But it was too late to say farewell to Louis ... If there was any being among us who 
would understand, it was Louis. Or so I told myself. The opposite is probably closer to 
the truth . . .
  
  On to London I went.
  
  TWO
  
  THE Motherhouse of the Talamasca, outside London, silent in its great park of ancient 
oaks, its sloped rooftops and its vast lawns blanketed with deep clean snow.
  
  A handsome four-storey edifice full of lead-mulhoned windows, and chimneys ever sending 
their winding plumes of smoke into the night.
  
  A place of dark wood-paneled libraries and parlours, bedrooms with coffered ceilings, 
thick burgundy carpets, and dining rooms as quiet as those of a religious order, and 
members dedicated as priests and nuns, who can read your mind, see your aura, tell your 
future from the palm of your hand, and make an educated guess as to who you might have 
been in a past life.
  
  Witches? Well, some of them are, perhaps. But in the main they are simply 
scholars-those who have dedicated their lives to the study of the occult in all its 
manifestations. Some know more than others. Some believe more than others. For example, 
there are those members in this Motherhouse-and in other
  
  motherhouses, in Amsterdam or Rome or the depths of the Louisiana swamp-who have laid 
eyes upon vampires and werewolves, who have felt the potentially lethal physical 
telekinetic powers of mortals who can set fires or cause death, who have spoken to ghosts 
and received answers from them, who have battled invisible entities and won-or lost.
  
  For over one thousand years, this order has persisted. It is in fact older, but its 
origins are shrouded in mystery-or, to put it more specifically, David will not explain 
them to me.
  
  Where does the Talamasca get its money? There is a staggering abundance of gold and 
jewels in its vaults. Its investments in the great banks of Europe are legendary. It owns 
property in all its home cities, which alone could sustain it, if it did not possess 
anything else. And then there are its various archival treasures-paintings, statues, 
tapestries, antique furnishings and ornaments-all of which it has acquired in connection 
with various occult cases and upon which it places no monetary value, for the historical 
and scholarly value far exceeds any appraisal which could be made.
  
  Its library alone is worth a king's ransom in any earthly currency. There are 
manuscripts in all languages, indeed some from the famous old library of Alexandria burnt 
centuries ago, and others from the libraries of the martyred Cathars, whose culture is no 
more. There are texts from ancient Egypt for a glimpse of which archaeologists might 
cheerfully commit murder. There are texts by preternatural beings of several known 
species, including vampires. There are letters and documents in these archives which have 
been written by me.
  
  None of these treasures interest me. They never have. Oh, in my more playful moments I 
have toyed with the idea of breaking into the vaults and reclaiming a few old relics that 
once belonged to immortals I loved. I know these scholars have collected possessions 
which I myself have abandoned-the contents of rooms in Paris near the end of the last 
century, the books and furnishings of my old house in the tree-shaded streets of the 
Garden District, beneath which I slumbered for decades, quite oblivious to those who 
walked the rotted floors above. God knows what else they have saved from the gnawing 
mouth of time.
  
  But I no longer cared about those things. That which they had salvaged they might keep.
  
  What I cared about was David, the Superior General who had been my friend since the 
long ago night when I came rudely and impulsively through the fourth-storey window of his 
private rooms.
  
  How brave and poised he had been. And how I had liked to look at him, a tall man with a 
deeply lined face and iron-gray hair. I wondered then if a young man could ever possess 
such beauty. But that he knew me, knew what I was-that had been his greatest charm for me.
  
  What if I make you one of us. I could do it, you know . . .
  
  He's never wavered in his conviction. "Not even on my deathbed will I accept," he'd 
said. But he'd been fascinated by my mere presence, he couldn't conceal it, though he had 
concealed his thoughts well enough from me ever since that first time.
  
  Indeed his mind had become like a strongbox to which there was no key. And I'd been 
left only with his radiant and affectionate facial expressions and a soft, cultured voice 
that could talk the Devil into behaving well.
  
  As I reached the Motherhouse now in the small hours, amid the snow of the English 
winter, it was to David's familiar windows that I went, only to find his rooms empty and 
dark.
  
  I thought of our most recent meeting. Could he have gone to Amsterdam again?
  
  That last trip had been unexpected or so I was able to find out, when I came to search 
for him, before his clever flock of psychics sensed my meddlesome telepathic 
scanning-which they do with remarkable efficiency-and quickly cut me off.
  
  Seems some errand of great importance had compelled David's presence in Holland.
  
  The Dutch Motherhouse was older than the one outside London, with vaults beneath it to 
which the Superior General alone had the key. David had to locate a portrait by 
Rembrandt, one of the most significant treasures in the possession of the order, have it 
copied, and send that copy to his close friend Aaron Lightner, who needed it hi 
connection with an important paranormal investigation being carried on in the States.
  
  I had followed David to Amsterdam and spied on him there, telling myself that I would 
not disturb him, as I had done many times before.