Anne Rice
 Queen of Damned
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  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 I know it only makes it worse.
  
  Of course I can still pass for human; all of us can, in one way or another, no matter 
how old we are. Collar up, hat down, dark glasses, hands in pockets-it usually does the 
trick. I like slim leather jackets and tight jeans for this disguise now, and a pair of 
plain black boots that are good for walking on any terrain. But now and then I wear the 
fancier silks which people like in these southern climes where I now reside.
  
  If someone does look too closely, then there is a little telepathic razzle-dazzle: 
Perfectly normal, what you see. And a flash of the old smile, fang teeth easily 
concealed, and the mortal goes his way.
  
  Occasionally I throw up all the disguises; I just go out the way I am. Hair long, a 
velvet blazer that makes me think of the olden times, and an emerald ring or two on my 
right hand. I walk fast right through the downtown crowds in this lovely corrupt southern 
city; or stroll slowly along the beaches, breathing the warm southern breeze, on sands 
that are as white as the moon.
  
  Nobody stares for more than a second or two. There are too many other inexplicable 
things around us-horrors, threats, mysteries that draw you in and then inevitably 
disenchant you. Back to the predictable and humdrum. The prince is never going to come, 
everybody knows that; and maybe Sleeping Beauty's dead.
  
  It's the same for the others who have survived with me, and who share this hot and 
verdant little corner of the universe-the southeastern tip of the North American 
continent, the glistering metropolis of Miami, a happy hunting ground for bloodthirsting 
immortals if ever there was such a place.
  
  It's good to have them with me, the others; it's crucial, really- and what I always 
thought I wanted: a grand coven of the wise, the enduring, the ancient, and the careless 
young.
  
  But ah, the agony of being anonymous among mortals has never been worse for me, greedy 
monster that I am. The soft murmur of preternatural voices can't distract me from it. 
That taste of mortal recognition was too seductive-the record albums in the windows, the 
fans leaping and clapping in front of the stage. Never mind that they didn't really 
believe I was a vampire; for that moment we were together. They were calling my name!
  
  Now the record albums are gone, and I will never listen to those songs again. My book 
remains-along with Interview with the Vampire-safely disguised as fiction, which is, 
perhaps, as it should be. I caused enough trouble, as you will see.
  
  Disaster, that's what I wrought with my little games. The vampire who would have been a 
hero and a martyr finally for one moment of pure relevance . . .
  
  You'd think I'd learn something from it, wouldn't you? Well, I did, actually. I really 
did.
  
  But it's just so painful to shrink back into the shadows-Lestat, the sleek and nameless 
gangster ghoulie again creeping up on helpless mortals who know nothing of things like 
me. So hurtful to be again the outsider, forever on the fringes, struggling with good and 
evil in the age-old private hell of body and soul.
  
  In my isolation now I dream of finding some sweet young thing in a moonlighted 
chamber-one of those tender teenagers, as they call them now, who read my book and