Lestat (flambeauvivant) wrote,

  • Mood:

Another confession.

The heat was sultry in England, even in the small hours before dawn. I'd passed the ghostly cliffs of the south coast and rolling countryside lay below me, shadowy and silent.

My head was swimming. Suddenly, I felt quite disorientated.

I stopped at a small village, still several miles from London and I swear to you on my honor as a bloodthirsty fiend that I had no idea why I was there. I had a notion that I was going to the old Talamascan motherhouse, but I can't tell you why or what I had expected.

I do know that I was angry with Armand. I muttered truculent curses all the way. I do remember the journey, just as clearly as I should usually expect to remember it, but I don't know why I went there. I have no idea!

The village was dead to the night. Doors locked, not a single light to suggest a living soul. Something swept over me, a feeling of alarm and relief combined.

And I turned tail and I left.
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