Anna

Polished leather shoes stepped into your view. “You slept poorly.” With a huff, you lifted your head further to meet his gaze. “You left me on the floor.” you replied, finding that your voice was hoarse and your throat dry. 

“You haven't earned comfort.” He said, blinking once. “I don’t wish to earn anything from you.” you spat back. He did not reply. The silence lasted for a beat as he scanned you.

“You’re hungry.” 

This was… odd. With the few vampires you had met, you were used to some form of conversation. A back and forth. Be it friendly, or flirty, or absolutely infuriating; which, as you had learned in your travels, vampires often were. 

But this one gave you nothing. Did nothing. The way he stared at you was unsettling, his slightly-too-big eyes examining you from the inside out. His observation seemed almost analytical. 

“There is food in the bathtub.” He noted, turning from you before taking a seat on the sofa. “For me?” you asked, slightly surprised. “For your hunger.” he corrected.

You rose from your place on the floor, joints cracking and tendons stretching.

You could smell him.

A man, no older than thirty, thirty-five. Slight heart murmur. He smelled slightly of whiskey, and earth, and something else… gunfire, maybe? 

You approached the door, lips parting to make way for your fangs. It felt as though you hadn't eaten in days. You wondered if he was unconscious, or ‘resting’; or perhaps wide awake and ready to attempt his escape. Then, you wondered if this was a test. Of what, you didn't know. Your instincts? Your intelligence? You readied yourself for every scenario as you put a hand on the handle and took a deep breath, twisting the golden knob only to find it locked.

Well. This was a scenario you didn’t think of. You looked at the vampire sitting on the sofa, a tired, questioning look on your face.

“You haven’t earned sustenance.” He said matter-of-factly, punctuating his answer with a wave of his hand.

You tilted your head as the hunger bubbled in your stomach, itching in your veins. Brows furrowed, assessing his seriousness. First came confusion. Was he joking? Then anger. He had better be joking. Then the realization that he was, in fact, not joking at all.

Acceptance, however, failed to arrive.

Your movements were a blur as you rushed across the room, charging at him and pinning him to the cushions by his shoulders.

“What the fuck is this?!”

A smile flashed on his lips for a fraction of a second, before they returned to their usual, blank state. “A lesson.” he replied, unfazed and unbothered. “Va te faire foutre, sale connard prétentieux!” You barked, strengthening your grip. “Who the fuck are you to teach me anything?!” Something in his gaze deepened at that. “I am the one who came before you.” He said, as if he was explaining a simple truth. “I am the one who will haunt your maker long, long after he forgets you.” He said, seemingly enjoying the idea. “But that is not the question we have gathered here to answer, is it?” ‘What is?’ you thought to yourself, infuriated and baffled.

“Who are you?” he said, starting to sit back up. Your gaze alternated between your hands as you attempted to tighten your grip once again, putting all of your weight into it. Alas, he continued moving. “What lies underneath the layers of cynicism and faux-hedonism? In your very soul, or lack thereof?” He continued, not averting his gaze from your eyes. “Is it guilt? Is it regret?” “C’est pas possible.” You thought, oblivious to the abilities of the ancient vampire. “Who are you to replace me?” He questioned, rolling his shoulders back. “Who are you to follow in footsteps you do not know? To lie in beds you did not make?” He shrugged your hands off easily, like one might shrug off a coat. 'Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?' endless voices echoed in your head. His voice, joined by those of everyone you ever knew. And your own. He straightened, forcing you to step off of him. You stared into his amber eyes, desperate. Perplexed. “Non… c’est pas réel!” He chuckled. “This is very much real, jeune fille.” He said, lowering his head like a wolf who remembered the teeth of another, and with a slight push of his palm on your chest, he sent you flying across the room, smashing into the vanity. From behind the bathroom door, the mortal heart continued its uneven little rhythm. This was an injustice of being a young vampire; just as you became a predator, you were reduced once again to prey. You yelled out in pain as your back crashed into the mirror, shattering it. The air was knocked out of your lungs. He rose from his seat, nonchalantly. “Your mother died of consumption, too frail to survive in the cold Quebec winter.” He said, stalking towards your disheveled form, once again in a heap on the ground. “She would cough into red cloth to hide the blood from you. Still, you knew. You had a phobia of blood for the rest of your life.” A throb built in your temples once again as he invaded your mind, your memories, your very self. “You heard the church bells as she took her final breath in your father’s arms.” He tilted his head, walking closer. “Your father, heartbroken, would later take his own life, abandoning you and your sisters to endure this life alone.” Tears started to well in your eyes as he crouched next to you, watching you with curiosity. “Your experience of living left something to be desired. And yet, in your search for life, you found your death.” He mused. “Your terror of blood led to hunger for it.” He placed a hand on your bloodied forehead, brushing your hair back. “Tell me, do you enjoy it?” He said, leaning an elbow on his knee, “Being the shadow of what you once were? An afterthought of yourself?” He rested his head on his hand, gazing both into you and past you, his fingers leaving your hair to caress the forming bruise on your cheek. “Did your pas de deux with Lestat satisfy that grandiose little hunger of yours - to be seen, to be chosen, to be made real?” His gaze alternated between your glossy, bloodshot eyes. “Did he choose you for that hunger?” He leaned closer, trapping you against the broken mirror. “Did it make you feel any less abandoned?” You sat there, paling. Useless. Dumb. Weak. But alas, your spirit came through. “Fuck you,” You spat, drool and blood mixing on your chin. He smiled bitterly for a moment, removing his hand from your cheek, flexing his fingers once. “You pathetic, desperate-” You were cut off by the sharpest slap you ever felt, ever thought you could feel, as the very same hand that caressed your cheek collided against it with a smack. Behind the bathroom door, the heartbeat continued. Weak. Uneven. Available. Between the ringing in your ears, the voices intensifying, the pain and dizziness, you were thoroughly overpowered. Overwhelmed. Overtaken. You watched him rise to his feet, opening and closing his hand once, twice. He looked out the window. All evidence of rage was gone from his face, as if his sudden outburst had never happened. “That’s enough for today.” He concluded, adjusting the cuff of his shirt, before turning his gaze back to you. “Rest.” ────────────

