Draven walked with the unholy monk to where the coffins were entering the monastery. Trolleys were moving caskets to a pulley system that was lowering its cargo deep into the interior where they would rest directly on the ground.
“Which one is Count Moldovan?” Draven asked, as they stopped and watched low-ranking vampires move about like a colony of worker bees.
The warlock rapidly brought a hand to his nose where he managed to catch a fly that had landed on one of his several warts. He put the pesky insect into his mouth and chewed it as if it were a raisin. Then he looked out the mouth of the monastery, into the near darkness that had hijacked the late afternoon sun. “There is no more family to put to rest; they must have taken the Count into the pit already. He will be rising soon.”
“I am quite happy to report that everything is set for the celebration,” Draven said.
“Almost everything,” Ulrich Lestat said. “The huntress has breached the wall and is on her way to us; she will be here soon. The companion she has with her is no threat to us, but we will have to tend to him.”
“What about the huntress’s bloodline,” Draven said. “Is it true another huntress will be born soon?”
“Yes, it is true, but the bloodline is diluted. The child will be less of a force than the one here among us this very minute,” the warlock said.
“It is difficult to believe either one is much of a threat because their heritage is unknown to them,” Draven said.
“Don’t underestimate the power of the blood. It will be awakened within them when it is needed,” Ulrich said. “Soon the threat against us will be terminated.”
“This will be a night to be remembered,” Draven said.
“Come,” Ulrich said, walking to the stairs. “I want to be at the Count’s side when he rises from the crypt and we celebrate his arrival on the island.”