Silent this new Queen of the Damned. Silent those immortals who'd survived with her. No one knew what had become of them, where they'd gone.
What was it to Antoine? He cared but he did not care.
The voices spoke of vampire scripture, a canon, so to speak. The Vampire Chronicles. There had been two, and now there were three, and this canon told of what had happened to Lestat and the others. They told of the "Queen of the Damned."
Walking boldly into a brightly lighted bookstore, Antoine bought the volumes, and read them over a week of strange nights.
In the pages of the first book, published long ago, he found himself, nameless, "the musician," with not so much as a physical description except that he'd been a "boy," a mere footnote to the life and adventures of his maker as told by the vampire Louis, that one whom Lestat had so loved, and feared to anger. "Let him get used to the idea, Antoine, and then I'll bring you over. I can't ... I can't lose them, Louis and Claudia." And they had turned on him, sought to kill him, dumped Lestat's body in the swamp. And after that final battle in flames and smoke when he had fought with Lestat to punish them, Antoine had never been mentioned again.
What did it matter? Claudia had died for it all, unjustly. Louis had survived. The books were filled with stories of other older and more powerful beings.
So where were they now, these great survivors of Queen Akasha's massacre? And how many like Antoine were roaming the world, weak, afraid, without comrades or the consolation of love, clinging to existence as he did?
The voices told him there was no dream coven of elders. They spoke of indifference, lawlessness, a retreat of the ancient ones, of wars for territory that always ended in death. There were notorious vagabond masters who turned mortals into vampires every night until their stamina ran out, and the Dark Trick no longer worked when they attempted it.
Not six months passed before a gang of maverick vampires came after Antoine.
He'd just finished the latest book in the vampire scripture, Lestat's Tale of the Body Thief. It was in the back alleys of downtown Chicago. In the early hours they surrounded him with long knives, pasty-faced gangster vampires with sneering lips, and flaming hair, but he was too strong for them, too quick. He found in himself a reserve of the telekinetic power described in the Chronicles, and though he was not strong enough to burn or kill them, he drove them back, slamming them into walls and pavements, bruising and shocking them senseless. That gave him the time he needed to use their long knives to cut off their heads. He had barely time to conceal their bloody remains in garbage heaps before making for his lair.
Voices told him such skirmishes and deaths were occurring in American cities everywhere, and indeed in the cities of the Old World and in Asia.
Things couldn't go on like this with him in such a world. This could mean discovery. This could mean battles of vengeance. Chicago was too rich a plum for the Undead certainly, and Antoine's refuge in Oak Park was too close.
One night his house, his beautiful old graceful white frame house with its rambling porches and gingerbread eaves, was burnt to the ground while he was hunting.
They finally got him in St. Louis.
They called themselves a "coven." They surrounded him and doused him with gasoline and set him on fire. Down into the earth he went to smother the flames and then up again. They came after him. He ran, burnt, in agony, over the miles, outdistancing them easily and burying himself again.
Many things had happened in the world since then.
But not very much of it to him.
In the earth he slept, healing, his mind in a feverish realm of semi-consciousness in which he dreamed
he was in New Orleans again and Lestat was listening to his music, Lestat was whispering to him that he had a great talent, and then there were flames.
And then he heard distinctly through his dreams a young vampire speaking to him, and not to him alone but to all the Children of the Night everywhere. It was a vampire who called himself Benji Mahmoud broadcasting from New York, and how many nights Antoine listened before he rose, he could not say. A lovely rippling piano flooded his ears as Benji spoke, and Antoine knew, absolutely knew, that this was the music of a vampire like himself, that no mortal could have created such intricate, bizarre, and perfect melodies. The vampire Sybelle was her name, said Benji Mahmoud. And sometimes his voice dropped away for her music to take over the airwaves.
Benji Mahmoud and Sybelle prompted Antoine to come to the surface once more and face the bright dangerous electric nights of the new century.
It was the year 2013. This fact alone astonished him. Over twenty years had passed and his burnt flesh was healed. His strength was greater than before. His skin was whiter, his eyes sharper, his ears ever more sensitive.
It was all true what the vampire scripture had said. One healed in the earth, and one grew strong from pain.
The world was filled with sound, waves and waves of sound.
How many other blood drinkers heard Benji Mahmoud and Sybelle's piano? How many other minds transmitted it? He did not know. He only knew that he could hear it, thinly but certainly, and he could hear and feel them everywhere, the Children of the Night, too many, surely, listening to the voice of Benji Mahmoud. And they were frightened, these others.
Massacres had started again. Massacres like the Burnings done by Akasha--massacres of vampires in the cities on the other side of the world.
"It is coming for us," said the voices of the frightened ones. "But who is it? Is it the mute Mother, Mekare? Has she turned on us the way Akasha turned? Or is it the Vampire Lestat? Is he the one trying to wipe us out for all our crimes against our own kind, our bickering, our quarreling?"
"Brothers and Sisters of the Night," declared Benji Mahmoud. "We have no parents. We are a tribe without a leader, a tribe without a credo, a tribe without a name." The piano music of Sybelle was masterly, rippling with preternatural genius. Ah, how he loved this. "Children of the Night, Children of Darkness, the Undead, the Immortals, Blood Drinkers, Revenants, why don't we have an honorable and graceful name?" demanded Benji. "I implore you. Do not fight. Do not seek to hurt one another. Band together now against the forces that would wipe us out. Find strength in one another."
Antoine moved with renewed purpose. I am alive again, he thought. I can die a thousand deaths like any coward and come back to life again. He hunted on the margins as before, struggling for clothes, money, lodgings, a new age flaming into color around him. In a small hotel room, he studied his new Apple computer, determined to master it, soon connecting with the website and radio program of Benji Mahmoud.
"Vampires have been slaughtered in Mumbai," declared Benji. "The reports have been confirmed. It is the same as in Tokyo and Beijing. Havens and sanctuaries burnt to the ground and all who fled immolated in their tracks, only the swiftest and the most fortunate surviving to give us the word, the pictures."