Prologue
The language, you see, isn't important. It's the sentiment behind your words that will save you. Or the scent-he-meant, as my maker endlessly quipped. He could sniff out cowardice from the underside of his coffin lid even as he slept.It never ceased to amuse him, God bless his tortured soul. Or rather, bless whichever other-dimension to which his soul has been dispatched.
Ha! I remember it vividly: his gurgling screams competing against the greedy, gobbling flames of damnation that, eventually, silenced him.
How that blaze crackled and spat in fury, Nature claiming back that abomination of a 'gift' She bestowed upon him, upon all of our kind. For we chosen few, that gift, that Trojan Horse, has rendered Heaven and Hell places as much a folklore unto us as we are to you.
My maker's twisting, clawing silhouette, overwhelmed by the orange, yellow, white furnace, is burnt onto my retina forever. And the flames' roar of triumph, a glorious backdrop to the inferno as it consumed his immortal soul: it shall haunt me until the day I…well, let's just say for a very long time.
Was it I who'd built the pyre around his shallow grave in some trance-like, pre-dusk hypnosis? I swear, I sincerely do not recall. But…it matters not; the deed is did, the demon dead, and I will die another day.
Enough of the 'then', whose gruesome echoes from a gateway to the underworld still resonate around what remains of my mind to this day.
It's the 'now' that you should celebrate, this moment for which we all live—or die. Just remember that, won't you? The next time you:
'wish [insert name of loved one here] were dead!',I may just hear you and come grant that wish…
Paris
The city of lovers. Is it any wonder that Lestat is so enamoured with its finery, its théâtres, its gay abandon.From atop la tour Eiffel (and I mean its very pinnacle, not the crow's nest of a gallery that restricts public ascent), even our kind, who can pierce the clouds in a single leap, appreciate the awe-inspiring view that must bring you humans to your knees in humility.
Paris! Its pavilions rolling out at the four points of the compass, fighting against the tributaries and the clambering concrete to segregate this sprawling metropolis.
The Seine idles by like a nautical juggernaut, hosting fairy-lit ferries that tremulously twinkle, transporting jovial tourists around The Isle, beneath its bridges and past imposing landmarks that hold their breath.
Those monuments, they're scared, scared that the countless tales of wickedness from centuries past will one day flood the riverbanks should anyone look too closely down into and along the city's labyrinthine burrows.
The ferry passes by, the buildings whisper another sigh of relief from their creaking foudations; France's secrets are safe for a short while longer. For that, we can all be thankful.
But make no mistake, guilt hath no longer a part to play in my existence, nor that of our kind. Not since our purpose has been upgraded, albeit begrudgingly, by Mother Nature.
Upgraded from verminous leeches to becoming an allied necessity in this era of mankind's sloth, entitlement and vanity overnight. Thank you, mankind!
Our purpose now, in the 21st century, is simple: to release those citizens from the shackles of pain who are too weak to face life's tribulations (or plain, old responsibilities).
Well, okay. Mother Nature did want us to adopt the role of a pestilence-clearing service. But, you can guess what The Master's response to that was!
Yes, his rebuff was a bluff. We could feed a whole new race of super-vampires on the detritus of mankind as per the deal that She first offered. But she couldn't take the chance when we turned her down, the dispicable state of humanity, as it is.
So, leverage, leaway. We held the aces (that you dealt us, mankind!). No questions asked when the robbers and rapists, drug runners and despots, fraudsters and felons disappeared from the face of the Earth. We both wanted that.
But what about those in the grey area? Now we played our hand, and how!
There will always be those whose heartache and grief at losing a loved one serves them up a never-ending banquet of love's labours lost. Others crave for their corporeal existence to be truncated swiftly and mercifully, often through psychosis, either their own or that to which they've been subjected by ne'erdowell partners. These are also now 'fair game' to hunt.
We do not judge, you see; we simply answer prayers, which is more than can be said for the deities worshipped by the flock, the sheep that is mankind.
And then there are those unfortunate souls sentenced in the heat of the moment. Lovers (mostly, but sometimes parents), whose partners (children), in a fit of jealousy, spite, incredulity or just looking for a way out of a sticky situation, scream that oh-so-sweet summons:
I wish you were dead!
Why, we are but their angels and archangels, flying unto them upon the ravenous wings of night itself.
One look into our eyes and the weak, the lovelorn and the destitute know that their prayer has been answered. Or that judgement has been served upon them, whether that plea was issued by them or with sincerity. Or not.
