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I stared at the assemblage. There were sixteen or seventeen blood drinkers flanking the broad table, made up as it was of two rows of small square tables, and most of these blood drinkers were speaking quietly to one another in little informal groups, Antoine with Sybelle and Bianca with Allesandra, and some alone, such as Marius or Armand, or my mother, merely watching and waiting without a word. Daniel was next to Marius. Eleni and Eugenie were beside Sevraine. On the far sides of the vast room were other small groups, though why they were out of the way like that I had no idea. One or two were obviously ancient. And the others were far older than I was.

The long broad rectangular table had no chairs at this end facing the door.

And at the other hand the lone chair was empty. Benji Mahmoud was standing by that chair. I sucked in my breath when I saw that empty chair. If they thought I was going to take that chair, they were crazy. Or mad, to put it with more gravitas and grace. I wasn't going to do it. The two chairs nearest the head of the table were empty too.

Louis brought the bundle of silk pillows and we walked down the length of the ballroom as the others fell silent unevenly. By the time Louis laid out the cushions to make a small square bed with bolsters for Rose in the corner, no one was speaking.

Her arms felt hot around my neck, and her heart was pounding.

I put her down on the pillows and brought the blankets up over her. "Now you be quiet, and don't try to follow what's happening. Just rest. Sleep. Be confident that Viktor will be recovered. Be confident, you're in our care."

She nodded. Her cheek burned against mine as I kissed her.

I stepped back. She looked like a dewy pink mortal princess deposited there in the shadows, curled up now, with the blankets covering her, bright eyes peering ahead of her at the great grouping around the table.

Benji beckoned for me to come to the head of the table. He gestured to Louis that he take the chair opposite Benji's own. At Benji's side, Sybelle stared at me with rapt fascination, and, to her left, my tender fledgling musician Antoine could not have looked more worshipful.

"No," I said. I did walk up to the head of the table, yes, but I didn't take the chair. "Who places me at the head of this assembly?" I demanded.

No one responded.

I looked down the two rows of faces. So many I knew and so many I didn't know, and so many ancient and obviously supremely powerful. And none of the ghosts here or the spirits.

Why not? Why had the great Sevraine brought three ancient female blood drinkers who were off to the side against the wall of French doors, just watching us, but not the spirits and the ghosts of the Talamasca?

And why were they all looking at me, this august company?

"Now, listen to me," I said. "I don't have three hundred years in the Blood as you say it now. Why am I standing here? Marius, what do you expect of me? Sevraine, why aren't you in this place? Or you?" I turned to one of the smoothest blood drinkers of the group. Gregory. "Yes, all right, Gregory," I said. "Is there anyone who knows our world and their world out there better than you do, Gregory?"

He looked to me to be as old as Maharet or Khayman, and his demeanor was so human as to have convinced anyone. Polish and capability, and fathomless strength, that's what I saw in him, clothed as he was in some of the fanciest duds the modern world has to offer, with a handmade shirt and a gold watch on his wrist that was worth as much as diamonds.

No one moved or spoke. Marius was regarding me with a faint smile. He wore a black suit, simple, with shirt and tie. Beside him, Daniel was similarly dressed, fully restored, this child who'd been so mad and lost after the last great debacle. And who were these others?

Suddenly the names were coming at me telepathically in a chorus of salutation: Davis, Avicus, Flavius, Arjun, Thorne, Notker, Everard--.

"Very well, stop, please," I said, putting up my hand. "Look, I went outside and spoke to the crowd because somebody had to do it. But I can't be the leader here."

My mother, halfway down the table away from me on the left, started laughing. It was soft laughing but it made me positively furious.

David, who sat beside her, as always the British Oxford Don in his Harris tweed Norfolk jacket, suddenly rose to his feet.

"We want you to lead," he said. "It's that simple."

"And you must lead," said Marius who sat opposite him and had turned to me without rising, "because no one else feels he or she can effectively do it."

"That's absurd," I said, but nobody heard it because I was drowned out by a chorus of exhortations and encouragements.

"Lestat, we don't have time for this," said Sevraine.

Another very commanding female blood drinker, who sat beside Gregory, echoed the same words. She told me in a quick telepathic burst that her name was Chrysanthe.

She stood now and said in a soft voice, "If anyone here had been willing to lead, well, it would have happened a long time ago. You've brought something entirely new to our history. I beg you now. Follow through."

Others were nodding and whispering in agreement.

I had a multitude of objections. What had I ever done but write books, tell stories, take to the rock music stage, and how could they romanticize this out of all proportion?

"I'm the Brat Prince, remember?" I said.