For God's sake, don't start weeping again. You need to rest and to think.
But first, before you go, why don't you burn down his house! Let the big Victorian alone. He doesn't love it. But burn his little shack!
I could feel myself breaking into an irresistible and malicious smile, even as the tears still hovered in my eyes.
Yes, burn it down! He deserves it. And of course he's taken his writings with him, yes, indeed he has, but all his books will go up in smoke! And that's exactly what he deserves.
At once I gathered up the paintings-a gorgeous Monet, a couple of small Picassos, and a ruby-red egg tempera panel of the medieval period, all deteriorating badly, of course-and I rushed out and into the old empty Victorian mansion, and stashed these hi a darkened corner which seemed both safe and dry.
Then I went back into the little house, snatched up his candle, and thrust it into the remains of the fire. At once the soft ashes exploded with tiny orange sparks; and the sparks fastened themselves upon the wick.
"Oh, you deserve this, you treacherous ungrateful bastard!" I seethed as I put the flame to the books piled against the wall, carefully ruffling their pages to get them going. And then to an old coat thrown over a wooden chair, which went up like straw, and then to the red velvet cushions of the chair that had been mine. Ah, yes, burn it, all of it.
I kicked a pile of moldering magazines beneath his desk and ignited them. I touched the flame to one book after another, and tossed these like flaming coals into all parts of the little house.
Mojo edged away from these little bonfires, and finally went out into the rain, where he stood at a distance, gazing at me through the open door.
Ah, but things were moving too slowly. And Louis has a drawer full of candles; how could I have forgotten them-curse this mortal brain!-and now I drew them out, some twenty of them, and started setting the wax to burning fiercely, never mind the wick, and flinging them into the red velvet chair to make a great heat. I hurled them at the heaps of debris that remained, and I flung burning books at the wet shutters, and ignited the old fragments of curtain which here and there hung forgotten and neglected from old rods. I kicked out holes in the rotted plaster and threw the burning candles in upon the old lathing, and then I leant down and set afire the worn threadbare rugs, wrinkling them to let the air move underneath.
Within minutes the place was full of raging blazes, but the red chair and the desk were the greatest of all. I ran out into the rain, and I saw the fire flickering through the dark broken slats.
A damp ugly smoke rose as the fire licked at the wet shutters, as it curled up and out of the windows into the wet mass of the Queen's Wreath! Oh, cursed rain! But then as the blaze of the desk and chair grew ever brighter, the entire little building exploded with orange flames! Shutters were blown into the darkness; a great hole burst in the roof.
"Yes, yes, burn!" I shouted, the rain pelting my face, my eyelids. I was practically jumping up and down with joy. Mojo backed towards the darkened mansion, lowering his head. "Burn, burn," I declared. "Louis, I wish I could burn you! I'd do it! Oh, if only I knew where you He by day!" But even in my glee I realized I was weeping. I was wiping at my mouth with the back of my hand, and crying. "How could you leave me like this! How could you do it! I curse you." And dissolving into tears, I went down on my knees again against the rainy earth.
I sank back on my heels, hands folded in front of me, beaten and miserable and staring at the great fire. Lights were snap-ping on in distant houses. I could hear the thin scream of a siren coming. I knew I should go.
Yet still I knelt there, and I felt almost stuporous when Mojo suddenly roused me with one of his deep, most menacing growls. I realized he had come to stand beside me, and was pressing his wet fur to my very face, and that he was peering off towards the burning house.
I moved to catch hold of his collar and was about to retreat when I made out the source of his alarm. It was no helpful mortal. But rather an unearthly and dim white figure standing still as an apparition near the burning building, luridly illuminated by the blaze.
Even with these weak mortal eyes, I saw it was Marius! And I saw the expression of wrath stamped on his face. Never have I seen such a perfect reflection of fury, and there was not the slightest doubt that it was what he meant for me to see.
My lips parted but my voice had died in my throat. All I could do was stretch out my arms to him, to send from my heart a silent plea for mercy and for help.
Again the dog gave his fierce warning and seemed about to spring.
And as I watched helplessly, and trembling uncontrollably, the figure turned its back slowly, and giving me one last angry, disdainful look, disappeared.
It was then that I sprang to life, crying his name. "Marius!" I rose to my feet, calling louder and louder. "Marius, don't leave me here. Help me!" I reached up into the skies. "Marius," I roared.
But it was useless and I knew it.
The rain soaked through my coat. It soaked into my shoes. My hair was slick and wet with it, and it didn't matter now whether or not I'd been crying, because the rain had washed away the teats.
"You think I'm defeated," I whispered. What need was there to shout for him? "You think you've passed your judgment, and that's the end of it. Oh, you think it is as simple as that. Well you are wrong. I shall never have vengeance for this moment. But you will see me again. You will see me again."
I bowed my head.
The night was full of mortal voices, the sounds of running feet. A great noisy engine had come to a halt on the distant corner. I had to force these miserable mortal limbs to move.
I motioned for Mojo to follow, and off we crept past the ruins of the little house, still burning merrily, and over a low garden wall and through an overgrown alley and away.
Only later did I think how close we had probably come to capture-the mortal arsonist and his menacing dog.
But how could such a thing matter? Louis had cast me out, and so had Marius-Marius, who might find my preternatural body before I did, and destroy it on the spot. Marius, who might already have destroyed it so that I was left forever within this mortal frame.
Oh, if ever I'd known such misery in my mortal youth, I didn't remember it. And if I had, it would have been little consolation to me now. As for my fear, it was unspeakable! Reason couldn't compass it. Round and round I went with my hopes and feeble plans.
"I have to find the Body Thief, I have to find him and you must give me time, Marius, if you will not help me, you must grant me that much."
Over and over I said it like the Hail Mary of a rosary as I trudged on through the bitter rain.
Once or twice I even shouted my prayers in the darkness, standing beneath a high dripping oak tree, and trying to see the approaching light coming down through the wet sky.
Who in all the world would help me?
David was my only hope, though what he could do to help me, I couldn't even imagine. David! And what if he, too, turned his back on me?
NINETEEN
I WAS sitting in the Cafe du Monde as the sun came up, thinking, how shall I get into my rooftop rooms? This little problem was preventing me from losing my mind. Was that the key to mortal survival? Hmmm. How to breach my luxurious little apartment? I myself had fitted the entry to the roof garden with an impassable iron gate. I myself secured the doors of the penthouse itself with numerous and complex locks. Indeed, the windows were barred against intruding mortals, though how they could have possibly reached the windows, I never truly considered before.
Ah, well, I shall have to get through the gate. I shall work some verbal magic on the other tenants of the building-all tenants of the blond Frenchman Lestat de Lioncourt, who treats them very well, I might add. I shall convince them I am a French cousin of the landlord,