Description : Prince Lestat
YEARS AGO, I heard him. He’d been babbling.
It was after Queen Akasha had been destroyed and the mute red-haired twin, Mekare, had be “the Queen of the Damned.” I’d witnessed all that—the brutal death of Akasha in the moment when we all thought we would die, too, along with her.
It was after I’d switched bodies with a mortal man ande back into my own powerful vampiric body—having rejected the old dream of being human again.
It was after I’d been to Heaven and Hell with a spirit called Memnoch, ande back to Earth a wounded explorer with no appetite anymore for knowledge, truth, beauty.
Defeated, I’d lain for years on the floor of a chapel in New Orleans in an old convent building, oblivious to the ever-shifting crowd of immortals around me—hearing them, wanting to respond, yet somehow never managing to meet a glance, answer a question, acknowledge a kiss or a whisper of affection.
And that’s when I first heard the Voice. Masculine, insistent, inside my brain.
Babbling, like I said. And I thought, Well, perhaps we blood drinkers can go mad like mortals, you know, and this is some artifact of my warped mind. Or maybe he is some massively crippled ancient one, slumbering somewhere nearby, and somehow I, telepathically, get to share in his misery.
There are physical limits to telepathy in our world. Of course. But then voices, pleas, messages, thoughts, can be relayed through other minds, and conceivably, this poor slob could be mumbling to himself on the other side of the planet.