Lestat had preached something about clean up, which probably likewise seems at odds with Louis' folklore account of the fever that had swept through New Orleans on his arrival, men and women with bite marks on their next. Six foot tall rats. Perhaps there is a certain amount of mischief and negligence one feels capable when they first hit town.
So. He tips his head, considering this likelihood, Daniel's comme ci comme ça certainty, the way he had sensed none of these people had the kind of strong external connections to evoke a mass outcry at their collective perishments. Among his reasons for choosing them. Others including, he had sensed Daniel would charm them well in his little outfit, his wit, the promise of a wealth of interesting experiences and stories, the promise of an anecdote never to be shared. And he was right.
Oh, and the guitar.
"Bien," he says, with a one-shouldered shrug. "Excusez-moi."
A normal step, and then he vanishes into a cartoon blur of motion. Another slamming open of a door. The sound of a bedroom getting carelessly ransacked.
Let's be real, they're going to get away with so much in this crowded metropolis, callously exploiting Covid and Monkeypox. People are dropping dead everywhere, having long given up on the inconvenience of masks. A rough time. No wonder it's dovetailing with the explosion of the vampire population.
"Are you—"
Still set on stealing a guitar? From the scene of a crime?? Well. Alright.
"Okay," he calls. "Entertain yourself for a minute."
Getting used to speeding around, still, but he's improving. Only little bits of the 'drunk in a roller rink' effect as he goes to run this vandalism errand. There's a thrilling edge to navigating it will buzzed, missing a neighbor, the sound of all the other neighbors (fuck, they cannot burn this building down, there are way too many people). The security room is also a maintenance closet and the locked doorknob crumbles under a twist. Early 2000s technology inside is an exciting sight. He doesn't even have to guess anything.
Surely everything is going to look very normal when he pops back upstairs!
Lestat has returned to the living room, kneeling on the ground over an opened guitar case, surrounded by corpses. Within, the guitar itself, a beautiful instrument with the hotly contested Johnny Cash signature scrawled on polished wood, tones of sunrise. Lestat has yet to take it out, very gently touching the strings with the tips of his fingers, setting them to little thrumming sounds.
He looks up as Daniel returns. "It needs tuning," he says, a judgmental slant in his voice that indicates this dead bitch never played it. He closes the case, snapping it locked, and gathers it into his arms, pleased him himself.
Flows to his feet, a preternatural quality to the way he goes from kneeling to standing.
"You can lead the hunt next time," generous, a flick of his hand, "but I think this suited us well, non?" He is definitely Frencher on speed. Why? Who knows. The quick patter of the language, maybe. "Will Louis be home now, do you think? And I still think a fire would be best but mais je m'en remets à votre jugement. If we are hunted down by the police you can explain the misunderstanding."
Pacing out into the hallway, bringing a hand up to smear aside some of the blood on his face.
Daniel's French is as 'a few funny words, asking for directions' on speed as it is normally, but he thinks he can follow what Lestat is on about. Context helps.
As does the mellow marijuana undercurrent beneath the eye-shining awareness of probably-mostly-Adderall. It's cool, whatever, his smile is lopsided and bizarrely fond as the elder vampire manages to skitter gracefully. It does, finally, occur to him that Lestat is perhaps feeling the drugs, which is—
Surprising, somehow? To be inspected later. He huffs a quiet laugh, done for a second, and when he's back in the hallway he has a damp hand town. "Come here, you're a mess." They can't walk out of here covered in blood. Even with the shitty CCTV disabled, somebody might see them. "Louis' probably around, I don't know if he even went anywhere. He brought the salad bar with him from the Emirates."
The police are a potential concern, especially with Lestat stealing a recognizable collector's item that probably exists prominently on this guy's social media. But he's pretty sure Louis knows guys, so uh, yeah, hopefully Louis is back by now, if indeed he was out elsewhere for long.
