Prince Lestat and the Realms of Atlantis Read online

  "And you think if they gave you a hearing, heard you out, invited you to Court, brought you into the inner circle, that Benedict might come back."

  Clearly this meant so very much to the one called Rhosh that he didn't even reply.

  "Well, listen, Rhosh," said Roland. "I may have something that will help you. But it's a secret, a powerful secret, and I won't share it with you without your solemn oath. Give me that oath, never to reveal what I mean to share with you, and I will share it. And it may be something you and I can offer the Prince for whatever you want. I do think this Prince has it in his power to make things right for you. Seems they love him, the lately begotten. I hear they're flooding to his court from all of Europe. Seems the whole world of the Undead clamors for his love."

  "Oh, true, of course, but it's Gregory and Sevraine and Seth who rule, and that spiteful Marius, that liar, that cheat, that secretive sanctimonious Roman, who..."

  "I know. But all of them will want this secret. Especially Seth and his doctor fledgling Fareed; and Seth is older than you are, Rhosh, and older than the Great Sevraine."

  "Seth's not older than Gregory," said Rhosh.

  "What is he like?" asked Roland.

  "No one really knows, not even Fareed. He's the son of the great Akasha, there is no doubt of it. And it is said he confides in no one as to his secret thoughts, claiming only to be a healer, claiming only to bring other healers into the Blood so that we might be studied, understood."

  "I don't like this," said Roland. "No good can come of this studying of the Blood. But it's all the more reason why this Seth will want this secret."

  "What are you talking about? What is this secret?"

  "I have your oath, that we will ponder this secret together, and that if you have no interest you will not betray my trust?"

  "Of course you have it, Roland," said the other with obvious feeling. "Roland, in all the world...except for my Allesandra and my Eleni...you are the only one among us who has ever shown me love."

  "I've always loved you, Rhosh. Always," said Roland. "It was you who sent me off long ago. I understood. I never held it against you. But others have loved you very much as well."

  A bitter sound of derision came from Rhosh.

  "Seriously, you know you've been loved," said Roland. "But do I have your vow?"

  "You do."

  "Come then, I'll show you the bargaining chip, as they say."

  Chairs scraping on wooden flooring. Steps above, and, yes, yes, of course, I am the bargaining chip, as they say!

  Derek heard the bolts thrown back, the creak of hinges, and their softer steps on the winding stone stairs.

  Closer and closer.

  "How old is this dungeon?" said Rhosh under his breath. "This is more ancient even than my house by the sea."

  "Oh, there's a story to it, and to the centuries I lived here before the coming of the city above. Some night I'll tell you all of it."

  They had reached Derek's door.

  Derek turned his face to the wall. He pulled the blanket up over his shoulder and he started crying again and he couldn't stop it.

  One bolt lifted and then another, and the grind of the hinges that were never oiled.

  Roland snapped on the overhead light--a single small soiled bulb in a cage in the stone ceiling.

  "Well, this is a cozy little dungeon cell, isn't it?" said Rhoshamandes.

  "It would be a lot cozier if he would cooperate. I'd provide him with unlimited light, books, food, whatever he asks for. He could have the comforts of music, television, whatever he likes in this room. But he refuses to cooperate. He refuses to tell what he knows."

  How Derek hated that tone, always so soft, so polite, as if it meant to say kind things, but it never said kind things. And even more he hated the mocking smile that went with it. He didn't want to see it. He kept his right hand clutched to his head.

  Silence.

  Derek knew they stood only a few feet from his bed.

  "He's not human!" said Rhoshamandes in a whisper.

  "That's correct. He is not."

  Another silence in which the only sound was that of Derek crying.

  "And don't be fooled by his seeming youth," said Roland, his voice growing hard now, hard with anger and frustration. "He looks so innocent, I know, and almost sweet. Just a boy. But he's no boy. And he's as stubborn as I am. I have the distinct impression that he's been on this earth far longer than you or I."

  "And you think Seth and Fareed will want this."

  "If they don't, they're fools."

  "I've never seen anything remotely like this before."

