Time passed for Lestat just as quickly as it had before, and he spent
his time with Black Cat freed from the troubles that would surely
otherwise have consumed his daily activities. Black Cat was strangely
absent at night, but then of course cats are wont to sleep during the day
and, as usual, the sleek green-eyed feline was returned each evening.
Occasionally Black Cat would devote one ear to some sound only he could
hear during their nightly conversations, but Lestat never questioned his
friend. Cats are such mysterious beings anyway, and had he been about to
question something? Never mind, there was always time later for such
things.
Yet just as before the spell, for that is what it was, began to wear
off little by little as the completion of the year drew closer. Lestat
found himself engaged more and more often with the peculiar painting which
hung in the dining hall. He was remembering his conversation with Black
Cat months before when he had spoken of the man in the painting as being
long dead, from a broken heart. The absence of brush strokes stood out in
Lestat’s vision like a man waving a red flag, but he could not think of
what to make of such attention to detail. He reached out, desiring
suddenly to feel the texture of canvas beneath his bare fingers; yet, as
his hand hovered above the surface of the painting, he felt something that
made him draw back as though bitten. He stared, a look of horror slowly
creeping over his face as he stared into the mournful eyes, the pleading
_expression_, and reality seemed on the verge of tipping into a chasm that
had unexpectedly appeared.
“Is something wrong, Lestat?”
The blond man whirled around, his eyes wide with uncontrollable
emotion, his hands gesturing to the painting. “Warm. Do you not
understand?” He shook his head, face pale as death itself flanked by a
mane of spun gold. “How can it be?” Black Cat took a tentative step
forward, but Lestat held up one hand, his voice loud and bellowing. “No!
Stay back!"
“Lestat, what could disturb you so? I am your friend, n’est-ce pas?
Whatever has brought you to this state I should like to know it that I may
correct that which brings such distress.”
“You know damn well what I found, you two-faced bastard. You told me
Louis was dead! I knew you were a sorcerer, unnatural!” When Black Cat
said nothing, Lestat pointed to the painting without looking upon it. “It
is warm! This picture, this apparent creation of canvas and oil is an
illusion that only you could have the power to create! How can a painting
retain bodily heat, my dear host? I fancy I can hear its very breath… come
no closer!”
Black Cat sighed, and closed his eyes in a pained _expression_. “Very
well, Lestat. Yes, the painting is alive and is Louis, but you do not know
the entire story. There is more here than meets the eye, and you would do
well not to jump to any unfounded conclusions. I have lived in this
castle, this prison, for more years than you have breathed. I am not your
enemy, but if you do not step away from the painting I will become so.” He
sighed. “Lestat, I love you more than you know but you must trust me. Were
I set upon doing harm, would you not have received the brunt of it
already? And what of the wolves? Why would I have given you something to
ward away danger such as that?”
Lestat snorted, “How did you know of such a danger in the first place!
I have no reason to trust the likes of you!”
Black Cat narrowed his eyes. “You have every reason to trust me,
whether you can think logically at this moment or not. If given the time,
you will understand that I wish you no harm, but as you are making a scene
I simply must insist that you come away from this room and listen to me in
my chambre.”
“Isn’t it Louis’ chamber?”
“Sneering really does not become you, Lestat.”
“You explain what’s going on around here and you explain it right now,
or else I’ll—“
But Black Cat wasn’t listening. He had devoted on ear to some sound
again, but this time his eyes were very wide. “There is no time. We are
lost.”
Lestat opened his mouth to speak, when the sound of something
incredibly large against wood resounded through the stone hallways all the
way to the dining hall. The banging was incredibly fast, as though armies
were storming the castle gate with several battering rams at once. Then
silence stole over them like a disease. Lestat’s voice was nary a whisper
when he spoke, “What was that?” A crashing sound followed, and then the
sound of heavy breathing and the raking of claws on stone.
“That,” said Black Cat in a hushed voice, “is
death.”