Lestat is summoned, reverses, pivots. An 'mmh' of comprehension, taking the towel, moving past Daniel as he wipes his face to check himself in the bathroom mirror. Scrubs away the worst of it, plucks at his clothing, but he has worn black, so there's nothing to see. Not so big of a mess as he could have made. He does, also, spend a moment to preen, fix his hair, admire his (slightly manic) reflection
and tip his head at that, and turns back on a heel, guitar swinging from the handle in his grip. "The Slavic prostitute and the refrigerator full of O negative, yes, I remember. He has become quite particular, hasn't he?"
A little amused, a little exasperated. What is Lestat to do?
He could feel worse about it, but not tonight. His command over time and space feels uniquely liquid, and Daniel thinks he is pretty and charming, and he has a new guitar that he can sense Daniel would prefer he leave behind, or at least thinks he probably should, but he will not.
"We won't be seen," Lestat says, landing a hand on Daniel's arm. "Trust your elders." Claps that hand, allons-y, out the door.
And yes, two flights down, a couple coming up the stairs, dog-tired at this hour. They freeze in place before Lestat veers the corner with his thumping footsteps, completely unseeing and practically frozen in time as he swans by, pivoting on a step to wink up at Daniel—see?—before he follows an impulse, levers himself over the railing, drops out of sight.
"The Slavic prostitute was decently personable for someone being chewed on," he says. What a memory. But that was in the book, too: the table, the looming religious painting, the full eye contact from both donors while getting sucked on. Daniel's retelling and his expression of its hallmark fucked-up-ness, and the funny dissection of the vampires thinking he called it fucked up purely for blood drinking, completely missing the full-tilt insanity of the formal place setting. White-knuckled determination to look normal in the deepest, loneliest circle of Absurd Hell.
Just eat somebody in the wild, Louis. You are gorgeous and charming, you could even leave them alive, and they'd think it was a horny, weird, but still horny, dream.
Anyway.
For a second, Daniel thinks he's about to be dragged like a cartoon character, but instead he finds himself bolting after a potentially cranked on speed (it wasn't that much speed) vampire hoisting a stolen guitar. He stops at the railing in the stairwell and looks down after his action movie escape, laughing despite himself.
"Okay," he calls, "but we can't jog all the way back and freeze people like it's a game of tag."
Maybe in rural Nebraska. There's like ten people there. Daniel thinks about it— oh, fuck, fine, it's not like it's going to hurt, is it? And hops up and over.
Daniel lands, and it doesn't hurt. Knees can take it. Vampires and their catlike instincts. He will find himself subject to an arm slung around his shoulders, a laugh close by his ear, swept into the momentum of Lestat steering him out from the lobby of the apartment building.
"Next time we'll take the rooftops," he proposes. "When I have less valuable trophies in my possession."
That would be fun. That would be fun right now, actually, burn off some energy by leaping from building to building. He feels his own heart leap after the idea, still fast in his chest. What all did that girl put in her bloodstream, anyway? It has entirely replaced the lethargic pleasantness of the first man's blood, and if he was any hungrier, he might propose a second spree.
But also, Louis is certainly back at the hotel, and in the confusion tangle of impulses, the true north lure of reuniting with him now that the hunt is over is the only stable point. So—
"A car, then?" he asks, as he propels them out into the late night/early, early morning street.
It doesn't hurt! He knew it wouldn't! He has done other stupid, impossible things with no downsides, and yet it remains unFUCKINGbelievable most of the time, a giddy, elated feeling, like finally being free, and he's laughing when Lestat collects him. Shit like this makes the guilt, the questioning, the grey-tinged existential horror melt away and seem so insignificant. Who gives a shit about a sad couple dying together on their apartment floor, his knees didn't explode after jumping straight down the center of a stairwell.
"Trophies?"
Plural? What else did you take??
"Car, yeah—" Easy enough to flag down a cab, even while looking completely hammered alongside a man with cumbersome luggage. There's a knack to pointed hailing, no vampire seduction required. "Though I don't know how well I float. Clouds are better on the internet." Ha ha, a joke, for him. Then the cab, and he leans against the side of it to ask through the window, "You're good with cash, right?"