For to countenance our being, see us for what we are, for whom we really are and what we represent, bears a sentence more cruel than any revolutionary guillotine.
In that fleeting second of recognition, you are bound, tried and judged.
Moreover, you see the futility of the existence you have lead and know that you have passed up the chance to live that life forever. That sin is yours and yours alone.
Before the opportunity to renounce your mortal sins presents itself, for you to beg the chance to change our mind, your final prayer has already been answered the second before madness would have otherwise taken you.
That gift of life which Mother Nature crafted into your heart, mind and soul is prematurely released back into Her keep, though she thanks us not.
She hates us for who and what we are. But more, She despises how the human race has put her between that age-old rock and the hard place crafted by her own fair hand.
Yes, our blood lust is the reason we are sentenced to the night; but your vanity and self-righteousness is the reason She allows us to despatch you where you can do Her no further harm!
Exile to Neither Land
There is another reason that we shall never be kissed by either the sun's life-giving rays or Her blessing. And it is a path open to humans who, in that split second when we stare into their soul before crushing it, they show us the same nonchalance for life's sanctity in them as lies within us.For when each of us who now belong to the Brotherhood of the Night ourselves stared into Hell through death's impassive eyes, we neither crumbled nor complied. Instead, we challenged the Foresaken behind those eyes who were staring back at us with hunger and impatience.
It's true that many of us, in life, suffered the cruel rejection of love unrequited, as have those pitiful souls whose angels of mercy we have now become. What sets us apart is that we survived the kiss of the vampire, coveted it, were born again by it.
Our hatred of love itself, for the pain it made us unwillingly feel; the aching desire for our revenge against the mortals who so cruelly inflicted rejection upon us, deflected death away from our souls. Moreover, we bent pain to our will and it now serves to keep us in this neither-land.
For ours is a place between worlds, through which only the most forsaken beings in all of creation have right of passage.
Ours is a haven into which Mother Nature cannot enter, only exile us to. It's an ethereal place where the sun's rays are not welcome, for only death prospers here.
Yes, it's a realm that mortals know subsists, at least on some level; but, for the sake of their sanity, their psyche prefers not to acknowledge its existence.
If you stick around, I'll take you on a journey into Slippage. But be warned, I cannot guarantee that you will return here with either your mind, your body or your soul intact.
Powers, thoughts, concepts and temperaments exist within our world-between-worlds that would send the most decrepit, evil human cowering for their mother in puddles of their own excretion.
All manner of creatures try to escape its boundaries, to wreak their malevolence and total lack of propriety and passion upon the many worlds beyond ours. Only a few have the intellect to do so without getting themselves obliterated. Trust me when I say it's a good thing for the sanity and security of the human race that this remains so.
So, let me ask you this, now that you know the consequences: are you up for it, this journey? Really?
Only your fullest commitment can possibly save you, should you accept my hand. Let me protect you from Slippage, show you how to use it to your fullest advantage, that place where your senses pick up on:
- that ghost of a shadow you see at the very edge of your peripheral vision;
- that glare you feel burning into your back, cast by an empty room;
- that impossible creak-creak-creak edging up the stairwell at twilight;
- that floating gossamer strand tickling across your cheek at sunset;
- that tip-tapping branch on the window pane on a still, silent summer's eve.
…but will you allow me just one last favour?
Let me leave you with this extract while you make up your mind. It suggests that one of your kind has managed to peep behind our curtain. Or has perhaps got a little too close to one of our kind. I wouldn't like to be in their shoes when The Master finds out.
I digress; the result's the same: these words personify our motivation more closely than you know. Yet, awhile, anyway. A UK number one, no less, from almost forty years ago.
A prophecy foretold? Realised? Ours, or yours, or his?
Adieu, Precious, until I return to see if you have found your reservoir of resolve: here's a spoiler, a taste of what's to come. Don't take too long, though, eh? I may be back for your answer sooner than you think…
"What I want to say, but my words just fail,
Is that I need it so I can't help myself;
Like a hungry child, I just help myself,
And when I'm all full up I go out to play.
But I don't mean to bleed you dry,
Or take you over for the rest of your life;
It's just that I need something solid in mine.
Lonely as the moors on a winter's morning;
Quiet as the sea on a cool, calm night,
In your tranquil shadow I try and follow.
I hear your distant shoe clicks to the midnight beat;
I feel trapped in sorrow in this imagery
But that's how I am and why I need you so…"
© words/music Paul Weller. Precious, The Jam, The Gift, 1982.
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