  "That's the whole idea. Neither have I. And neither have they. And if there are more of them, if there is a whole tribe of them somewhere, living in our world..."

  "I see."

  Derek took a deep breath, but he said nothing, and did nothing to acknowledge their presence. He shrank into his corner.

  He had pushed the bed into the corner. Mammalian impulse, the Parents would have said. But he did feel safer, foolishly safer, in his corner, and with his blanket half covering him.

  But the silence of the two was unnerving to Derek.

  He wiped at his nose and looked up at Rhoshamandes and what he saw startled him.

  Other blood drinkers had come and gone above, but the only two blood drinkers Derek had known were Roland and Arion, and this new one was vastly different, harder, smoother all over, with a face that looked like living marble and eyes that bored into Derek as if they could burn. His olive skin was dark as Roland's skin was dark, but this was superficial, accomplished through a calculated exposure to the sun so that they might more easily pass for human. The being's skin smelled as Roland's skin always smelled, of the sunshine of the day and burnt tissue, and a faint added perfume.

  The blood drinker's hair was golden brown, short and wavy, and his clothing was like that of Roland--formal evening dress, with startlingly white linen and shimmering black lapels to his coat, and a long fur-lined cloak that fell to the floor. A ring that was a sapphire, and another that was a diamond, and yet another that was old gold. They all think of themselves as princes, princes of the night and they dress like princes. And they drink the blood of humans as if the humans were animals, as if they themselves had never been human, and surely they had been once. Something had changed them into what they were. No one would make such things as they. That was unthinkable.

  "You have no right to keep me here," said Derek. He licked his lips. Finding his handkerchief under his pillow, he wiped at his face. "Whatever I am, whatever you are, you have no right!"

  Roland smiled at Rhoshamandes, that vicious cold smile that Derek had come to loathe. His gray eyes were hard and cunning.

  "There have to be more like him," said Roland. "But he won't admit it. He won't name them. He won't tell me who he is or what he is or where he came from. And when I drink from him, I see the faces of others...a woman and three men. But names, I don't hear names, no matter how deep I probe, and I don't get answers. I don't get words. He had an address in Madrid when I brought him here. I had it watched for a year through my lawyers. It yielded nothing. Why don't you drink from him?"

  "Drink from him!" whispered Rhoshamandes. He continued to stare at Derek as if there was something horrible about Derek.

  Well, what could that be? Derek was formed exactly like a human male of eighteen to twenty years in age. He had been made to look appealing to humans. He would have combed his hair if he'd been given a comb. He would have cut it had he been given scissors. He had no idea really how he looked now, however, because he had no mirror.

  Indeed, there was nothing in this prison cell but the bed, a table beside it, the shelf of books, and a small refrigerator with bland and uninteresting packaged foods that comforted him only a little when he had the stomach to eat them.

  "Why don't you try it?" asked Roland. "And drink as much as you like. Drink as you would from any mortal. Drink all that you care to drink."

&nb
sp; "What are you saying?"

  "That's how I discovered him," said Roland. "Drinking from him. I'd marked him for a victim and didn't realize what I had till he was in my arms. Arion also drinks from him. Arion has drunk from him plenty. I want you to drink from him, Rhosh. I think you'll be very surprised when you do."

  "Why? How?" The new vampire looked fastidious and almost fussy. What a pair! And I'm not fit to be this monster's victim? Derek smiled. He almost laughed.

  For one moment Derek's eyes connected with those of Rhoshamandes, or Rhosh. And the compassion in this Rhosh's blue eyes amazed Derek. But then Rhosh looked away, down at the bed, at the walls, at the mean furnishings--anywhere but not back to Derek, who continued to stare at him in silence.

  "You can't kill him, Rhosh," said Roland, "no matter how much you drink. Drink as much as you like, I mean this, as much as you ever drank from any victim. You'll never feel the death pass into you because he won't die. He will lie still, without a pulse, without a breath. But then the blood will begin to regenerate and, within an hour or two, he'll be as he is now. Healthy, whole."

  "But you don't understand," said Rhoshamandes. He glared at Roland.

  "What don't I understand?" The other shrugged.

