Prince Lestat

by Anne Rice

Armand looked sad suddenly. “Why has it taken me so long?”

And she’d been made by Marius, and all those made by Marius had been well made, much better made than my fledglings.

“I’m Lestat,” I said in a low voice. “Your Lestat. I’m the same Lestat you’ve always known, and no matter how I’m changed, I’m still that same being.” “I know,” he said warmly. I kissed him. I pressed my lips to his and I held this kiss for a long silent moment. And then I gave in to a silent wave of feeling, and I took him in my arms. I held him tight against me. I felt his unmistakable silken skin, his soft shining black hair. I heard the blood throbbing in him, and time dissolved, and it seemed I was in some old and secret place, some warm tropical grotto we’d once shared, ours alone in some way, with the scent of sweet olive blossoms and the whisper of moist breeze. “I love you,” I whispered. In a low intimate voice, he answered: “My heart is yours.”

He thought of Lestat again, confident, smiling, wearing the mantle of power as easily as he had always worn his finery, old and new. He said under his breath: “Beloved maker, beloved Prince, I will be with you soon.”