I had to admit that he did not.

“But who would have thought that he could drink from me?” I asked. “Who would have thought that he would? The night I was made, my Maker said that Goblin would leave me, that spirits had an aversion to Blood Hunters and I’d soon find myself alone. ‘No more ghostly companions for you,’ he said. He said it meanly. Because he couldn’t see them, you see. Oh, what a demon he was!”

Lestat nodded. His eyes were filled with muted compassion.

“In the main, that’s so,” he said. “Ghosts shy away from Blood Drinkers, as though something about us, understandably, horrifies them. I don’t know the full explanation of it. But you know it’s not always so. There are many vampires who see spirits, though I’m not one of them, except on a very few remarkable occasions, I should openly confess.”

“You mean you really can’t see Goblin,” I said.

“I told you the first time that I couldn’t see him,” Lestat said patiently. “Not until he had drunk the blood. Then I saw his image defined by the blood. It was the same this time, and I sent the Fire to that blood. Now, what if he had attacked you again? I don’t think those minute flames could have ignited you. There wasn’t thrust enough. But just in case, I’ll use another power if he comes again, a power you have as well, and that’s the Mind Gift, as some call it, not to read his mind but to push against him, to drive him away with a telekinetic strength until he’s so weary with defending himself that he can’t hold steady and has to flee.”

“But how can I push against what is not material?” I asked.

“He is material,” Lestat corrected me. “He’s just made of a material we don’t understand. Think clearly.”

I nodded. “I’ve tried to push him away,” I confessed. “But something happens, something happens in my reason, and he’s on me, and the pleasure starts pounding, the guilty pleasure that he and I are together, and the chills are running rampant, as if my soul had chills, and there’s a taunting rhythm to it, a thumping rhythm, and I’m his slave.”

I felt a delicious numbness come over me even as I spoke of it, some last vagrant shiver of the union. I looked at my hands. All the tiny pinprick wounds had healed. I felt my face, and I could see the memories again. I felt a vast secret knowledge of Goblin, an unshakable dependence.

“He’s become my vampire,” I said. “He makes a meal of me, he locks into me. I’m . . . yes, I’m his slave.”

“And a slave who wants to be rid of his master,” said Lestat thoughtfully. “Has it been stronger with each attack, this guilty pleasure?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, it has,” I confessed. “You know, there were years, important years, when he was my only friend. It was before Nash Penfield came. It was before my teacher Lynelle came. And even while Lynelle was here, it was me and Goblin together always. I never put up with anyone who didn’t tolerate my talking to Goblin. Patsy hated it. Patsy’s my mother, remember? It was at times a perfect comedy, but that’s the way it was. Patsy would stomp her feet and scream, ‘If you don’t stop talking to that damned ghost, I’m leaving!’ Now, Aunt Queen is perfectly patient, so patient that I could swear there have been times, though Aunt Queen won’t admit it, that she saw Goblin herself.”