had fallen asleep on the stage and had been dreaming.
We sat by the hearth together with our wine on the top of a little barrel, and in the firelight Nicki looked as weary and dejected as he had the night before.
I didn’t want to trouble him, but I couldn’t forget about the face.
“Well, what does he look like?” Nicolas asked. He was warming his hands. And over his shoulder, I saw through the window a city of snow-covered rooftops that made me feel more cold. I didn’t like this conversation.
“That’s the worst part of it,” I said. “All I see is a face. He must be wearing something black, a cloak and even a hood. But it looks like a mask to me, the face, very white and strangely clear. I mean the lines in his face are so deep they seemed to be etched with black greasepaint. I see it for a moment. It veritably glows. Then when I look again, there’s no one there.Yet this is an exaggeration. It’s more subtle than that, the way he looks and yet . . . ”
The description seemed to disturb Nicki as much as it disturbed me. He didn’t say anything. But his face softened somewhat as if he were forgetting his sadness.
“Well, I don’t want to get your hopes up,” he said. He was very kind and sincere now. “But maybe it
is
a mask you’re seeing. And maybe it’s someone from the Comédie-Française come to see you perform.”
I shook my head. “I wish it was, but no one would wear a mask like that. And I’ll tell you something else, too.”
He waited, but I could see I was passing on to him some of my own apprehension. He reached over and took the wine bottle by the neck and poured a little in my glass.
“Whoever he is,” I said, “he knows about the wolves.”
“He what?”
“He knows about the wolves.” I was very unsure of myself. It was like recounting a dream I had all but forgotten. “He knows I killed the wolves back home. He knows the cloak I wear is lined with their fur.”
“What are you talking about? You mean you’ve spoken to him?”
“No, that’s just it,” I said. This was so confusing to me, so vague. I felt that swimming sensation again. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’ve never spoken to him, never been near him. But he knows.”
“Ah, Lestat,” he said. He sat back on the bench. He was smiling at me in the most endearing way. “Next you’ll be seeing ghosts. You have the strongest imagination of anyone I’ve ever known.”
“There are no ghosts,” I answered softly. I scowled at our little fire. I laid a few more lumps of coal on it.
All the humor went out of Nicolas.
“How in the hell could he know about the wolves? And how could you . . . ”
“I told you already, I don’t know!” I said. I sat thinking and not saying anything, disgusted, maybe, at how ridiculous it all seemed.
And then as we remained silent together, and the fire was the only sound or movement in the room, the name
Wolfkiller
came to me very distinctly as if someone had spoken it.
But nobody had.
I looked at Nicki, painfully aware that his lips had never moved, and I think all the blood drained from my face. I felt not the dread of death as I had on so many other nights, but an emotion that was really alien to me: fear.
I was still sitting there, too unsure of myself to say anything, when Nicolas kissed me.
“Let’s go to bed,” he said softly.
1
I T MUST have been three o’clock in the morning; I’d heard the church bells in my sleep.
And like all sensible men in Paris, we had our door barred and our window locked. Not good for a room with a coal fire, but the roof was a path to our window. And we were locked in.
I was dreaming of the wolves. I was on the mountain and surrounded and I was swinging the old medieval flail. Then the wolves were dead again, and the dream was better, only I had all those miles to walk in the snow. The horse screamed in the snow. My mare turned into a loathsome insect half smashed on the stone floor.
A voice said
We sat by the hearth together with our wine on the top of a little barrel, and in the firelight Nicki looked as weary and dejected as he had the night before.
I didn’t want to trouble him, but I couldn’t forget about the face.
“Well, what does he look like?” Nicolas asked. He was warming his hands. And over his shoulder, I saw through the window a city of snow-covered rooftops that made me feel more cold. I didn’t like this conversation.
“That’s the worst part of it,” I said. “All I see is a face. He must be wearing something black, a cloak and even a hood. But it looks like a mask to me, the face, very white and strangely clear. I mean the lines in his face are so deep they seemed to be etched with black greasepaint. I see it for a moment. It veritably glows. Then when I look again, there’s no one there.Yet this is an exaggeration. It’s more subtle than that, the way he looks and yet . . . ”
The description seemed to disturb Nicki as much as it disturbed me. He didn’t say anything. But his face softened somewhat as if he were forgetting his sadness.
“Well, I don’t want to get your hopes up,” he said. He was very kind and sincere now. “But maybe it
is
a mask you’re seeing. And maybe it’s someone from the Comédie-Française come to see you perform.”
I shook my head. “I wish it was, but no one would wear a mask like that. And I’ll tell you something else, too.”
He waited, but I could see I was passing on to him some of my own apprehension. He reached over and took the wine bottle by the neck and poured a little in my glass.
“Whoever he is,” I said, “he knows about the wolves.”
“He what?”
“He knows about the wolves.” I was very unsure of myself. It was like recounting a dream I had all but forgotten. “He knows I killed the wolves back home. He knows the cloak I wear is lined with their fur.”
“What are you talking about? You mean you’ve spoken to him?”
“No, that’s just it,” I said. This was so confusing to me, so vague. I felt that swimming sensation again. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’ve never spoken to him, never been near him. But he knows.”
“Ah, Lestat,” he said. He sat back on the bench. He was smiling at me in the most endearing way. “Next you’ll be seeing ghosts. You have the strongest imagination of anyone I’ve ever known.”
“There are no ghosts,” I answered softly. I scowled at our little fire. I laid a few more lumps of coal on it.
All the humor went out of Nicolas.
“How in the hell could he know about the wolves? And how could you . . . ”
“I told you already, I don’t know!” I said. I sat thinking and not saying anything, disgusted, maybe, at how ridiculous it all seemed.
And then as we remained silent together, and the fire was the only sound or movement in the room, the name
Wolfkiller
came to me very distinctly as if someone had spoken it.
But nobody had.
I looked at Nicki, painfully aware that his lips had never moved, and I think all the blood drained from my face. I felt not the dread of death as I had on so many other nights, but an emotion that was really alien to me: fear.
I was still sitting there, too unsure of myself to say anything, when Nicolas kissed me.
“Let’s go to bed,” he said softly.
1
I T MUST have been three o’clock in the morning; I’d heard the church bells in my sleep.
And like all sensible men in Paris, we had our door barred and our window locked. Not good for a room with a coal fire, but the roof was a path to our window. And we were locked in.
I was dreaming of the wolves. I was on the mountain and surrounded and I was swinging the old medieval flail. Then the wolves were dead again, and the dream was better, only I had all those miles to walk in the snow. The horse screamed in the snow. My mare turned into a loathsome insect half smashed on the stone floor.
A voice said
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