I had a multitude of objections. What had I ever done but write books, tell stories, take to the rock music stage, and how could they romanticize this out of all proportion?

“I’m the Brat Prince, remember?” I said.

Marius waved that away with a bit of a laugh and told me to “get to it!”

“Yes, please,” said a dark-skinned blood drinker who introduced himself as Avicus. The one beside him, Flavius, blond and blue-eyed, only smiled at me, gazing at me with a trusting admiration that I saw on other faces here too.

“Nothing effective will be done,” said Allesandra, “if you do not take the helm. Lestat, I saw your destiny in you centuries ago in Paris when you came striding fearlessly through the mortal crowd.”

“I’m in agreement,” said Armand in a low voice as if talking to me alone. “Who but the Brat Prince to take charge? Beware of anyone else here who might try.”

Laughter all around.

Allesandra, Sevraine, Chrysanthe, and Eleni and Eugénie looked like queens of ages past in their simple jeweled gowns, with hair as spectacular as the gold trimming on their sleeves, and the rings on their fingers.

Even Bianca, the fragile grieving Bianca, had a majestic poise that commanded respect. And the petite Zenobia, her dark hair trimmed like that of a boy, in her exquisite blue velvet suit, appeared a cherubic page boy from a medieval court.

We each bring to this realm of ours a certain charm, I thought to myself, and obviously I can’t see myself as they see me. I, the bumbler, the blunderer, the impulsive one. And where the Hell was my son!

Deep in my mind a thought did flash for a moment that one who commands must of necessity be wildly imperfect, boldly pragmatic, capable of compromises impossible for the truly wise and the truly good.

“Yes!” said Benji in a whisper, having caught this from my mind.

I looked at him, at his small radiant face, and then back at the assembly.

“Yes, you have it there exactly,” said Marius. “Wildly imperfect, boldly pragmatic. My thoughts as well.”

David had taken his seat again but this time the smooth one rose, the one named Gregory. This was surely one of the most impressive blood drinkers I’d ever beheld. He had a self-possession to rival that of our lost Maharet.