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 som
