“Oh, this, this strange little story,” I said, “here, you may have it. I bequeath it to you. Fitting that it should be in a library, perhaps wedged somewhere on one of these shelves.”

I took out the little folded packet and glanced at it. “Yes, I’ve read this. It’s sort of amusing.” I tossed the packet into his lap. “Some fool mortal gave it to me, some poor benighted soul who knew who I was and had just enough courage to toss it at my feet.”

“Explain this to me,” said David. He unfolded the pages. “Why are you carrying it with you? Good Lord—Lovecraft.” He gave a little shake of his head.

“I just did explain it,” I said. “It’s no use, David, I can’t be talked down from the high ledge. I’m going. Besides, the story doesn’t mean a thing. Poor fool … ”

He had had such strange glittering eyes. Whatever had been so wrong about the way he came running towards me across the sand? About his awkward panic-stricken retreat? His manner had indicated such importance! Ah, but this was foolish. I didn’t care, and I knew I didn’t. I knew what I meant to do.

“Lestat, stay here!” David said. “You promised the very next time we met, you would let me say all I have to say. You wrote that to me, Lestat, you remember? You won’t go back on your word.”

“Well, I have to go back on it, David. And you have to forgive me because I’m going. Perhaps there is no heaven or hell, and I’ll see you on the other side.”

“And what if there is both? What then?”

“You’ve been reading too much of the Bible. Read the Lovecraft story.” Again, I gave a short laugh. I gestured to the pages he was holding. “Better for your peace of mind. And stay away from Faust, for heaven’s sake. You really think angels will come in the end and take us away? Well, not me, perhaps, but you?”

“Don’t go,” he said, and his voice was so soft and imploring that it took my breath away.

But I was already going.

I barely heard him call out behind me:

“Lestat, I need you. You’re the only friend I have.”

How tragic those words! I wanted to say I was sorry, sorry for all of it. But it was too late now for that. And besides, I think he knew.

I shot upwards in the cold darkness, driving through the descending snow. All life seemed utterly unbearable to me, both in its horror and its splendour. The tiny house looked warm down there, its light spilling on the white ground, its chimney giving forth that thin coil of blue smoke.

I thought of David again walking alone through Amsterdam, but then I thought of Rembrandt’s faces. And I saw David’s face again in the library fire. He looked like a man painted by Rembrandt. He had looked that way ever since I’d known him. And what did we look like—frozen forever in the form we had when the Dark Blood entered our veins? Claudia had been for decades that child painted on porcelain. And I was like one of Michelangelo’s statues, turning white as marble. And just as cold.