  "I've walked this earth since the early days of ancient Egypt," said Rhoshamandes. "I was born in Crete before the flood. I've traveled the world. I've never seen anything like him! I've never seen anything that looked this human and wasn't human."

  "Are you sure?" asked Roland. "Maybe you saw them and you didn't realize what they were. Think back. Think hard. I have seen one other very like him. And so have you. Try to remember."

  "When?" asked Rhoshamandes. He seemed slightly annoyed. "Where?"

  "The ballet, Rhoshamandes, the theater, the place we always meet, the place we always go together. You and I. Don't you remember? Saint Petersburg, the debut of Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty ballet. Think back."

  Derek's breath caught in his throat, but he sat very still, disguising his excitement. He made his mind a blank as if these words had no import for him, when in fact they meant everything. Go on, talk, explain. His soul ached. He looked away as if he'd become bored.

  These creatures could read human minds, this he knew, but they couldn't read his mind, though they constantly pretended that they could. Something in the circuitry of his brain blocked them.

  Only when they drank from him could they sometimes access his thoughts, catch from him images he sought unsuccessfully to bury.

  "We were there together, you and I," said Roland. "Don't you recall it? It was a wonderful night. And we saw the being together, you and I, across from us in the dress circle. Think back! I can't remember the name of the man who was with the being, but we knew, both of us, that the creature wasn't human."

  "Ah, that one," said Rhoshamandes. "Yes. I do remember. The one in the box with Prince Brovotkin. And afterwards, we tried to find them, the Prince and the other one. We couldn't. And you said that the Prince had seen us staring at them, that he'd sensed something."

  "We left Saint Petersburg immediately, but we should have stayed, investigated...."

  "Yes, of course, it's coming back. But all we had was a glimpse, and we weren't certain."

  "Rhosh, remember the being's skin, smooth, dark brown skin, like this one's skin, and the being's hair. The hair was the same, thick like this and with loose curls and the very same golden streak in it, only broader and on the right side of the head."

  Was it possible?

  "I don't remember."

  Go on, go on talking, go on, Derek thought desperately, staring off....The tears came to his eyes again. Good, cry, and think about being hungry and wanting some red wine. Red wine, red wine, red wine...Who was it they had seen--with the very same golden streak in his hair! On the right side of his head? Bury the names as deeply as you can. Bury them, along with the faces, along with the story, along with the betrayal--.

  "The thing was identical to this one in a number of ways," Roland insisted. "Taller, yes, with larger eyes, yes, but the hair was exactly the same. It was exceptionally long, unfashionably long, it gave the creature a savage look, unkempt, almost feral, but the creature was smooth shaven. This one has no need of a razor. And that one had no need either, I wager. Well, whether you remember or not, I remember. And this creature likely knows that creature and how many others like them there are and, more important, what they are, and how they came to be here."

  Rhoshamandes was pondering, then very slowly he said, "I see what you mean." But he wasn't all that interested. He gave a dismissive shrug. He was frustrating Roland and Roland was revealing it.

  Derek looked at them out of the corner of his eye. He couldn't conceal his excitement. He glared at Roland.

  "Ah, and in all this time, you've kept this from me!" said Derek.

  Roland glanced at Derek and gave him the usual maddeningly gentle smile.

  "When you tell me what you know, Derek," he said, "I will tell you what I know. You are not friendly. You do not cooperate."

  "You are a monster," said Derek, clenching his teeth. "You've kept me here for ten years, and this is wrong! By any law under the sun and the moon, this is wrong. I am not your property. I am not your slave."

  But what did he really care! He had just been given the single most valuable bit of information he had ever received since he'd come awake in this time, since he'd awakened in the humble hut of the priest high in the Andes. Another one! Another one lives. Another one perhaps found in the frozen wastes of Siberia, another one found in the ice where Derek had slept for thousands of years, the ice to which he'd retreated in despair two times to freeze as he'd been frozen before.

  And Amel. This Rhoshamandes had spoken more about Amel than Derek had ever glimpsed when Roland drank from him.