If Paris was ready to take on the world, you were ready to consume it; The one-night-paramour and forever-fledgling of the blond menace they call Lestat de Lioncourt, touring Europe all on her own. 

Your heels clacked against the pavement, ponytail swinging as far as its ribbon would allow, lips painted in the prettiest shade of plum.

You leaned against a corner, producing a packet of cigarettes from your handbag, pretending to struggle to find a lighter in such darkness.

The streets of Montmartre were dark, so much so that the Dupont lighter to your left seemed to light the whole street. Attached to that lighter was an arm, and attached to the arm was a face.

You lifted your eyes to meet those of your saviour.

‘Jackpot.’

‘It’s always the saviours,’ you thought later, dragging his corpse deeper down the alley, ‘that are found on streets like this, “helping” girls like me’. 

You wiped your cheek clean of both his blood and the lipstick he had smeared when he attempted to “help” you. 

‘Bon débarras!’ You exclaimed wordlessly, letting his lifeless body drop into the manhole with a silent-enough thud.

Just as you stood up, brushing unfortunate debris off of your dress, you felt him.

Not heard. Not seen.

Felt.

‘You think very loudly, for someone trying not to be found’. A voice echoed in your head.

You turned slowly, to find a man in a dark coat standing in the entrance of the alley.

His amber eyes gave him the look of a monster, prowling in the night - but the soft, golden halo reflecting in his black curls made him look almost… angelic.

He eyed the blood dripping from your chin with a thoughtful expression.

‘He made you reckless.’ He noted in your mind.

“I do not know a ‘he’.” You replied, out loud, fetching a red handkerchief from your pocket and making a show of wiping your mouth. “And I do not know you.” You added, walking towards the entrance. 

“Not yet,” he replied, extending one arm to bar your escape. “But you will.” He tilted his head to the side, scanning you.

“Not interested.” You said monotonously, as if you’ve been visited by solicitors. He merely raised a hand in response.

You very much intended to walk away now, and maybe shoulder check the fucker for good measure.

But then, a pain in the back of your skull. A sharp, shooting pain - like a knife forcing itself into the seam of a closed shell.

You couldn’t move.

The man approached you carefully, a small smile playing on his lips as he lifted a finger to raise your chin.

“You have his eyes.”

Your mouth moved before the rest of you could, upper lip drawing back from your teeth. You felt your fangs threaten to come out. 

You replied, then, boring holes in his skull, ‘I have no idea who you-’ 

‘Lestat.’

Oh no.

The pain was getting sharper, traveling to your temples, as your mind began to flood.

Laughter first. Always laughter. Then suede beneath your cheek, the click of a slightly out-of-tune piano, a smirk blooming beneath predatory eyes. Wine. Expensive wine. Blond silk threaded between your fingers. Dancing until the room turned gold at the edges. His scent at your throat. His chest against your back, broad and unnecessary, as if he had only pressed himself there to prove that he could. A velvet couch with velvet cushions, then a velvet voice inviting you to sit.

Moans. Moans. Endless moans. Your body on his, and his body on yours, breathing, heaving, climbing and climbing and-

Silence.

The taste of ash.

Your blood.

Lestat’s blood. Lestat’s breath. Lestat’s eyes. Lestat’s lips. Lestat. Lestat. Lestat. Lestat.

And beneath it all, the terrible, humiliating warmth of having wanted him.

Silence.

You came to with a gasp, as if resurfacing from underwater, hands clawing at your chest like a lifeline.

Crystal blue eyes met his fiery ones, no evidence of a smile left on his face.

“There you are.” He said, barely above a whisper.