No surprises there. Armand has always been skilled at destroying those who offend him. He was after all for hundreds of years the coven master of the old Children of Satan in Paris, and he’d burn to ashes any blood drinker who didn’t obey the vicious old rules of those miserable religious fanatics. He’s autocratic, ruthless. Well, he can have that mission.

But let me add here that Armand isn’t the moral cipher I once thought he was. So much of what I thought about us, our minds, our souls, our moral evolution or devolution, was just wrong in the books I wrote. Armand’s not without compassion, not without a heart. In many respects, he’s just coming into himself after five hundred years. And what do I really know about being immortal? I’ve been in the Blood since when, 1780? That’s not very long. Not very long at all.

I’ve been to New York, by the way, to spy on my old friends.

I’ve stood outside their gorgeous Upper East Side dwelling on warm nights, listening to the young vampire Sybelle play the piano and Benjamin and Armand talking by the hour.

Such impressive dwellings—three townhouses attached to one another and made into one grand palazzo, each with its own Grecian portico and front steps and little decorative iron fencing. Only the central entrance was used, with the bronze name in script above the door: TRINITY GATE.

Benji’s the vampire responsible for the radio talk show beaming out of New York night after night. In the first years, it was broadcast in the regular way, but now it’s internet radio and reaches the Undead all over the world. Benji’s clever in ways no one could have predicted—a Bedouin by birth, brought into the Blood at age twelve perhaps, so he’ll be five feet two inches tall and small forever. But he’s one of those immortal children whom mortals always take for a diminutive adult.

I can’t “hear” Louis when I’m spying, of course, since I made him, and makers and fledglings are deaf to each other, but my preternatural ears have never been better. Outside their house, I easily picked up his rich, soft voice and the images of Louis in the minds of the others. I could see the vividly colored baroque murals on their ceilings through the billowing lace curtains. Lots of blue there—blue skies with rich rolling gold-tinged clouds. Why not? And I could smell those crackling fires.