  This Rhoshamandes creature glared at Derek again as if he were a little intrigued but repelled. "Can't read a thing from him."

  "Not until you drink his blood," said Roland.

  Rhoshamandes stepped back as if he couldn't stop himself.

  "Rhoshamandes, listen to me," said Derek. "You're ancient. You come from times long past, before this one came into the world. I heard you speaking upstairs! Surely you have some morality. You remember something of human reverence for right and wrong. You spoke of a prince who injured you, affronted you. But it was about right and wrong, your quarrel, was it not? Listen to me. That I'm kept here, as a bottomless fount of blood for this monster, is wrong!"

  He had begun to cry again. Oh, why had they made him the "most" human! Why did he have to be the one who felt things so deeply? He turned away. In a flash he pictured the others with him, comforting him the way they had always done. And he told himself as he had countless times, If you are alive, they are alive. If you are walking this earth once more, they could be walking this earth.

  But something was changing in the room.

  Rhoshamandes sat down beside him on the bed.

  Slowly Derek turned and looked at him. Such pure skin, pure as liquid, as if it had been poured over the being, as if it had never been human! Yes, I look human, Derek thought, and these beings cease to be human apparently with every passing year.

  "I understand you're here against your will," the blood drinker said leaning close to him. "I want to drink. I want you to yield to me, to allow it."

  Derek laughed bitterly. "What, you insist on my permission?"

  Roland laughed silently; his face was the picture of scorn.

  But before Derek could say more he felt the loathsome creature's hand on his left shoulder and the being's face pressing close to the right side of his neck.

  "Remember, you cannot kill him," said Roland. "Look deep, Rhosh. Drag the truth from him in the blood."

  Why was the ancient one hesitating?

  Derek gazed up at Roland, the white-haired Roland with the graven wrinkles of mortal old age inscribed forever perhaps in his long oval face. Roland of the cold indifferent eyes. Before Arion had come, th
is face was the only face that Derek had seen for nine years.

  "Show him no pity, Rhosh," said Roland looking directly at Derek. "I have tried everything with him. Nothing works. He will not tell me anything."

  Rhosh drew back, as if he'd bent to kiss and thought the better of it, and that probing right hand of his clasped Derek's head and smoothed Derek's hair.

  In spite of himself Derek felt chills, the sweet high-pitched chills of being touched by another with seeming affection, even one as cold and inhuman as this being.

  He closed his eyes and swallowed. The tears poured down his cheeks.

  "Such a beautiful creature," whispered Rhosh. "And such a youthful voice. Such a pleasing voice."

  "This Prince, does he believe in right and wrong?" asked Derek. "Take me to him, use me as your bargaining chip, as you call it. Maybe he's better than you and that one who keeps me here as if I were a bird in a cage, or a fish in a bowl of water! I have a heart, don't you understand it! I have a..."

  "A soul?" asked Rhoshamandes.

  "Everything that is conscious, aware of itself, has a soul," said Derek.

  "Everything?" asked Roland. "How do you know?"

  "I know," said Derek. But he didn't know. He really had no idea. He knew exactly how he'd been made, and by whom, and he had no idea whether or not a soul was included in the package. He couldn't bear to think that he didn't have a soul. He refused to even entertain the idea. But you can't really behave that way towards ideas, can you? With his whole being, he knew that he had a soul. He was a soul! And his soul was Derek, and Derek suffered and Derek wanted to live! And Derek wanted to be freed from this prison.

  Rhoshamandes embraced him gently and brought Derek closer to him, and once again he bent to drink.

  Derek closed his eyes, and felt the fang teeth touching his neck. He sought to empty his mind, to banish all words, all images, and to feel only the sharp prick of the teeth, the soft kiss of the creature's breath.

  "Hmmm, warm, salty, warm as a human being," whispered Rhoshamandes, his voice now drunken even though he hadn't drunk. That was the way with them. Even before they feasted on him, the hunger made them drunken. Their eyes glazed over. Their hearts tripped. They became their thirst. That's how and why they could suck the life out of humans, and out of Derek. They turned into beasts. They looked like angels, but they were actually beasts.