boyish scowl; the sudden flares of high spirits and blasphemous humor. Even the catlike 
poise of the body he could envisage. So uncommon in a man of muscular build. Such 
strength, always such strength and such irrepressible optimism.
  
  The fact was, he did not know his own mind about the entire enterprise, only that he 
was amused and fascinated. Of course there was no thought of vengeance against Lestat for 
telling his secrets. And surely Lestat had counted upon that, but then one never knew. 
Maybe Lestat truly did not care. He knew no more than the fools back there in the bar, on 
that score.
  
  What mattered to him was that for the first time in so many years, he found himself 
thinking in terms of past and future; he found himself most keenly aware of the nature of 
this era. Those Who Must Be Kept were fiction even to their own children! Long gone were 
the days when fierce rogue blood drinkers searched for their shrine and their powerful 
blood. Nobody believed or even cared any longer!
  
  And there lay the essence of the age; for its mortals were of an even more practical 
ilk, rejecting at every turn the miraculous. With unprecedented courage, they had founded 
their greatest ethical advances squarely upon the truths embedded in the physical.
  
  Two hundred years since he and Lestat had discussed these very things on an island in 
the Mediterranean-the dream of a godless and truly moral world where love of one's fellow 
man would be the only dogma. A world in which we do not belong. And now such a world was 
almost realized. And the Vampire Lestat had passed into popular art where all the old 
devils ought to go, and would take with him the whole accused tribe, including Those Who 
Must Be Kept, though they might never know it.
  
  It made him smile, the symmetry of it. He found himself not merely in awe but strongly 
seduced by the whole idea of what Lestat had done. He could well understand the lure of 
fame.
  
  Why, it had thrilled him shamelessly to see his own name scrawled on the wall of the 
bar. He had laughed; but he had enjoyed the laughter thoroughly.
  
  Leave it to Lestat to construct such an inspiring drama, and that's what it was, all 
right. Lestat, the boisterous boulevard actor of the ancien regime, now risen to stardom 
in this beauteous and innocent era.
  
  But had he been right in his little summation to the fledgling in the bar, that no one 
could destroy the brat prince? That was sheer romance. Good advertising. The fact is, any 
of us can be destroyed... one way or another. Even Those Who Must Be Kept, surely.
  
  They were weak, of course, those fledgling "Children of Darkness," as they styled 
themselves. The numbers did not increase their strength significantly. But what of the 
older ones? If only Lestat had not used the names of Mael and Pandora. But were there not 
blood drinkers older even than that, ones of whom he himself knew nothing? He thought of 
that warning on the wall: "ancient and terrible beings ... moving slowly and inexorably 
to answer his summons."
  
  A frisson startled him; coldness, yet for an instant he thought he saw a jungle-a 
green, fetid place, full of unwholesome and smothering warmth. Gone, without explanation, 
like so many sudden signals and messages he received. He'd learned long ago to shut out 
the endless flow of voices and images that his mental powers enabled him to hear; yet now 
and then something violent and unexpected, like a sharp cry, came through.
  
  Whatever, he had been in this city long enough. He did not know that he meant to 
intervene, no matter what happened! He was angry with his own sudden warmth of feeling. 
He wanted to be home now. He had been away from Those Who Must Be Kept for too long.
  
  But how he loved to watch the energetic human crowd, the clumsy parade of shining 
traffic. Even the poison smells of the city he did not mind. They were no worse than the 
stench of ancient Rome, or Antioch, or Athens-when piles of human waste fed the flies 
wherever you looked, and the air reeked of inevitable disease and hunger. No, he liked 
the clean pastel-colored cities of California well enough. He could have lingered forever 
among their clear-eyed and purposeful inhabitants.
  
  But he must go home. The concert was not for many nights, and he would see Lestat then, 
if he chose.... How delicious not to know precisely what he might do, any more than 
others knew, others who didn't even believe in him!
  
  He crossed Castro Street and went swiftly up the wide pavement of Market. The wind had 
slackened; the air was almost warm. He took up a brisk pace, even whistling to himself 
the way that Louis often did. He felt good. Human. Then he stopped before the store that 
sold television sets and radios. Lestat was singing on each and every screen, both large 
and small.
  
  He laughed under his breath at the great concert of gesture and movement. The sound was 
oft", buried in tiny glowing seeds within the equipment. He'd have to search to receive 
it. But wasn't there a charm in merely watching the antics of the yellow-haired brat' 
prince in merciless silence?
  
  The camera drew back to render the full figure of Lestat who played a violin as if in a 
void. A starry darkness now and then enclosed him. Then quite suddenly a pair of doors 
were opened- it was the old shrine of Those Who Must Be Kept, quite exactly! And 
there-Akasha and Enkil, or rather actors made up to play the part, white-skinned 
Egyptians with long black silken hair and glittering jewelry.
  
  Of course. Why hadn't he guessed that Lestat would carry it to this vulgar and 
tantalizing extreme? He leant forward, listening for the transmission of the sound. He 
heard the voice of Lestat above the violin:
  
  Akasha! Enkil!
  
  Keep your secrets
  
  Keep your silence
  
  It is a better gift than truth.
  
  And now as the violin player closed his eyes and bore down on his music, Akasha slowly