It is not easy to explain exactly how it happened. Being as caught up in the moment as I was makes the details somewhat difficult to recall, but I write this here for him because I know he will soon have questions that only I can answer.

I had promised to entertain him in Lestat's absence and that is all I intended to do. Our swim had been pleasant enough. The pool is heated to make the temperature comfortable to mortal flesh even on the coolest nights, though that is usually unnecessary in a tropical climate such as this. Having been in my company for as long as he has, Gitano is well aware of the fact that certain things he says or does will stir various reactions from me. This time it was a death defying leap from the high diving board which ended in something resembling a belly-flop that had me laughing out loud. Ever since his arrival here on the island, he has been relentless in his quest to know me better and his efforts have not been entirely in vain.

An evening of horror films is what I had agreed to and his room contained one of the finest entertainment centers in the house. With a sixty-five inch plasma television, six speaker surround sound and a bed large enough to hold a small group of people, I could not disagree that this would be the ideal location in which to watch them. Gitano had traded his damp swimming trunks for a pair of faded blue jeans onto which he was constantly dropping tiny pieces of buttered popcorn. I ignored the sickening scent of human food, but was thankful when he eventually put the bowl away.

Part way through the second film, I realised that he had moved closer. His hand now rested upon my arm and his head leaned against my shoulder. It seemed like a completely subconscious movement as his attention was still focused upon the television screen, so I allowed it because it felt comfortable and natural to do so. His body twitched involuntarily at several unexpected scenes and his warm fingers closed over mine. He groaned at his own unnecessary reaction and and rolled his face into the crook of my neck as he laughed. I could feel his heart pounding as he pressed even closer against me.

I cannot say for certain when that line was crossed. One moment he was laughing and mumbling his embarrassment into my shoulder and in the next, I felt the subtle movement of his lips against my skin. I should have stopped him then, but the feeling was not entirely unpleasant so I let him continue. Dull human teeth scraped along the line of my jaw and when he closed his mouth over mine, I felt no reluctance.

His hand moved up my arm to the collar of my shirt and I did not try to prevent it, not even when I felt the buttons loosen and the fabric slip away. I gasped as he bit down on the thin layer of flesh covering my collar bone. He could not break my skin, but the sensation was appealing nevertheless. I reached out for him, but he caught both of my wrists, pinning my arms to the bed while he kissed me again. I could have thrown him off of me when he shifted his position to straddle my hips, but I didn't. I could have crushed the bones of the hands that held me down, but I allowed him this brief pretense of control. His triumphant smile almost seemed familiar and I had never wanted him more than I did in that moment.

The tables were turned in an instant. I twisted free of his grip and grasped his forearms, forcing him down to the bed beside me then positioning my body on top of his. I didn't need to hold him there. This sudden role reversal had left him more than a little aroused and I could feel the heat of passion emanating from his skin. I dipped my head to lap at the pulsing artery on the side of his throat. The taste of his flesh was intoxicating and I tested its resistance with my teeth. His hips pressed up against mine and his breathing quickened.

“Do it,” he breathed into my ear and that was all the encouragement I needed.

He cried out as my fangs broke his skin and I felt my entire body react the the fount of hot blood that filled my mouth and ran thickly down my throat. It wouldn't come quickly enough, so I pulled back, tearing the puncture wounds wider and causing the blood to flow faster. He made some sort of pained sound and his muscles tensed. I drank deeply, savoring every long-awaited mouthful. Images and thoughts flickered through my mind, but I paid them no notice.

“Louis, stop,” the words meant nothing to me now. His fingers clawed at my arms, but the only thing that mattered was the frantic beating of his heart and the euphoric heat in my veins.

The flow of blood eventually slowed and as I held him there in my arms, I was overcome by one urgent thought – I don't want to leave him. It was his, not mine, but the desperate fear that accompanied it was enough to snap me out of my swoon. He wasn't afraid of dying, as so many humans are in that final moment, but he was absolutely terrified by the thought of losing Lestat. In his mind, this was a fate worse than death and as he slipped into unconsciousness, I was certain that I understood exactly how he felt.

