The Night Diarist

Daniel Molloy, the world's youngest vampire, comes face to face with Akasha, the world's oldest vampire, and despite having visions for the whole book he brings no skill, no weapons, no prophecy on how to defeat the big bad world-ending evil, just tells his sugar daddy "kick her ass, babe, I've got your blender" while Armand dissociates and in the end Akasha is killed by NONE of the assembled male heroes.

Also Akasha aka the big bad was the literal embodiment of bioessentialism and radical feminism and the death penalty and she got curbstomped by the belief of restorative justice and free will meaning every person and humanity is capable of both good and evil and are shaped by societal forces and we have to choose the radical act of changing self and society towards peace and goodness which sometimes means violently killing a genocidal fascist for the good of humanity.

...and Daniel Molloy was there, you know, a random reporter who witnessed the whole potential world-ending apocalypse but LESTAT is the one who writes the book and still dedicated a full third of the narrative to Devil's Minion.

"Your life, Sir, I must have it,"I whispered. "The blood of thieves is strong, isn't it, Sir?"

✷𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔲𝔫✷

𝐔𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ✵ Positivity, freedom, fun, success, vitality, joy, confidence, self-expression, good luck, openness 𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐝 ✵ Excessive enthusiasm, sadness, unrealistic expectations, ego, conceitedness, oppression

This is SO GORGEOUS.

I couldn't immediately answer. Again, the sheer excitement was excruciating, and the love I felt for him was positively humiliating.

"Of course I'll take you with me," I said.

We looked at each other for a tense moment. He had to leave now. The morning had come for him.

"One thing, Louis," I said.

"Yes?"

"Those clothes. Impossible. I mean, tomorrow night, as they say in the twentieth century, you will lose that sweater and those pants."

He was outfitted entirely in the new clothes I'd ordered for him, a long black riding jacket, sleek at the waist and flaring, and a pale pink European-linen handmade shirt. He wore a tie of green silk, almost exactly the color of his eyes, and there was an emerald ring on his finger of that very same green. Bit of handkerchief in his breast pocket to match the tie, and fine-cut trousers of black wool and sleek boots fitted to his calves like gloves.

I was unable to speak.

He'd put on these clothes for me, and I knew it. Nothing else in this world would have prompted him to dress like this, or to have brushed all the dust out of his glistening black hair. And the hair he'd left long on rising so that it was full as it had been in the old days, wavy, a little unruly, curling just under his ears. Even his white skin looked polished. And a scent rose from him of a rare and expensive male cologne. That too, I had sent for. That too, servants had brought here along with my other gifts.

Silence. I could scarcely breathe.

I sensed he understood. He crossed the hall and put his arms around me and kissed me on the lips.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he asked.”