Coincidences, probably. Coincidence and poetry. Fictive worlds. Likely Benji Mahmoud was an artist of fictive worlds of some sort, and made millions from his broadcast, though Garekyn could not turn up the slightest evidence of this or any money-making motivation. The program’s websites offered nothing for sale. It did offer lots of exquisite pictures of beings who appeared to be human beings of unusually pale and radiant complexions, all of which might have been faked.

The more he listened, the more Garekyn had been intrigued that there had been disastrous consequences to this seduction of the spirit Amel, that he, in seeking to please the red-haired witches, had plunged into the physical body of an early Queen of the land of Kemet and created in so doing the very first “vampire.” From this vampire came all other vampires, with Amel animating every single one in an unbroken chain to the present time.

Red hair. Amel. Ancient times. Immortals. It wasn’t much to go on. But what about the distinct timbre of the voices? Was the spirit of Amel responsible for that as well? Amel gave great powers to his vampire children; they could spellbind “mortals,” read minds, and develop over time the power to kinetically burn their opponents or break down doorways. They could even learn how to defy gravity and fly.

Now think on it.

How did Amel live and breathe in these creatures? Who was Amel?

All the vampires of the world, according to Benji Mahmoud, were animated by this Amel who had since those early times been moved from one primal host to another, and finally into a young blood drinker now known as Prince Lestat from whom the spirit kept the entire tribe of vampires animated and thriving. The “Amel Consciousness,” as Benji sometimes called it, could travel from vampire to vampire through invisible weblike connections—and Amel himself had actually phoned the program more than once last year through the voices of random blood drinkers whom he had seduced.

But of course any blood drinker might boast that Amel spoke through him, and Benji had brushed off a number who made such claims as not credible.

Then the Prince had come, Prince Lestat, and Amel was safe inside him, Benji reminded the tribe.

Full darkness. It was just settling all around him, swallowed up and warmed by the rush of pedestrians on the pavements and the endless parade of motorcars, and the streetlamps snapping on silently all around him.

Garekyn had reached the proper street. A newspaper article had given the description of the three townhouses for which Garekyn was searching. As he turned right and made his way towards Madison Avenue, he saw them and their central iron gate. This much is real, he thought. The lights were on throughout the compound from the basement windows near the pavement to the high stories.