This, Lestat is saying while already opening the trunk of the cab whether or not the driver is good with cash, storing the guitar case inside. He has long forgotten the details of their kill, the brush stubble on the cheek of the man who had been calculating the likelihood of a blowjob and whose thoughts had pivoted to some relief he won't have to contend with his credit card debt, the mournful thoughts of apple pie in the fridge. He remembers, though, that he will need to look up the artist they were listening to.
The driver is good with cash. Daniel, progressing into the backseat, and immediately Lestat must contend with the prospect of climbing in after him. Instead, the door snaps closed behind Daniel without Lestat following.
A quick little nudge of—well, mind gift, telekinesis, whatever, unlocking the driver's door and hauling it open, Lestat ducking down to pin the startled driver with a smile. Blood between his teeth, still. "Do you mind, dearest?" he asks, with an inelegant shove of willpower that has the driver making an ungainly climb from the driver's seat into the passenger's. Not frightened, just accommodating, forceful enough that the driver is fumbling to unlock the next door to get out of it.
Perhaps Daniel will decide whether they're just going on a joyride or wholesale stealing a car, Lestat distracted from the details as he climbs into the driver's seat, his priority the radio.
Nonono not turning this into a high speed chase when this man calls the police from the side of the road, they're just, uh. They're just kidnapping him.
It's fine. It'll be fine. Daniel has a lot of cash on him.
"Hey!" is cheerful, launching himself forward from the back seat so he can grab the ousted cabbie by the shoulders, keep him firmly in place in the passenger seat. "Manhattan, right? It's always like this." More learning as Lestat, presumably, peels out, so that Daniel can reach over and grab the seat belt, buckle this guy in. Less for kidnapping more for not wanting him to fly through the windshield and die if it turns out Lestat does not have a valid Louisiana driver's license.
Once their new friend is secured, he grabs the driver's seat headrest with one hand, wedged in place for. Whatever this is going to be.
"As long as you have insurance," says the ex-driver, who definitely thinks he's going to get robbed, at least.
"We're good. Six blocks forward then it's a right. What's your name? Oh, it says it there—"
"I know where he is," is in response to being given directions. "Always."
Kind of.
Out onto the road, and it should be noted that Lestat has never driven a car in Europe, only learning his way around an automobile in Louisiana, license and all, but there is something decidedly European in spirit to the confident swerving out into the road, the shriek of tires, a braying horn from behind them that Lestat does not react to whatsoever.
"Archie," a third echo. "Will you take care of this?"
Lestat tosses his cigarette pack, lighter wedged into the plastic film, into Archie's lap. There is no hesitation on Archie's side in retrieving a cigarette and lighting up for him, not exactly in a state of glassy eyed thrall, but some combination of confusion, assurance under Daniel's friendly approach, and preternatural command directing his hands into obeying. The radio fritzes, sputters, switching frequencies apparently on its own volition.
They go faster than they ought to, but Lestat's reflexes are sound. Up ahead, a yellow light, and Lestat floors it to veer around the coward in front of them who slows to a stop, the lights glaring red in the split second they're clear of them. Another horn, and this one makes Lestat laugh.
Finally, an appropriate song is located. Lestat immediately twists the volume up, and reaches out to receive his cigarette while the hand on the wheel taps along with the beat.
Over the sound of eighties guitar and Bret Michaels, who professes to simply like his fun every now and then; "Do you think he will come out with us? It's still early."
"No harm in asking," Daniel says gamely, though he suspects odds are even that Louis will take one look at This and attempt to ground them both like a disappointed parent. Which, all things being equal, would be just as funny as him hopping into the cab with him, Lestat, and Archie.
Who is taking this pretty well. Daniel checks, and yeah, he's been held up a few times before. Some weird old man and a eyelinered maybe-foreigner, apparently unarmed, are less menacing then people with guns. Though, surprise: far more dangerous.
"Are you guys criminals?" he asks, still holding the cigarettes and lighter, dutiful.