My head was spinning as I was struck by the realization of what I had just done. Gitano was on the bed beneath me and his breath was coming in shallow gasps. There was a tear on the side of his neck that trickled tiny drops of blood every time he inhaled. In a panic, I gashed my own wrist and let my blood flow into the wound then watched in morbid fascination as his skin began to close. Lestat's mortal lover was dying and there was nothing I could do to prevent it, so I did the only thing I could think of. I wrapped him in a bed sheet and called for a car, telling the driver that there had been an accident and the he must get us to the hospital as quickly as possible.

What should have been a very short trip seemed like an eternity as I held him in the back seat of the car. His skin was pale and cold and more than once, I pulled him close to listen for the sound of his breathing over the hum of the engine. When his heart finally lost its battle, I felt as if mine might stop as well. I was sure he was dead when I thrust him into the arms of a nurse I found just outside the hospital doors.

I am thankful that he is not, but I can never forgive myself for what I have done.

Pour Katrina

Easter, 2008

Lestat: We are late!
Lestat: Someone is already arrived.
Lestat: Come now, don't keep them waiting.

I had just signed off when I heard the main door open. I closed the laptop and moved towards the unfamiliar voices in the next room, knowing that we now had company, but unsure of who exactly our guests might be on this sacred eve. He had mentioned Easter dinner, but some part of me, which should probably know better by now, assumed he wasn’t serious.

The men who stood in the parlor next to Lestat were strangers to me. The first to make eye contact was the older of the two. I could guess that he was in his mid forties and certainly not born in this exotic land. His skin was tanned, but not dark and dirty blond hair was combed neatly behind his ears. A gold and diamond watch sparkled beneath the cuff of his expensive suit jacket as he extended a hand in greeting. I reluctantly returned the gesture and before I could ask his name, I felt a pair of arms slip around my waist from behind.

A quick glance back revealed a devious, but familiar grin. Whatever he was up to, I already wanted no part of it.

Once the introductions were made, it became obvious that there would be no easy escape from this rather awkward meeting. Lestat led the blond to the sofa while the younger, dark-haired mortal took a seat in the armchair nearby. This one had very little to say, but watched me constantly as if I might do something unexpected at any moment. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but seemed nervous and slightly on edge despite the fact that he was, by far, the largest man in the room. I couldn’t guess who they might be or why they were here, but I knew I would find out soon enough.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Lestat asked us all, as I sank into the lush velvet of the recliner, wishing it would swallow me whole. The men placed their orders and looked to me as if expecting that I would do the same.

“Monsieur does not drink,” he explained to them with a laugh, then wandered towards the bar behind me. I was the only one who caught that little joke and I wasn’t amused.

All eyes were on him and not a word passed between us as he moved around clanking bottles and pouring some rich colored liquid into three crystal glasses. It came as no surprise that they seemed captivated by his every gesture. Lestat always has that effect on humans and this time he seemed to be making a conscious effort to attract and hold their attention. He was barefoot and the buttons on his silk shirt were all undone now. His loose fitting pants slipped lower onto his hips with every step he took and by the time he returned with their drinks, the two gentlemen seemed to be in dire need of them.

He perched on the arm of my chair like some sort of trophy with his long legs stretched casually over mine and a drink in one hand. I might have shoved him off and left the room, but our superficial conversation had taken a rather unexpected turn and I wanted to know what all this was about.

The older man was telling me about the type of operation he runs - details about his annual profits and the quality of his “boys”. He hinted at how much money I might get for a fine creature like the one I kept and a moment of bemused silence passed until I finally realized he was referring to Lestat.

His icy blue eyes moved over Lestat’s body as he questioned my hospitality, asking just how far my generosity might extend. What he wanted was obvious, but what I couldn’t understand was why he was asking me if he could have it.

