"Watch out for the Vampire Lestat," he said to the young one finally with a smile. 
"There are very few true immortals walking this earth. He may be one of them."
  
  Then he lifted the young one off his feet and set him down out of the way. And he went 
out the door into the tavern proper.
  
  The front room, spacious and opulent with its black velvet hangings and fixtures of 
lacquered brass, was packed with noisy mortals. Cinema vampires glared from their gilt 
frames on satin-lined walls. An organ poured out the passionate Toccata and Fugue of 
Bach, beneath a babble of conversation and violent riffs of drunken laughter. He loved 
the sight of so much exuberant life. He loved even the age-old smell of the malt and the 
wine, and the perfume of the cigarettes. And as he made his way to the front, he loved 
the crush of the soft fragrant humans against him. He loved the fact that the living took 
not .the; slightest notice of him. 
  
  At last the moist air, the busy early evening pavements of Castro Street. The sky still 
had a polished silver gleam. Men and women rushed to and fro to escape the faint slanting 
rain, to be clotted at the corners, waiting for great bulbous colored lights to wink and 
signal.
  
  The speakers of the record store across the street blared Le-stat's voice over the roar 
of the passing bus, the hiss of wheels on the wet asphalt:
  
  In my dreams, I hold her still, Angel, lover, Mother. And in my dreams, I kiss her 
lips, Mistress, Muse, Daughter.
  
  She gave me life I gave her death My beautiful Marquise.
  
  And on the Devil's Road we walked Two orphans then together.
  
  And does she hear my hymns tonight of Kings and Queens and Ancient truths? Of broken 
vows and sorrow?
  
  Or does she climb some distant path where rhyme and song can't find her?
  
  Come back to me, my Gabrielle My Beautiful Marquise. The castle's ruined on the hill 
The village lost beneath the snow But you are mine forever.
  
  Was she here already, his mother?
  
  The voice died away in a soft drift of electric notes to be swallowed finally by the 
random noise around him. He wandered out into the wet breeze and made his way to the 
corner. Pretty, the busy little street. The flower vendor still sold his blooms beneath 
the awning. The butcher was thronged with after-work shoppers. Behind the cafe windows, 
mortals took their evening meals or lingered with their newspapers. Dozens waited for a 
downhill bus, and a line had formed across the way before an old motion picture theater.
  
  She was here, Gabrielle. He had a vague yet infallible sense of it.
  
  When he reached the curb, he stood with his back against the iron street lamp, 
breathing the fresh wind that came off the mountain. It was a good view of downtown, 
along the broad straight length of Market Street. Rather like a boulevard in Paris. And 
all around the gentle urban slopes covered with cheerful lighted windows.
  
  Yes, but where was she, precisely? Gabrielle, he whispered. He closed his eyes. He 
listened. At first there came the great boundless roar of thousands of voices, image 
crowding upon image. The whole wide world threatened to open up, and to swallow him with 
its ceaseless lamentations. Gabrielle. The thunderous clamor slowly died away. He caught 
a glimmer of pain from a mortal passing near. And in a high building on the hill, a dying 
woman dreamed of childhood strife as she sat listless at her window. Then in a dim steady 
silence, he saw what he wanted to see: Gabrielle, stopped in her tracks. She'd heard his 
voice. She knew that she was watched. A tall blond female, hair in a single braid down 
her back, standing in one of the clean deserted streets of downtown, not far from him. 
She wore a khaki jacket and pants, a worn brown sweater. And a hat not unlike his own 
that covered her eyes, only a bit of her face visible above her upturned collar. Now she 
closed her mind, effectively surrounding herself with an invisible shield. The image 
vanished.
  
  Yes, here, waiting for her son, Lestat. Why had he ever feared for her-the cold one who 
fears nothing for herself, only for Lestat. All right. He was pleased. And Lestat would 
be also.
  
  But what about the other? Louis, the gentle one, with the black hair and green eyes, 
whose steps made a careless sound when he walked, who even whistled to himself in dark 
streets so that mortals heard him coming. Louis, where are you?
  
  Almost instantly, he saw Louis enter an empty drawing room. He had only just come up 
the stairs from the cellar where he had slept by day in a vault behind the wall. He had 
no awareness at all of anyone watching. He moved with silky strides across the dusty 
room, and stood looking down through the soiled glass at the thick flow of passing cars. 
Same old house on Divisadero Street. In fact, nothing changed much at all with this 
elegant and sensuous creature who had caused such a little tumult with his story in 
Interview with the Vampire. Except that now he was waiting for Lestat. He had had 
troubling dreams; he was fearful for Lestat, and full of old and unfamiliar longings.
  
  Reluctantly, he let the image go. He had a great affection for that one, Louis. And the 
affection was not wise because Louis had a tender, educated soul and none of the dazzling 
power of Gabrielle or her devilish son. Yet Louis might survive as long as they, he was 
sure of that. Curious the kinds of courage which made for endurance. Maybe it had to do 
with acceptance. But then how account for Lestat, beaten, scarred, yet risen again? 
Lestat who never accepted anything?
  
  They had not found each other yet, Gabrielle and Louis. But it was all right. What was 
he to do? Bring them together? The very idea. . . . Besides, Lestat would do that soon 
enough.
  
  But now he was smiling again. "Lestat, you are the damnedest creature! Yes, a brat 
prince." Slowly, he reinvoked every detail of Lestat's face and form. The ice-blue eyes, 
darkening with laughter; the generous smile; the way the eyebrows came together in a