"Nah we're in town for the tour." Daniel clutches the headrest again, as Lestat plays a real life video game. Good reflexes, little awareness of traffic laws. "Just watch for cops—"
Vroom, Lestat swings them around the corner, enough that Archie fumbles to grip onto something so he doesn't go careening into the driver's seat from the force of the pivot.
On cue with the chorus, which Lestat gamely sings along with, alongside the telepathic prod of, 'You watch for cops,' delegating duties. The scent of smoke might mask the lingering traces of blood, although likely this has been muddled already to dull human senses. They careen past a group of barhopping pedestrians, who all as a collective skitter backwards as a too-fast taxicab careens by, lives flashing before their eyes.
Someone yelling obscenities in their wake. "Va te faire foutre," muttered as Lestat glances at them in the rearview, a kind of agitated hop in his seat, blue eyes flaring black. Tempting to pick a fight. But he would rather Louis be in his arms, and they are honing in, and so—
"Did you enjoy it?" Lestat asks, shot backwards to Daniel. "It means very much to me that you would, you know."
It's like being a kid on a shitty carnival roller coaster. You more or less trust the track, but everything is still jerky, and maybe the freak back at the control box is going to hit stop and kill everyone.
Laughing as they nearly vehicular-manslaughter half a dozen people, and Daniel doesn't bother explaining that watch for cops means just don't drive illegally so cops have no reason to notice us, because if they don't get any attention from nearly making human street lasagna, then they're probably as in the clear as they can get.
Archie thinks he might die even if there are no guns. Daniel pats him on the shoulder, bracing.
"I did." Daniel looks at Lestat through the mirror. His glasses are still on the top of his head, unearthly blue on display. (No more flashes of gold-orange-strange, like in the apartment.) "I am—"
Even though that was a curb, maybe.
"All those stops on the way up. Nice to just do something properly."
Is this!! What being a vampire is supposed to be. Interesting. A slippery slope, an education, finding himself.
There had been a simple reason why Lestat's fall into decline had included the consistent intake of rat blood, and that was: hunting had ceased to be fun. It is difficult, even for him, to justify the extinguishing of human life if he can't even get a kick out of it. He has thought about it often, plenty of time for thinking, about Louis' malady of morality. Who could never find the enjoyment. And maybe if he had—
If Lestat had found it for him. He had tried, many times. And he had chosen Louis because he had believed Louis would enjoy his new existence, his latent anger given avenues to express itself, already stood on the outside of civilisation, already pinned down beneath his white neighbours, and then, through Lestat's blood, raised above them. Superior, immortal.
It had all seemed so obvious to Lestat. Lestat, whose idea of goodness is in being good at, quaintly 18th century of him: a good artist, a good lover, a good vampire. Louis, who could never let go of that thread within him, who suffers.
An essay of thought, a symphony of feeling, just a sparkly glimmer of it here in the fierce gladness he feels at Daniel's words and the thoughts that follow along. Perhaps, there is a world where Lestat is a good maker, even if he did not make this one, and may never make again.
"Isn't it?" he agrees. Nice to do something properly. What being a vampire is supposed to be.
Tires screech. Lestat does not break any (more) road rules that anyone calls the cops on him for. There is a tight slot at the edge of the road, and he shows off with a sliding stop that lays bruises across Archie's chest where the seatbelt stops and the wheels jar against the curb, but, "Voilà," Lestat declares. He leaves the engine running, his cigarettes in Archie's lap, and Daniel to deal with the rest.
Out into the night air to collect his guitar, cab shuddering with the negligent force of his handling, cigarette held between his teeth.
Daniel likes people, in a way. Not social for the sake of it, social for people watching, for investigating, for unraveling them and seeing their proverbial insides. He doesn't want to be so callous that he feels nothing about murder, especially any kind that could be considered senseless. There's a highwire to balance on— have to live, have to live off humans, have to find ones who've earned death. That wire feels like a boardwalk tonight. No problem. It's not senseless, he's not a murderer, he's something posthuman, something beyond those considerations.
