Blackwood Farm Read Online Free PDF Page A

black boots.
    What engraved itself into my consciousness was his face—square and taut, the eyes very big and the well-shaped mouth voluptuous, and the jaw somewhat hard, the whole more truly well proportioned and appealing than he could ever have claimed.
    In fact, his own descriptions of himself didn’t do him justice because his looks, though certainly a handful of obvious blessings, were ignited by a potent inner fire.
    He wasn’t staring at me with hatred. He wasn’t steadying me anymore with his hand.
    I cursed myself, from the pit of my heart, that I was taller than he was, that he was in fact looking up at me. Maybe he’d cheerfully obliterate me on that account alone.
    â€œThe letter,” I stammered. “The letter!” I whispered, but though my hand groped, and my mind groped, I couldn’t reach inside my coat for the letter. I was wobbling in fear.
    And as I stood there shivering and sweating, he reached inside my jacket and withdrew the envelope. Flash of sparkling fingernails.
    â€œThis is for me, is it, Tarquin Blackwood?” he asked. His voice had a touch of the French accent, no more. He smiled suddenly and he looked as if he couldn’t hurt anyone for the world. He was too attractive, too friendly, too young. But the smile vanished as quickly as it had come.
    â€œYes,” I said. Or rather it was a stutter. “The letter, please read it.” I faltered, then pressed on. “Before you . . . make up your mind.”
    He tucked the letter into his own inside pocket and then he turned to Stirling, who sat dazed and silent, eyes cloudy, his hands clinging to the back of the chair before the desk. The back was like a shield in front of him, though a useless one as I well knew.
    Lestat’s eyes fixed on me again:
    â€œWe don’t feed on members of the Talamasca, Little Brother,” he said. “But you”—he looked at Stirling—“you nearly got what you almost deserve.”
    Stirling stared forward, plainly unable to answer, and only shook his head.
    â€œWhy did you come here, Mr. Oliver?” Lestat asked him.
    Again, Stirling merely shook his head. I saw the tiny drops of blood on his starched white collar. I felt an overwhelming shame, a shame so deep and painful it filled me completely, banishing even the faintest aftertaste of the attempted feast.
    I went silently crazy.
    Stirling had almost died, and for my thirst. Stirling was alive. Stirling was in danger now, danger from Lestat. Behold: Lestat, like a blaze in front of me. Yes, he could pass for human, but what a human—magnetic and charged with energy as he continued to take command.
    â€œMr. Oliver, I’m talking to you,” Lestat said in a soft yet imperious tone. He picked up Stirling by the lapels and, moving him clumsily to the far corner of the parlor, he flung him down into a large satin upholstered wing chair.
    Stirling looked the worse for it—who wouldn’t?—still unable apparently to focus his gaze.
    Lestat sat down on the velvet couch very near him. I was completely forgotten for the moment, or so I assumed.
    â€œMr. Oliver,” said Lestat, “I’m asking you. What made you come into my house?”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Stirling. He glanced up at me and then at the figure who was questioning him, and I struggled, because I couldn’t help it, to see what he was seeing—this vampire whose skin still glowed though it was tanned, and whose eyes were prismatic and undeniably fierce.
    The fabled beauty of Lestat seemed potent as a drug. And the crowning light of the chandelier was merciless or splendid depending entirely on one’s point of view.
    â€œYes, you do know why you came here,” said Lestat, his voice subdued, the French accent no more than a beguiling taste. “It wasn’t enough for the Talamasca to drive me out of the city. You have to come into those places that belong to