Blackwood Farm Read Online Free PDF Page B

again, a flash of brilliant eyes and a smile that was gone in an instant as he looked back to the man in the chair.
    â€œWhat we always do,” said Stirling. “Write about it, put it into a report to the Elders, copy it to the File on the Vampire Lestat—that is, if you let me leave here, if that’s your choice.”
    â€œI haven’t harmed any of you, have I?” Lestat asked. “Think on it. When have I harmed a true and active member of the Talamasca? Don’t blame me for what others have done. And since your warlike declaration, since you sought to drive me right out of my home, I’ve shown remarkable restraint.”
    â€œNo, you haven’t,” Stirling quietly replied.
    I was shocked.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Lestat demanded. “What on earth can you mean? I think I’ve been a gentleman about it.” He smiled at Stirling for the first time.
    â€œYes, you’ve been a gentleman,” Stirling responded. “But I hardly think you’ve been restrained.”
    â€œDo you know how it affects me to be driven out of New Orleans?” Lestat asked, voice still tempered. “Do you know how it affects me to know I can’t wander the French Quarter for fear of your spies in the Café du Monde, or wander the Rue Royale with the evening shoppers, just because one of your glorified gossips might be wandering about too? Do you know how it wounds me to leave behind the one city in the world with which I’m truly in love?”
    Stirling roused himself at these words. “But haven’t you always been too clever for us?” he asked.
    â€œWell, of course,” Lestat rejoined with a shrug.
    â€œBesides,” Stirling went on, “you haven’t been driven out. You’ve been here. You’ve been seen by our members, sitting very boldly in the Café du Monde, I might add, presiding over a hot cup of useless café au lait.”
    I was stunned.
    â€œStirling!” I whispered. “For the love of Christ, don’t argue.”
    Again Lestat looked at me, but not with anger. He returned to Stirling.
    Stirling hadn’t finished. He went on firmly: “You still feed off the riffraff,” he said. “The authorities don’t care, but we recognize the patterns. We know it’s you.”
    I was mortified. How could Stirling talk like this?
    Lestat broke into an irrepressible laugh.
    â€œAnd even so, you came by night?” he demanded. “You dared to come, knowing I might find you here?”
    â€œI think . . .” Stirling hesitated, then went on. “I think I wanted to challenge you. I think, as I said, that I committed a sin of pride.”
    Thank God for this confession, I thought. “Committed a sin”—really good words. I was quaking, watching the two of them, appalled by Stirling’s fearless tone.
    â€œWe respect you,” said Stirling, “more than you deserve.”
    I gasped.
    â€œOh, do explain that to me!” said Lestat, smiling. “In what form comes this respect, I should like to know. If I’m truly in your debt, I should like to say thanks.”
    â€œSt. Elizabeth’s,” said Stirling, his voice rolling gracefully now, “the building where you lay for so many years, sleeping on the chapel floor. We’ve never sought to enter it or discover what goes on there. And as you said we’re very good at bribing guards. Your Chronicles made your sleep famous. And we knew that we could penetrate the building. We could glimpse you in the daylight hours, unprotected, lying on the marble. What a lure that was—the sleeping vampire who no longer bothered with the trappings of a coffin. A dark deadly inverse of the sleeping King Arthur, waiting for England to need him again. But we never crept into your enormous lodgings. As I said, I think we respected you more than you deserve.”
    I shut my eyes for an instant, certain of disaster.
    But