“I think you and I can do business,” he said, though his gaze never met my own. “But how about a little pleasure first?”

Now utterly confused, I looked to Lestat in hopes that he might drop this ridiculous charade and give me some answers. His eyes positively gleamed with mischief as he smiled at me and got to his feet. If some unspoken understanding passed between us, I must have missed it entirely. He walked behind the sofa, placing one hand on the man’s shoulder while leaning in close to his ear.

“I keep out of business,” his tone was low and seductive. “But pleasure is my specialty.” I was almost certain I saw the man shiver.

More to come.

A chicken wandered into my library earlier this evening. It paused for a moment by my feet and looked up at me with the most quizzical expression before ruffling its feathers and leaving the room.

I've learned not to question these things.

I've lost count of how many nights have passed since I last heard him laugh.

He tells me that he should tend to the garden before the heavy rains crush the flowering Mandrinette shrubs and the strong winds uproot the giant palm trees which have towered over this place for years. Hours pass and eventually I look outside to find him sitting alone in the midst of a flooded paradise with his head tilted back against the bench, completely oblivious to the pounding rain. Tiny twigs and flower petals have become entangled in his unkempt golden hair and eyes as gray as the storm clouds above stare into the heavens as if imploring them to open wide and swallow him whole. The clothing he has been wearing for the past few nights are torn and smeared with mud and his shoes have been forgotten once again. He is no longer the shining Apollo, but the primordial Erebus surrounded by darkness and mist. Even in suffering, there is beauty.

He doesn't notice me standing in the doorway. In fact, he doesn't notice anything at all. He has withdrawn to some dark place inside himself, locked away with his own thoughts, unreachable even to me.

Though it troubles me to see him like this, I know that the storm will soon pass.

“I love you,” he said.

This two hundred and seventeen year old revelation was followed by such a silence that it made the rain that pounded against the rooftop seem almost deafening. I didn't need to hear the words. It is something I have never doubted, but at that moment, with all that has been on my mind recently, I found myself unable to accept it.

I was gone before he even had a chance to realize what had happened.

The monsoon downpour soaked me to the bone the instant I stepped out the door and the wet, black sweater I was wearing felt like an impossible weight to carry as I rounded the building and disappeared into the busy city streets. I was walking quickly, without any sense of purpose or direction, trying to flee the emotions that I couldn't possibly find the words to explain.

I paused briefly against a crumbling brick wall and that was where he found me. There was barely time to react. He caught hold of my sleeve with one hand while his other palm pressed against the damp brick beside me, effectively blocking my escape. I was suddenly furious. Angry at both myself and him and positively irate at the idea of being held here with some expectation that I should speak or explain myself. I pushed at him with all my strength as I tried uselessly to struggle and twist my way out of his grip.

That was when I felt his fangs sink deep into the flesh of my throat.

My entire body tensed and my hands curled into fists around the thin, white fabric of his shirt. I would have thrown him away from me if I could have, but it is at moments like this that resistance is impossible. The world blurred out of focus and I could think of nothing but that euphoric pull on my heart as my blood was drawn from the wound in a great, gushing fount. I don't know when I realized that he was taking too much. I had to lean into him to prevent my legs from giving out beneath me and still he drank.

The rest of the night is a blur. I vaguely recall the feeling of cool water beneath my back and the way the buildings around me looked as I moved through the streets as if I were floating. I remember the brush of soft, Indian silk against my skin before darkness consumed me completely. For the next two evenings I drifted in and out of troubled dreams, too weak to will myself awake and break free of them.

That is what happened.

I tell it here for those who have questioned it and those who are concerned. I depart India tonight with no blood on my hands and another pressing matter to attend to.

Your truth is this: I'm just curious what it is that you loved so much about Claudia. What drew you to her so much?

