my farewell, as should we all."
  We looked to Lestat, each of us, studying his knotted angry face. Finally, he spoke.
  "You do realize, don't you?" he asked me directly, "that I can easily wipe out the very 
members who made the observations that are threatening us now."
  At once Merrick protested, and so did I. It was all a matter of desperate gestures, and 
then I gave in to a rapid plea.
  "Don't do this thing, Lestat," I said. "Let's leave here. Let's kill their faith, not 
them. Like a small retreating army, we'll burn all evidence which might have become their 
trophies. I cannot endure the thought of turning against the Talamasca. I cannot. What 
more can I say?"
  Merrick nodded, though she remained quiet.
  Finally, Lestat spoke up.
  "All right then," he said with vengeful finality. "I give in to you all because I love 
you. We'll go. We'll leave this house which has been my home for so many years; we'll 
leave this city which we all love; we'll leave all this, and we'll find someplace where 
no one can pick us out of the multitudes. We'll do it, but I tell you, I don't like it, 
and for me the members of the Order have lost by these very communications any special 
protective shield they might have once possessed."
  It was settled.
  We went to work, swiftly, silently, making certain that nothing remained which 
contained the potent blood which the Talamasca would seek to examine as soon as it could.
  The flat was soon clean of all that might have been claimed as evidence, and then the 
four of us went over to Merrick's house and carried out the same thorough cleansing, 
burning the white silk dress of the terrible seance, and destroying her altars as well.
  I had then to visit my erstwhile study at St. Elizabeth's and burn the contents of my 
many journals and essays, a task for which I had no taste at all. It was tiresome, it was 
defeating, it was demoralizing. But it was done. And so, on the very next night, we came 
to leave New Orleans. And well before morning, the three-Louis and Merrick and 
Lestat-went ahead. I remained behind in the Rue Royale, at the desk in the back parlor, 
to write a letter to those whom I had once trusted so very much, those I had once so 
dearly loved. In my own hand I wrote it, so that they might recognize that the writing 
was of special significance to me, if to no one else.
  
  To my beloved Elders, whoever you might truly be,
  It was unwise of you to send to us such caustic and combative letters, and I fear that 
some night you might-some of you have to pay dearly for what you've done.
  Please understand, this is no challenge. I am leaving, and by the time you claim this 
letter by means of your questionable procedures, I will be well beyond your reach.
  But know this. Your threats have greatly roused the tender pride of the strongest among 
us, one who had for some time now regarded you as quite beyond his eager reach.
  By your ill-chosen words and threats you have forfeited the formidable sanctuary which 
enshrined you. You are now as exquisitely vulnerable to those whom you thought to 
frighten as any other mortal woman or man.
  Indeed, you have made another rather grievous error, and I advise you to think on it 
long and well before plotting any further action in regard to the secrets we both share.
  You have made yourselves an interesting adversary to one who loves challenges, and it 
will require all of my considerable influence to protect you individually and 
collectively from the avid lust which you have so foolishly aroused.
  
  I had read this over carefully, and was in the act of affixing my signature when I felt 
Lestat's cold hand on my shoulder, pressing firmly on my flesh.
  He repeated the words "an interesting adversary," and there came from him a sly laugh.
  "Don't hurt them, please," I whispered.
  "Come on, David," he said confidently, "it's time for us to leave here. Come. Prompt me 
to tell you about my ethereal wanderings, or perhaps give you some other tale."
  I bent over the paper, completing my signature carefully, and it occurred to me that I 
had no count of the many documents I had written for, and in, the Talamasca, and that 
once more, to one such document, a document which would go into their files, I had put my 
name.
  "All right, old friend, I'm ready," I said. "But give me your word."
  We walked down the long corridor to the back of the flat together, his hand heavy but 
welcome on my shoulder, his clothes and hair smelling of the wind.
  "There are tales to be written, David," he said. "You won't keep us all from that, will 
you? Surely we can go on with our confessions and maintain our new hiding place as well."
  "Oh, yes," I answered. "That we can do. The written word belongs to us, Lestat. Isn't 
that enough?"
  "I'll tell you what, old boy," he said, stopping on the rear balcony and throwing a 
passing glance over the flat which he had so loved. "Let's leave it up to the Talamasca, 
shall we? I'll become the very saint of patience for you, I promise, unless they raise 
the stakes. Is that not fair enough?"
  "Fair enough," I answered.
  And so I close this account of how Merrick Mayfair came to be one of us. So I close the 
account of how we left New Orleans and went to lose ourselves in the great world.
  And for you, my brothers and sisters in the Talamasca, as well as for a multitude of 
others, I have penned this tale.
  
  4:30 p.m.
  Sunday
  
  July 25, 1999
  
  
  



2