He had to leave this mystery in their hands.

But he secretly wondered if Lestat de Lioncourt wouldn’t be furious when he discovered the existence of Viktor. Lestat was known for having a temper almost as extreme as his sense of humor.

Before that night was finished, Fareed had made a few more statements about vampiric nature.

“Oh, if only I knew,” he said, “whether that thing is truly unconscious, or whether it retains an autonomous life and whether or not it wants something. All life wants something. All life moves towards something.…”

“And what are we then?” Gregory had asked.

“We are mutants,” Fareed answered. “We are a fusion of unrelated species, and the force in us which turns our human blood into vampire blood is making of us something perfect, but what that is, what that will be, what that must be, I do not know.”

“He wanted to be physical,” said Seth. “That was well known in olden times. Amel wanted to be flesh and blood. And he got what he wanted, and he lost himself in the process.”

“Perhaps,” said Fareed. “But does anyone really want to be mortal flesh and blood? What all beings want is to be immortal flesh and blood. And this monster has come closer to that perhaps than any spirit who temporarily possesses a child or a nun or a psychic.”

“Not if he’s lost himself in the process,” said Seth.

“You speak as if Akasha possessed him,” said Fareed. “But it was his goal to possess her, remember.”

This had frightened Gregory and it had taught him something.

For all his protests of wanting to learn about all things, for loving and embracing the ever-evolving world, well, he was frightened of this new knowledge that Fareed was acquiring. Truly frightened of it. For the first time, he knew well why religious humans so feared scientific advances. And he discovered the heart of superstition in himself.

Well, he would suppress this fear; he would annihilate this superstition in himself and work diligently on his old faith.

The next night, they had embraced for the final time right after sunset.

Gregory had been surprised when Seth came forward and took Gregory in his arms. “I am your brother,” he whispered, but this he said in the ancient tongue, the ancient tongue no longer spoken anywhere under the moon or the sun. “Forgive me that I’ve been cold to you. I feared you.”

“And I feared you,” Gregory confessed, the old language coming back to him in a flood of sorrow. “My brother.” Queens Blood and Blood Kindred. No, something greater, infinitely greater. And brother does not betray brother.

“You are too much alike, you two,” said Fareed gently. “You even resemble each other—same high cheekbones, same slightly slanted eyes, same jet-black hair. Oh, some night in the far future I will complete a DNA study of every immortal on the planet, and what will that tell us about our human ancestors as well as our Blood ancestors?”

Seth had embraced Gregory all the more warmly after that, and Gregory had returned the affection with all his heart.

Back in Geneva, he kept the secret of Viktor even from Chrysanthe. He kept it as well from Davis, Zenobia, and Avicus. Flavius kept the secret as well. Flavius learned to trust his new and perfect limb over the coming months until it was truly part of him.

Years had passed since then.

The Undead world knew nothing of Viktor. And Fareed had told no one of Gregory Duff Collingsworth or his preternatural clan.

And two years ago—when Gregory came to spy on Lestat with David and Jesse in Paris—he’d realized that Lestat still had no inkling of Viktor’s existence. He’d also learned, as he eavesdropped on the three in their hotel-room confab, that Fareed and Seth were still thriving, though now in a new compound in the California desert, and that Maharet herself had gone to Fareed for his skills.

That had reassured him greatly. He did not want to think of the twins as creatures of ambition. He dreaded the very possibility. And it had greatly comforted him to learn that Fareed’s scans and imaging equipment had detected no mind in the mute Mekare. Yes, that was better than a host of Akasha’s ambitions and ultimate dreams.

But it had tormented him that night in Paris—as he eavesdropped—to hear Jesse Reeves talk of the little massacre in the library archive of Maharet’s household, and of Khayman’s confusion and pain. Khayman had always been on the edge of madness as far as Gregory was concerned. Every time Khayman had ever come across Gregory’s path, he had been more or less out of his mind. In the age of Rhoshamandes, he’d been Benjamin the Devil, and eventually the Talamasca had studied him under that name. But then Gregory considered the Talamasca to be harmless as Khayman was harmless. He was the perfect vampire for their treatises. Imbeciles like Benjamin the Devil and fast talkers like Lestat kept them believing the Undead were harmless and more interesting alive than dead.

And to think, before that horrid massacre in Maharet’s compound, the great one had actually been spying on him, on Gregory, in Geneva, and she had been contemplating a meeting involving them all! That intelligence, too, had deepened Gregory’s excitement and his dread. How he would love to talk to Maharet now, if only … but his nerve had failed him two years ago when he had first heard of these things in his spying on Jesse Reeves, and his nerve failed him now.

Now, in the year 2013—as Gregory stood in Central Park in this warm September night, watching, listening, as inside the house called Trinity Gate, Armand and Louis and Sybelle and Benji gathered around their new companion, Antoine—all of this weighed on Gregory’s heart.

Was Lestat still completely ignorant of Viktor’s existence? And where were the twins at this very hour?

Gregory realized he’d not be joining Armand and Louis and the others tonight, even if the loveliest music on Earth was now coming from the townhouse, with Antoine playing his violin as Sybelle played the piano, both of them traveling the exhilarating crescendos of Tchaikovsky, effortlessly inflating the music with their own madness and charm.

But the time would certainly come when they must all meet.

And how many would die by fire before such a gathering took place?

He turned and headed deeper into the darkness of Central Park, walking faster and faster, his thoughts crowding in on him as he pondered whether to stay in this city or go home.

He had spent last night in his penthouse apartment on Central Park South and assured himself all was in order should he have to bring his family there. He was the owner of the building, and his basement crypts were as safe as those of Louis and Armand. No need to go back there now. He longed for Geneva, for his own lair.