Claudia is never an easy subject for me to discuss. The mere mention of her name stirs memories which I keep safely locked away and leaves me feeling lost and defeated. Try as I might to leave the past where it belongs, thoughts of her still haunt me as I close my eyes each morning.

I think I loved her the very first moment I saw her, but it was not the same deep and timeless love I still feel for her now. No, this was the love we feel for every life we take - a love that can only come from the intimacy of a vampire’s embrace. I didn’t understand it then. It seemed so terribly wrong that a creature as damned as myself could feel such overwhelming affection. I thought that I should hate her for rousing that dark desire I had suppressed for so many years, but as I held her in my arms and moved my lips over the warm skin of her tiny neck I was certain that my heart would burst from the intensity of the emotions I felt for her.

That she fought death made me love her even more.

Claudia was no normal little girl, and I don’t mean that in the way you might think. Even in the early years following her transformation she did not act like other children I had known. She was quiet and mysterious, rarely speaking but forever listening. Her thirst for knowledge was insatiable and even at little more than six or seven years old, I could talk to her for hours and feel that she had understood every word. She was an amazing creature and I was completely captivated by her innocence, her youth and her beauty, but what drew me to her more than any of those things was the fact that she needed me just as desperately as I needed her.

As the years passed I became more disturbed by her presence, unsettled by the sensual way she moved and the seductive tone of her voice as she whispered the most terrifying things in my ear, but that love never faded. She had become a woman and though I could never give her what she wanted, I continued to provide her with what I felt she needed. I played the part of the doting father, transported her from place to place, buying her whatever she desired, bending to her every whim and away from the prying eyes of the waking world, I played the part of a lover.

I don’t know when I became so dependent on her that I lost all will of my own, but by the time we reached Paris there was nothing she could ask that I would not do. I was her servant in thought, word and deed. I found myself obeying her every command like some puppet on a string, yet I could not hate her for it. I existed only to please her and the distraction she provided was necessary. The pain of my own thoughts was more than I could bear.

Preparing to leave her was the most difficult thing I have ever done. To hear her tell me how much she loathed me was to feel her turning the knife deep within my heart. I loved her enough to realize that I had nothing more to give her. I thought that she would be better off without me and so I let her go. It was love and the need to know that she would be safe that made me grant her final request. I did something I swore I would never do in giving her Madeleine and though a part of myself was lost that night, I was both excited and terrified by the idea of a new life without her.

For a short time in those final weeks, I actually felt as if I had made the right decision. To see them together, vampire mother and demonic daughter, was to catch a glimpse of a word I could never be a part of. There was an understanding between them that Claudia and I had never shared.

I won’t recount the rest of the details here. I can’t. Anyone who might be reading these words knows the tale as well as I. You know how I felt when I came upon that gruesome scene in the air shaft at the Théâtre des Vampires. You know how the heart that once beat only for her turned cold and hard as stone that night and you also know that I still hold myself responsible for it all. The years have changed nothing.

The truth ends here. I have answered the question asked and said all I have to say.

This is no confession. There is no atonement for such an unspeakable sin. This is merely a reaffirmation of a love that has never faded and never will.

I realize that it's been quite some time since I last updated this virtual journal of mine, but I've been doing things the old fashioned way recently - recording my thoughts in ink on paper as I did years ago, before technology made it possible to do otherwise. I've never been comfortable with sharing my more private reflections in a public setting such as this. For those I keep a small leather bound journal, one of the few possessions I carry with me as I travel from place to place.

Though I cannot understand why my personal recollections and contemplations would be of interest to anyone other than myself, it has been requested that I post them here from time to time and I may do exactly that.

So if you should happen to stumble upon something here that seems as if it was written in another place and at another time, it probably was.

The match has been extinguished and I inhale deeply as the spicy herbal scent fills the room.

Dragon’s Blood incense. I purchased it from Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo a number of years ago and had it shipped from Louisiana with a few of my other belongings shortly after our arrival here. This is not the colorful pieces of exotic resin or even the fragrant powder used in traditional Vodun rituals. It is really nothing more than a few dried sticks in a colorful box, but the familiar aroma always reminds me of her and of the times we have shared.

