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Back Prince Lestat and the Realms of Atlantis
Chapters (48)
  1. Cover
  2. ALSO BY ANNE RICE
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. A Brief History of the Vampires
  8. Blood Argot
  9. Proem
  10. Part I
  11. 1
  12. 2
  13. 3
  14. 4
  15. 5
  16. 6
  17. 7
  18. 8
  19. 9
  20. 10
  21. 11
  22. 12
  23. 13
  24. 14
  25. 15
  26. 16
  27. 17
  28. 18
  29. Part II
  30. 19
  31. 20
  32. 21
  33. 22
  34. 23
  35. 24
  36. Part III
  37. 25
  38. 26
  39. 27
  40. 28
  41. 29
  42. 30
  43. 31
  44. 32
  45. 33
  46. Appendix 1
  47. Appendix 2
  48. What’s next onyour reading list?

So they had been in France all the time—in Paris all the time more than likely. I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything but him.

“And none of that happened to you, did it?” I asked.

“No, nothing bad at all,” he announced proudly with the most incandescent smile. His eyes were moist. “I’ve been roaming since morning. And I knew that you had been walking in these very streets. I knew you frequented this café. I overheard them say it. I knew. I dreamed of seeing you! I wanted to see you. I would have kept coming back until I ran into you.” He stopped and looked over the table of sandwiches and pastries. I could see that he was hungry.

“Please, eat,” I said. I moved a glass of wine towards him. And I uncorked the bottle. “Are they trying to keep you and me apart?”

He took a long deep drink, and I refilled the glass.

“They know they can’t, really,” said Amel. “That I want to see you and talk to you and inevitably they will have to allow it. But they keep saying I’m not ready. Well, I am ready. I need to see you like this.”

He began to eat slowly, savoring every bite of the bread and meat, but his eyes kept returning to me.

“Ah, such pleasure,” he said under his breath. “Every cell in my body is learning to enjoy this more and more each day.”

“What else can I get for you?” I asked.

I signaled the waiter.

“What about an ice-cold beer?” I asked. “Would you like that?”

He nodded. “Hot, cold, sweetness,” he murmured. He took a bite from the sugar pastry right before him, closing his eyes, shuddering as he held it in his mouth. Then he looked at me, took me in again as if he were feasting on the sight of me. Tears hovered in his eyes.

Scent of blood, delicious blood inside him.

There was so much I wanted to say that I said nothing.

“I am famished for the whole world,” he said. “I’m famished for wine, for beer, for food, for life, for you! Take off your glasses, will you, I have to see your eyes, oh, yes, thank you, thank you. Those are your eyes.”

“Don’t cry anymore,” I said. “If you don’t cry anymore, I won’t cry.”