___lestat_____ (___lestat_____) wrote in the_bloodofman,
___lestat_____
___lestat_____
the_bloodofman

Chapter 6

Early Evening
Next Day
Lestat


If things such as myself were capable of dreaming, I fear I would have dreamt that day. I would have dreamt of William. Nightmares I am sure of it, would have wound their way into it, making me see things that were not there. Nevertheless, I have not dreamed since I was a mortal, and those I can no longer remember.

I do not rise to greet the night, but instead lay lethargically amongst my pillows and Jessie. She has not risen yet and I do not wish to wake her. She would only insist on hunting down William. A task I am not yet ready to do.

Such things she must think of him, of me, I can only imagine. She is still young, with room enough to think things are wondrous before they appear gruesome and old through time and trials. She does not know what this...stranger may bring, for he is just that, a stranger. An intriguing one for sure, but he is foreign to us just the same. I do not think she understands that point, however. She thinks one conversation over a century ago is more than enough to remember him by, but he has changed, as have I, as has the world.

I close my eyes again, thinking of that young William and of the image I had glanced upon at the bar. Similarities to be sure, but differences as well. It was the cheekbones, that perfectly sculpted face, that made me certain it was he. How many living statues come to life can there be?

Reaching out with my mind, I let it roam through those mortals living around us and even those not so close. I prod and probe, though that is not quite a good description, for them to tell me where he is. I feed them the image I have of the blond with startling blue eyes. So many have seen him, but know nothing of him. He seems to be everywhere and nowhere at once, like a shadow of a memory, nothing more than what I have. Moreover, maybe it is I feeding them these images so that they are being reflected back to me. I do not know how this works other than it does.

This is more than discouraging. I do not wish to be disappointed so, but more than that, I do not want him to be gone. But there, a flash of him, standing, and smoking, another flash of him laughing. Who is it that knows him? Who is it that knows that face so well to know how it smiles? Something is blocking me from the name of the one who shows me these visions. The face is not available to me. Ah, but they give me something else of value, a place and a time. I would thank them, if they would allow, but it is not to be. They know I am here and do not wish me to stay. So instead, I pull back into myself, shutting away the voices and cries of the many that rush to me. Prayers they think I can answer, but I cannot.

Who is it, the one that knows his schedule, where he will be and when? A friend? A lover? Does he even know that someone knows him so intimately as to know when he will appear next? Surely, he would not just allow random mortals to know his habits. Though, would he? Is that something unique to these other vampires? That they allow mortals into their life? It did not seem so when I met him years ago.

I feel Jessie stir beside me, slowly awakening from the deep slumber that immobilizes even the oldest of us when the sun shows itself. It is like watching a flower unfold from a long winters slumber, stretching out to show its self to the bright spring morning light. Only we wake to the night, the coldness of the moon and stars. We unfold like bats from a cave, seeking food, prey, and blood.

I gaze down at her, the dark red tresses of her hair flow like water around her as she moves. I do so love her hair, and the eyes, the sheer brilliance of them. I wonder if she has looked at her eyes lately, seen the colors that wage war in a never-ending battle for dominance, but always the green seems to shine the brightest. Her skin is pale, though it is not so much paler from that which she bore in life. Her lips are like that of a pale pink rose still in bud form. They quiver at the edges, attempting not to smile at me, I am sure.

"Good Evening, my sweet," I say, leaning down to kiss those lips softly. I do not wish to bruise such delicate beauty such as that. Too many times have I done that in the past.
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