On this night, one specific memory forms in the swirling smoke.

It was late July of 1999 and David, Lestat, Merrick and myself had nearly finished the laborious task of obliterating all evidence of the lives we had lived in the city of New Orleans. Merrick’s house had been our last stop and she had watched in silence as the three of us destroyed her altars and burned any article of clothing which may have contained the slightest trace of my blood.

I remained focused on the task at hand, not allowing myself to think about the events of the nights before. There was a dull ache in my chest where the jade perforator had pierced my heart, but I couldn’t tell if the pain I still felt was physical or otherwise.

By the time we were through, the house looked as if it has been ransacked by burglars. David had moved on to his study at St. Elizabeth's and Lestat had disappeared into the night - perhaps gone to replenish the vast amount of blood he had lost in bringing me back. Merrick and I were left alone. I didn’t want to talk about all that had happened, so instead I made one final sweep of the rooms.

When I returned to the kitchen, the scent of incense hung thickly in the air and Merrick, illuminated by the flame of one tiny candle, sat barefoot and cross-legged on the floor in front of a tiny makeshift altar. The items before her had been chosen carefully from the ruins of her most personal possessions. Atop a colorful scrap if fabric stood a small statue of Saint Peter with his hands folded in prayer beneath his white beard. Beside him, to her right, sat three ceramic bowls filled with various simple offerings such as tobacco, corn, rice and some type of dried, smoked meat. To her left was a half empty bottle of rum.

“Merrique,” I said softly, “it’s time to go.”

She raised one hand to silence me, but her eyes never left the objects before her. Smoke was rising from a small cast iron pot - the source of the incense - and into this she splashed a few drops of rum. The charcoal sizzled and spat.

"Papa Legba,” She said in an authoritative tone, “open the way for me to pass through."

I stepped back, unsure of what might happen next. This was all far too familiar.

A sudden gust of wind which seemed to originate from no where swept through the room, whipping Merrick’s dark hair about her shoulders and extinguishing the little candle in a puff of smoke. She appeared to be in some sort of trance - wide eyes staring straight ahead. Her body rocked back and forth slightly and her lips moved, but her voice was barely a whisper. She was chanting her prayers in a language I couldn’t recognize or understand.

Hers was an ancient magic.

With a movement quicker than I would have expected from one so new to these preternatural gifts, she drew a small knife from the pocket of her grey dress, flipped it open and slashed the blade across her palm. She held her hand over the pot and squeezed her fingers into a tight fist until her blood joined the rum as a burnt offering to the Loa. The intoxicating scent of it overpowered all else.

I turned away, suddenly overcome by the feeling that I was intruding upon something private and personal between Merrick and her gods.

After a few short moments, I felt her cold hand on mine. When I turned to look at her, the smoke was fading behind her and her face was lit up with the most contented smile I had seen since all of this began. She told me that she had asked the Loa to watch over the four of us and to ensure that the bond we all shared would never be broken. She said that they had agreed to grant her request.

Though we would leave New Orleans the following night and abandon what had been familiar to us for so many years, she seemed certain that from this point on, everything would be fine.

And she was right.

Despite the tragedies and hardships that have befallen us throughout the past eight years nothing - not even death - has ever succeeded in severing the ties that bind us to one another.

The stick of incense has smouldered down to nothing more than a glowing ember and the night fades slowly into morning, yet the memories remain. It is these thoughts which I hold onto until we meet again.

Joyeux Anniversaire, Merrique.

I have not always been the cold-hearted monster than I am now.

There was a time, long ago, when I could easily fall completely in love with every mortal whom I happened to set eyes upon and I often did. This is one of the reasons I found killing to be so very difficult during those early years.