He is also: paying Archie. Out of an envelope tucked into a pocket inside his vest, which makes him seem much more like a drug dealer than whatever else this guy has been thinking. (Not much. He thought the guitar was a suitcase, and Daniel does not correct him.) Nearly $1300, mostly flat 100s but there's an uneven selection of smaller bills. Absurd. Literally emergency bribe money, Daniel carries this for no reason other than to be used as a break-glass-if scenario.
Better than mind control. Archie even gives him his card.
Away, then, after Lestat, there is a momentary attempt to Act Casual in the discreet 'lobby', but the only other guest in this place had cleared out after Louis swept in, and his staff inhabit the ground floor now, a lone hotel employee at the ornate front desk merely raising his eyebrows at Daniel as he heads to the—
Elevator? Stairs?
'Hey are you still here? Feels like it, uh— so, listen—'
Is all the warning Louis gets before the Lestat-shaped missile zeroes in, probably.
Drawn back from the ruin of the balcony (a problem for the staff, to occupy their hours while the trio of vampires sleep), Louis has made it as far as the center of the room by the time Daniel's voice sounds in his own head.
Louis is too still, he knows. Not quite leveled out as he should be, not quite the picture of a vampire who spent a relaxing evening in with a bag of O negative and a book.
Aware, at the sound of the door, that he is not entirely certain how much time has passed on the balcony. Long enough for Daniel and Lestat's night to wind to a close, though that is not exactly a reliable metric.
Almost thinks to ask Daniel: Did something happen?
But abandons it as the door opens, in favor of asking once they're in the door.
Lestat leaving the hotel was an oddly elegant sight in too tight leather pants, a fluttery shirt closed with a knot, a black blazer with a cascading pattern of silver sequins, and all of this is still true. His half-up hair has come loose now, his eyeliner smeared, and probably the telltale sign of traces of blood missed on his face,
and there's a certain elegance to the way he leaps over the lounge furniture, clearing a good twenty feet and landing near silently, but less of it with the force of his embrace, an arm slung around Louis' shoulders, the bright glint in his eyes and grin closing in on his way to a kiss to the cheek, the swing of the guitar case on its handle in his hand. He smells like blood and weed.
"Bonsoir, bel homme," and Louis will find himself pivoted around, a little circle of motion. "Have you been having too much fun without me again?"
Daniel, merely in the doorway with far less leaping—
"It was barely any speed."
He looks much the same as he did when they set out, aesthetically less vulnerable to sweating out makeup and hair extensions (not that Lestat needs the latter!). Blood blends into the dark shades of his clothes, a few stray speckles by one ear in silver hair are negligible. Speaking at his regular pace, and feeling upbeat from being fed and having a very funny car ride; the actual buzz faded around the time they hopped in the cab.
The burst of energy and movement and voice is equal parts jarring and grounding.
One hand turns out, reaching to catch Lestat by the waist in the midst of all this movement while Louis looks at Daniel. Inhales, breathing them both in. The city clinging to them. Blood on their skin.
In some small measure, the vise grip around his heart loosens. Louis, in his soft flowing trousers and fine knit cardigan hanging off his shoulders, skin cool from the night air, looking between them.
Lestat snares Louis around the waist with an arm, coaxing him into little sways that approximately follow the beat of the Poison song still echoing around his brain, tossing a look over at Daniel that says don't call me a lightweight, old man without putting it to voice or thought.
"How is our night," he says, rolling his attention back to Louis. "There is still plenty left."
Ish. Some hours before the air takes on that grey, stinging quality. If there is something odd about Louis' manner, his stillness and reserve, his automatic response is to steamroll over it.
"I wanted to come get you, now that all appetites have been sated." An innocent tip to his head. "Plus ou moins."
Hands in air! Look at him, the picture of innocence. He was not at all going to call Lestat a lightweight. The expression on his face is not the expression of a man who was going to do that. Even though he was, and if Louis asks, Daniel will tell him.
