It cannot be that the characters of the series no longer hold me, when I have hung on to their every word thus far. It has to be the case, then, of the particularities of plot, and of style in this single novel. Stubbornness and a sense of loyalty to the characters I have loved for so long have ensured I finish this, but it has been a struggle. While one can tirelessly read of Lestat's exploits, having them in such a sloppy lexicon is off-putting. Its ornateness seeps through the cracks of inadequate language, and the Vampire Chronicles, if anything else, derives the reverence I have of it by its richness, its capacity to immerse the reader into something greater, and yet not too dissimilar with, the currentness of the time period which it occupies. Vampires, as outdated ideologies and sensibilities that nevertheless continue to enthrall by virtue of their very anachronicity, reminders of a time long past which they carry and observe the present with a surprise that contemporaries can never bring to the table. The series, and its characters, embody history continuing to live despite itself, with its literary consequences, and this novel here disappoints when it fails to deliver that spark of immortality, that enduring shiver. (A digression, but where is the rest of the captivating immortal cast? VC truly comes alive when they are together, and the introduction of the Mayfair witches have never felt very successful to me.) Flimsy language fails to support and the plot is aimless and uninteresting, and one suspects, with a reluctantly creased brow, whether Rice, after so long, has begun to falter.