Even my very first victim - that beautiful, dark skinned boy from the camp of runaway slaves found his way into my heart, as his own ceased to beat. I didn’t know him, of course, but I had never experienced such incredible intimacy before. I can still vividly recall every detail of that moment as if it only happened a single night ago. The scent of his skin, the texture of his hair, the wild terror in his eyes as Lestat held him in place and demanded that I take him - all of this was completely overwhelming to my newly heightened senses and I loved him instantly. I didn’t understand it then. I couldn’t possibly realize that I would feel that way time and time again in the many years to come.

Throughout the centuries there have been a few individuals who have taken an even deeper hold on my heart. Babette Freniere, Claudia, Merrick Mayfair - you are probably familiar with their names and the tragic stories which surround them. There have been others as well, though their numbers are few and their identities are known only to me, but each of these meaningful connections has ended in disaster.

I will share the story of one of these relationships here.

( His name was William Lockhart )

Every mortal life I touch, I destroy - be it directly or indirectly, it happens just the same. The guilt and regret I carry with me from those failed relationships is a constant reminder of why I choose to keep my distance. Experience has taught me that no bond between mortal and immortal can ever withstand the test of time. The shared intimacies will be brief, at best. I know all too well what love is and the pain that comes with its loss is more than I can bear.

On the rare occasion, I will encounter an individual who is able to stir those old emotions once again - one who causes me to feel things I have not felt for many years. In those instances, I step back further and widen that great chasm that lies between us. I choose my words carefully, becoming even more cold and indifferent. Shared conversations become nothing more than casual pleasantries until I have created so much distance between myself and that person that nothing said has any effect at all.

My acquaintances here serve as nothing more than threads which connect me to the mortal world - a reminder of what I once was. I understand that they are only temporary and I would not wish for anything more than that. If one of these threads were to be severed by death, it would leave no wound upon my soul. I would not mourn that loss.

I feel nothing.

Those who have referred to me as the most human of our kind are mistaken. The last remnants of my humanity vanished more than a hundred years ago.

I awoke to the sound of pounding rain, whistling winds and an unidentifiable creaking noise. The Mozambique Channel is no stranger to tropical storms and I had experienced more than one since our arrival in the Indian Ocean. Though violent, they are often short lived.

I crawled out of bed and felt the floor shift beneath me. Various objects had fallen from the shelves while the ship rocked on the waves during the daylight hours. I grasped the side of the desk to steady myself before realizing that this was more than just the usual dizziness I had been experiencing for the past few weeks - the entire room around me was actually tilted rather precariously to the left. There was another loud groan - the sound of wood rubbing against rock - and the lamp on the bedside table crashed to the floor, shrouding me in darkness.

Salt water sloshed beneath my feet as I moved closer to the door and I paused for a moment to watch in fascination as my footprints pooled on the oriental rug behind me. I couldn’t guess when the storm began or how strong the wind must have been to drag the still anchored ship from it’s resting place, but somehow it had.

When I finally opened the hatch to face the fury of the storm I could see just how dire the situation truly was. The ship had moved quite a distance from where I had originally left it - far too close to land for a vessel of such size. The hull must have been rubbing against the jagged rocks for hours to create a hole large enough to allow the ocean to flood into the lower left compartments and I had been completely oblivious to it.

Wind whipped at my hair and rain pounded against my face, making it difficult to see anything at all. I knew that I had to move quickly, but before I could even attempt to lower one of the lifeboats the yacht shifted unexpectedly and I lost my grip on the rail, tumbling across the rain soaked deck into the raging ocean below.

There was a flash of pain as I hit the water hard and felt a sharp piece of coral slice into my thigh. It took every ounce of energy I had to fight both the waves and the undercurrent to make my way to shore, but when I finally felt sand beneath my feet, I couldn’t have been more thankful for this forsaken stretch of land I have called home for these past few weeks.

I turned just in time to watch the yacht tip completely on it’s side and begin a slow descent beneath the waves to the reef below.

L'Azur Infinie will never sail again.