"It's been good," he says, like a normal person. He moves in close enough to have to swerve out of the way of an in-motion guitar case. Checking in, Louis' stillness, and—
'Are you okay?'
Poker face, outwardly. He thinks he'll excuse himself soon, with talk of appetites and opening volleys of flirting going on, but he'll always have an instinct to touch base with Louis. It's a luxury to be able to do so in person, one he doesn't take for granted.
"Dinner, no arson, no car wrecks. Impeccable musical research."
Had he told Daniel enough of New Orleans? How their home had so much music in it, even among all the pain and spite that had sprung up over the years?
Dubai had been so quiet.
Ask me tomorrow.
Demurring, more obvious about the absence of an answer than Louis' early deflections.
He hasn't decided what he means to tell Daniel. Lestat, bright and smiling and demanding, Louis can let his focus realign as Lestat sways him about the cleared space in the center of the room.
"Tell me about the research," Louis invites, Daniel as much as Lestat. "What were your findings?"
Talk to him, is the real request. The room feels better with two of them in it; turn down the volume on the conversation replaying over and over in Louis' mind.
It's less complicated, currently, in Lestat's world.
"That I like it," he says, and laughs. He is so funny and interesting. "Look, I have this," a swing of the guitar case, finally breaking from Louis to twirl around and find a landing place to set down his acquisition on one of the sofas. "I'll learn how to play it tonight if you can't be lured out. Oh,"
and pivoting back, fishing something out from his jacket pocket. "For you," and takes Louis' hand to place into the object—an antique but operational pocket watch, formed of a metal that certainly appears to be real gold, with a matching tangly chain. "A souvenir."
From a dead person, sure. He had often warned against trophies back in the day, but then, Daniel has been party to his slowly adapting wardrobe built from easy targets wearing things he thought were cool, so maybe magpie behaviour is a recent habit.
A telepathic equivalent of a reassuring shoulder-squeeze, for Louis; a silent agreement. Alright, tomorrow. He lets the observation go, trusting the other man, and huffs a laugh about Lestat pulling out a prize from the scene of the crime.
"Johnny Cash and Maynard James Keenan, and Poison. A hell of a soundtrack. I think that was Tool, and not A Perfect Circle."
Probably Tool. They were authentic elder millennials.
"Was that all you grabbed?" Notes on inventory. This time, his aside to Louis is out loud: "You've got fixers, right?"
That Lestat has jacked significant items from a crime scene is a thing.
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So. He tips his head, considering this likelihood, Daniel's comme ci comme ça certainty, the way he had sensed none of these people had the kind of strong external connections to evoke a mass outcry at their collective perishments. Among his reasons for choosing them. Others including, he had sensed Daniel would charm them well in his little outfit, his wit, the promise of a wealth of interesting experiences and stories, the promise of an anecdote never to be shared. And he was right.
Oh, and the guitar.
"Bien," he says, with a one-shouldered shrug. "Excusez-moi."
A normal step, and then he vanishes into a cartoon blur of motion. Another slamming open of a door. The sound of a bedroom getting carelessly ransacked.
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"Are you—"
Still set on stealing a guitar? From the scene of a crime?? Well. Alright.
"Okay," he calls. "Entertain yourself for a minute."
Getting used to speeding around, still, but he's improving. Only little bits of the 'drunk in a roller rink' effect as he goes to run this vandalism errand. There's a thrilling edge to navigating it will buzzed, missing a neighbor, the sound of all the other neighbors (fuck, they cannot burn this building down, there are way too many people). The security room is also a maintenance closet and the locked doorknob crumbles under a twist. Early 2000s technology inside is an exciting sight. He doesn't even have to guess anything.
Surely everything is going to look very normal when he pops back upstairs!
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Lestat has returned to the living room, kneeling on the ground over an opened guitar case, surrounded by corpses. Within, the guitar itself, a beautiful instrument with the hotly contested Johnny Cash signature scrawled on polished wood, tones of sunrise. Lestat has yet to take it out, very gently touching the strings with the tips of his fingers, setting them to little thrumming sounds.
