before that altar.
The great rattle of drums drowned out Lestat’s voice. Mortals passed Khayman, hardly noticing him huddled there; a blood drinker ran quickly by without the slightest heed of him.
The voice of Lestat rose again, singing of the Children of Darkness, hidden beneath the cemetery called Les Innocents in superstition and fear.
Into the light
We’ve come
My Brothers and Sisters!
KILL US!
My Brothers and Sisters!
Sluggishly, Khayman rose. He was staggering, but he moved on, downward until he had come out in the lobby where the noise was just a little muted, and he rested there, across from the inner doors, in a cooling draft of fresh air.
Calm was returning to him, but only slowly, when he realized that two mortal men had paused nearby and were staring at him as he stood against the wall with his hands in his pockets, his head bowed.
He saw himself suddenly as they saw him. He sensed their apprehension, mingled with a sudden irrepressible sense of victory. Men who had known about his kind, men who had lived for a moment such as this, yet dreaded it, and never truly hoped for it.
Slowly, he looked up. They stood some twenty feet away from him, near to the cluttered concession stand, as if it could hide them—proper British gentlemen. They were old, in fact, learned, with heavily creased faces and prim formal attire. Utterly out of place here their fine gray overcoats, the bit of starched collar showing, the gleaming knot of silk tie. They seemed explorers from another world among the flamboyant youth that moved restlessly to and fro, thriving on the barbaric noise and broken chatter.
And with such natural reticence they stared; as if they were too polite to be afraid. Elders of the Talamasca looking for Jessica.
Know us? Yes, you do of course. No harm. Don’t care.
His silent words drove the one called David Talbot back a pace. The man’s breathing became hurried, and there was a sudden dampness on his forehead and upper lip. Yet such elegant composure. David Talbot narrowed his eyes as if he would not be dazzled by what he saw; as if he would see the tiny dancing molecules in the brightness.
How small it seemed suddenly the span of a human life; look at this fragile man, for whom education and refinement have only increased all risks. So simple to alter the fabric of his thought, his expectations. Should Khayman tell them where Jesse was? Should he meddle? It would make no difference ultimately.
He sensed now that they were afraid to go or to remain, that he had them fixed almost as if he’d hypnotized them. In a way, it was respect that kept them there, staring at him. It seemed he had to offer something, if only to end this awful scrutiny.
Don’t go to her. You’d be fools if you did. She has others like me now to look after her. Best leave here. I would if I were you.
Now, how would all this read in the archives of the Talamasca? Some night he might find out. To what modern places had they removed their old documents and treasures?
Benjamin, the Devil. That’s who I am. Don’t you know me? He smiled at himself. He let his