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What are such holy objects now, tumbling on milky bosoms with such ease, but trinkets of the marketplace? My thoughts were merciless, but I was but an indifferent cataloger of her beauty.
#Red alarm clock old fashioned skin
Once before, a hundred years ago, he'd come stumbling into the Theatre des Vampires on the trail of his renegade fledglings, sweet gentle Louis and the doomed child, and I hadn't pitied him then, his skin scored with scars from Claudia's foolish and clumsy attempt to kill him.Ībout her pale sweet throat she wore a crucifix so tiny it seemed a gilded gnat suspended from a weightless chain of minuscule links woven by fairies. Believe me, as you believe what you saw last night, the wildflowers clinging still to my hair, the cuts-look, my hands, they heal but not fast enough-believe me. Yes, but I have, he said, and now began to cry.I have, and I must tell you everything. He pushed back the Chinese chair, and wringing his hands he began to pace, the inevitable prelude to his tale telling. He was washed and dressed, his torn and bleeding foot no doubt healed. He came quietly into the parlor of the apartment as the darkness clambered down, starry for a few precious moments before the dreary descent of snow. Oh, why had I come to his aid? Why must I see him brought low like this when it had taken so many painful decades to cement my love for him forever? Loved him then, yes, I had, but this had been a bodily disaster which his evil blood would heal, and I knew from our old lore that in the healing he would gain even greater strength than serene time itself would have given him.Īs I sank down that morning into my own resting place, secure in clean modern darkness, I cried and cried like a child on account of the sight of him. He kissed me quickly on the cheek.īut what I'd seen now was a devastation of the soul in his anguished face, and the vision of the one blue eye, shining so vividly in his streaked and wretched face, had been unbearable. She teaches doctrines with every step that would make the pagan gods of lust canonize her with glee. Ah, what an angel of the Lord, this, I thought musing, this heiress of the druglord Father's severed head. Let me return to the scene, the three of us gathered in the black-lacquered Chinese chairs around the thick glass table, and Dora coming in, at once struck by the presence of him, of which her mortal senses hadn't given her a clue, a pretty picture with her short gleaming knavish black hair, cut high to show the fragile nape of her swanlike neck, her long supple body clad in a loose ungirdled gown of purple red tissue that folded itself about her small breasts and slender thighs exquisitely. Tell us why you are afraid, but I think it's something far worse than fear that I see now in you. She could not kill the quaver in her voice.So he's taken you to his Hell and sent you back? She took Lestat's face in her hands and turned it towards her.Then tell us what it was, this Hell, tell us why we must be afraid. So the Prince of Lies had a tale to tell, did he? she asked. One shoe was left to him, the other foot bare, his coat torn, his hair wild and snagged with thorns and dried leaves and bits of errant flowers.
But we can talk of those things for many nights hereafter.īut nothing could lessen the grotesque picture of his torn face where the cuts of a claw or fingernails surrounded the gaping, puckering lids. I think you were made for this, for reasoning, and given to us, if I may speculate, to force us to see our catastrophes in the new light of modern conscience. Where did this demon Memnoch take you? How comforting and reasonable your voice sounded, just as it does now. We would have waited here forever for you. You intervened then, David.Tell us, Lestat.
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