He looks up as Daniel returns. "It needs tuning," he says, a judgmental slant in his voice that indicates this dead bitch never played it. He closes the case, snapping it locked, and gathers it into his arms, pleased him himself.
Flows to his feet, a preternatural quality to the way he goes from kneeling to standing.
"You can lead the hunt next time," generous, a flick of his hand, "but I think this suited us well, non?" He is definitely Frencher on speed. Why? Who knows. The quick patter of the language, maybe. "Will Louis be home now, do you think? And I still think a fire would be best but mais je m'en remets à votre jugement. If we are hunted down by the police you can explain the misunderstanding."
Pacing out into the hallway, bringing a hand up to smear aside some of the blood on his face.
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As does the mellow marijuana undercurrent beneath the eye-shining awareness of probably-mostly-Adderall. It's cool, whatever, his smile is lopsided and bizarrely fond as the elder vampire manages to skitter gracefully. It does, finally, occur to him that Lestat is perhaps feeling the drugs, which is—
Surprising, somehow? To be inspected later. He huffs a quiet laugh, done for a second, and when he's back in the hallway he has a damp hand town. "Come here, you're a mess." They can't walk out of here covered in blood. Even with the shitty CCTV disabled, somebody might see them. "Louis' probably around, I don't know if he even went anywhere. He brought the salad bar with him from the Emirates."
The police are a potential concern, especially with Lestat stealing a recognizable collector's item that probably exists prominently on this guy's social media. But he's pretty sure Louis knows guys, so uh, yeah, hopefully Louis is back by now, if indeed he was out elsewhere for long.
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and tip his head at that, and turns back on a heel, guitar swinging from the handle in his grip. "The Slavic prostitute and the refrigerator full of O negative, yes, I remember. He has become quite particular, hasn't he?"
A little amused, a little exasperated. What is Lestat to do?
He could feel worse about it, but not tonight. His command over time and space feels uniquely liquid, and Daniel thinks he is pretty and charming, and he has a new guitar that he can sense Daniel would prefer he leave behind, or at least thinks he probably should, but he will not.
"We won't be seen," Lestat says, landing a hand on Daniel's arm. "Trust your elders." Claps that hand, allons-y, out the door.
And yes, two flights down, a couple coming up the stairs, dog-tired at this hour. They freeze in place before Lestat veers the corner with his thumping footsteps, completely unseeing and practically frozen in time as he swans by, pivoting on a step to wink up at Daniel—see?—before he follows an impulse, levers himself over the railing, drops out of sight.
A loud thump of a landing below.
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Just eat somebody in the wild, Louis. You are gorgeous and charming, you could even leave them alive, and they'd think it was a horny, weird, but still horny, dream.
Anyway.
For a second, Daniel thinks he's about to be dragged like a cartoon character, but instead he finds himself bolting after a potentially cranked on speed (it wasn't that much speed) vampire hoisting a stolen guitar. He stops at the railing in the stairwell and looks down after his action movie escape, laughing despite himself.
"Okay," he calls, "but we can't jog all the way back and freeze people like it's a game of tag."
Maybe in rural Nebraska. There's like ten people there. Daniel thinks about it— oh, fuck, fine, it's not like it's going to hurt, is it? And hops up and over.
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"Next time we'll take the rooftops," he proposes. "When I have less valuable trophies in my possession."
That would be fun. That would be fun right now, actually, burn off some energy by leaping from building to building. He feels his own heart leap after the idea, still fast in his chest. What all did that girl put in her bloodstream, anyway? It has entirely replaced the lethargic pleasantness of the first man's blood, and if he was any hungrier, he might propose a second spree.
But also, Louis is certainly back at the hotel, and in the confusion tangle of impulses, the true north lure of reuniting with him now that the hunt is over is the only stable point. So—
"A car, then?" he asks, as he propels them out into the late night/early, early morning street.
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"Trophies?"
Plural? What else did you take??
