The tale of the body thief - By Anne Rice Page 0,30

liquid obviously warmed his throat.

Suddenly, vividly, I remembered that particular sensation. I remembered being in the loft of the barn on my land in France, and drinking cognac just like that, and even making that grimace, and my mortal friend and lover, Nicki, snatching the bottle greedily from my hand.

“I see you are yourself again,” David said with sudden warmth, lowering his voice slightly as he peered at me. He sat back, with the glass resting on the right arm of his chair. He looked very dignified, though far more at ease than I had ever seen him. His hair was thick and wavy, and had become a beautiful shade of dark gray.

“Do I seem myself?” I asked.

“You have that mischievous look in your eye,” he answered under his breath, still scanning me intently. “There’s a little smile on your lips. Won’t leave for more than a second when you speak. And the skin—it makes a remarkable difference. I pray you’re not in pain. You aren’t, are you?”

I made a small dismissive gesture. I could hear his heartbeat. It was ever so slightly weaker than it had been in Amsterdam. Now and then it was irregular as well.

“How long will your skin stay dark like this?” he asked.

“Years, perhaps, seems one of the ancient ones told me so. Didn’t I write about it in The Queen of the Damned?” I thought of Marius and how angry he was with me in general. How disapproving he would be of what I’d done.

“It was Maharet, your ancient red-haired one,” David said. “In your book, she claimed to have done the very thing merely to darken her skin.”

“What courage,” I whispered. “And you don’t believe in her existence, do you? Though I am sitting right here with you now.”

“Oh, I do believe in her. Of course I do. I believe everything you’ve written. But I know you! Tell me—what actually happened in the desert? Did you really believe you would die?”

“You would ask that question, David, and right off the bat.” I sighed. “Well, I can’t claim that I did really believe it. I was probably playing my usual games. I swear to God I don’t tell lies to others. But I lie to myself. I don’t think I can die now, at least not in any way that I myself could contrive.”

He let out a long sigh.

“So why aren’t you afraid of dying, David? I don’t mean to torment you with the old offer. I honestly can’t quite figure it out. You’re really, truly not afraid to die, and that I simply do not understand. Because you can die, of course.”

Was he having doubts? He didn’t answer immediately. Yet he seemed powerfully stimulated, I could see that. I could all but hear his brain working, though of course I couldn’t hear his thoughts.

“Why the Faust play, David? Am I Mephistopheles?” I asked. “Are you Faust?”

He shook his head. “I may be Faust,” he said finally, taking another drink of the Scotch, “but you’re not the devil, that’s perfectly clear.” He gave a sigh.

“I have wrecked things for you, though, haven’t I? I knew it in Amsterdam. You don’t stay in the Motherhouse unless you have to. I’m not driving you mad, but I’ve had a very bad effect, have I not?”

Again, he didn’t answer right away. He was looking at me with his large prominent black eyes, and obviously considering the question from all angles. The deep lines of his face—the creases in his forehead, the lines at the corners of his eyes and around the edges of his mouth—reinforced his genial and open expression. There was not a sour note to this being, but there was unhappiness beneath the surface, and it was tangled with deep considerations, going back through a long life.

“Would have happened anyway, Lestat,” he said finally. “There are reasons why I’m no longer so good at being the Superior General. Would have happened anyway, I’m relatively certain of that.”

“Explain it to me. I thought you were in the very womb of the order, that it was your life.”

He shook his head. “I was always an unlikely candidate for the Talamasca. I’ve mentioned how I spent my youth in India. I could have lived my life that way. I’m no scholar in the conventional sense, never was. Nevertheless I am like Faust in the play. I’m old, and I haven’t cracked the secrets of the universe. Not at all. I thought I had when I was young. The