But the vampire, Teskhamen. How in the world did he become part of them?

Everard ran a quick scan in his mind of what he’d learned about the Talamasca—from Lestat’s writings, and Marius’s memoir. Dedicated, honorable, committed to truth without religious suspicion, censure, or judgment, yes. If their ranks included vampires, the vast majority of the rank and file certainly had never guessed it.

Then there was the great mystery of who had founded the Talamasca. If it turned out to be a vampire, a mere blood drinker, such as Teskhamen, old as he was, well, that would be a crushing disappointment to the others, wouldn’t it?

Hmmm. That was their problem.

He studied the little white card, and put it safely in his jacket.

“Contemptible,” said the Voice. “In the end, I will burn them all as well. I will burn their libraries, their little museums, their retreat houses, their—.”

“I get it!” said Everard angrily.

“You will rue the night you mocked me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Everard said in a low American drawl. “If you’re all that strong, Voice, why don’t you give it a try? They’ve been around since the Dark Ages. And they don’t appear to be afraid of you at all.”

“You infuriating stupid disrespectful and foolish monster!” said the Voice. “Your time will come.”

Everard was suddenly startled. A waiter stood beside him with a mug of coffee, the steam rising in the cool air.

“Talking to yourself again, Signore de Landen?” he said cheerfully.

Everard smiled, shook his head, and took out a couple of bills of big, pretty Italian currency and gave them to the young man.

Then he sat back and held the warm cup in both hands. Lestat did get that right in the Vampire Chronicles, he thought. It was nice to hold a hot mug of coffee in your two hands and let the steam rise into your face.

The only sounds around him were the predictable voices of the town. A motor scooter firing up somewhere far off and then belching as it went away into the country, and the low hum of conversations blossoming behind closed doors.

He was thirsting.

Suddenly he was thirsting, really thirsting, but he hadn’t the energy to go far enough away from his home to satisfy his thirst. He left the coffee, and got up and made his way through the streets to the city gates.

Within moments he’d passed out of the illumination of the high-walled town and he was walking uphill fast in cool darkness and he felt like weeping and he didn’t quite know why.

Was it conceivable that we are a tribe? Was it conceivable that we were beings who could love one another, be gentle with one another the way that Teskhamen had been with his spectral companions, the way Rhoshamandes had been with him so very long ago?