Rose drifted and then she saw Viktor again smiling down at her. Well, Uncle Lestan never wore his hair that short, did he? And never did he wear that kind of sweater vest, even if it was cashmere, or a pink shirt like that open at the neck.

“You look so like him,” she said.

In the distance she heard the “Serenade” again, that plaintive, painful music, trying to describe beauty, pure beauty, and so heartbreakingly sad. “But he sang that to me when I was little.…”

“You told us this,” said Viktor, “and that’s why we’re playing it for you now.”

“I could swear, you look more like him than any human being I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Viktor smiled. Why, it was that same smile, that same infectious and loving smile.

“That’s because I’m his son,” said Viktor.

“Uncle Lestan’s son?” she said. She was so drowsy. “Did you say you were his son?” She sat up, staring at him. “My God in Heaven! You are his son. I had no idea that he had a son!”

“He doesn’t have any idea either, Rose,” said Viktor. He bent over her and kissed her forehead. She put her arms around him, the wires streaming from their needles. “I’ve been waiting such a long time,” he said, “to tell him myself.”

Chapter 6

Cyril

HE SLEPT FOR MONTHS at a time. Sometimes years. Why not? In a cave on Mount Fuji, he had slept for centuries. There were years when he slept in Kyoto. Now he was in Tokyo. He didn’t care.

He was thirsty and crazed. He’d been having bad dreams, dreams of fire.

He crawled from his hiding place and went out into the teeming nighttime streets. Rain, yes, cooling rain. Didn’t matter to him much who the victim was, as long as it was young and strong enough to survive that first bite. He wanted hearts that would pump the blood into him. He wanted that blood being pumped by another heart through his heart.

As he walked deeper and deeper into the Ginza district of the city, the neon lights delighted him and made him happy. Lights flickering, dancing, racing up and down and across on the borders of great moving pictures. Lights! He decided to take his time.

Strange it was that when he emerged from his hiding places, he always knew the languages and the ways of the people who were nearest to them. He was never surprised so much as delighted by their goings-on. Rain couldn’t stop the crush of people here, the beautiful, fresh-faced, scrubbed, and scented children of this century, so rich, so innocent, so willing to provide him with draught after draught of their blood.

Drink because I want you. I have much for you to do.