"Car, yeah—" Easy enough to flag down a cab, even while looking completely hammered alongside a man with cumbersome luggage. There's a knack to pointed hailing, no vampire seduction required. "Though I don't know how well I float. Clouds are better on the internet." Ha ha, a joke, for him. Then the cab, and he leans against the side of it to ask through the window, "You're good with cash, right?"
Everybody says 'Right', unless they're Uber. Fucking Uber.
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This, Lestat is saying while already opening the trunk of the cab whether or not the driver is good with cash, storing the guitar case inside. He has long forgotten the details of their kill, the brush stubble on the cheek of the man who had been calculating the likelihood of a blowjob and whose thoughts had pivoted to some relief he won't have to contend with his credit card debt, the mournful thoughts of apple pie in the fridge. He remembers, though, that he will need to look up the artist they were listening to.
The driver is good with cash. Daniel, progressing into the backseat, and immediately Lestat must contend with the prospect of climbing in after him. Instead, the door snaps closed behind Daniel without Lestat following.
A quick little nudge of—well, mind gift, telekinesis, whatever, unlocking the driver's door and hauling it open, Lestat ducking down to pin the startled driver with a smile. Blood between his teeth, still. "Do you mind, dearest?" he asks, with an inelegant shove of willpower that has the driver making an ungainly climb from the driver's seat into the passenger's. Not frightened, just accommodating, forceful enough that the driver is fumbling to unlock the next door to get out of it.
Perhaps Daniel will decide whether they're just going on a joyride or wholesale stealing a car, Lestat distracted from the details as he climbs into the driver's seat, his priority the radio.
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It's fine. It'll be fine. Daniel has a lot of cash on him.
"Hey!" is cheerful, launching himself forward from the back seat so he can grab the ousted cabbie by the shoulders, keep him firmly in place in the passenger seat. "Manhattan, right? It's always like this." More learning as Lestat, presumably, peels out, so that Daniel can reach over and grab the seat belt, buckle this guy in. Less for kidnapping more for not wanting him to fly through the windshield and die if it turns out Lestat does not have a valid Louisiana driver's license.
Once their new friend is secured, he grabs the driver's seat headrest with one hand, wedged in place for. Whatever this is going to be.
"As long as you have insurance," says the ex-driver, who definitely thinks he's going to get robbed, at least.
"We're good. Six blocks forward then it's a right. What's your name? Oh, it says it there—"
"Archie."
"Hi, Archie."
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Kind of.
Out onto the road, and it should be noted that Lestat has never driven a car in Europe, only learning his way around an automobile in Louisiana, license and all, but there is something decidedly European in spirit to the confident swerving out into the road, the shriek of tires, a braying horn from behind them that Lestat does not react to whatsoever.
"Archie," a third echo. "Will you take care of this?"
Lestat tosses his cigarette pack, lighter wedged into the plastic film, into Archie's lap. There is no hesitation on Archie's side in retrieving a cigarette and lighting up for him, not exactly in a state of glassy eyed thrall, but some combination of confusion, assurance under Daniel's friendly approach, and preternatural command directing his hands into obeying. The radio fritzes, sputters, switching frequencies apparently on its own volition.
They go faster than they ought to, but Lestat's reflexes are sound. Up ahead, a yellow light, and Lestat floors it to veer around the coward in front of them who slows to a stop, the lights glaring red in the split second they're clear of them. Another horn, and this one makes Lestat laugh.
Finally, an appropriate song is located. Lestat immediately twists the volume up, and reaches out to receive his cigarette while the hand on the wheel taps along with the beat.
Over the sound of eighties guitar and Bret Michaels, who professes to simply like his fun every now and then; "Do you think he will come out with us? It's still early."
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Who is taking this pretty well. Daniel checks, and yeah, he's been held up a few times before. Some weird old man and a eyelinered maybe-foreigner, apparently unarmed, are less menacing then people with guns. Though, surprise: far more dangerous.
"Are you guys criminals?" he asks, still holding the cigarettes and lighter, dutiful.
"Nah we're in town for the tour." Daniel clutches the headrest again, as Lestat plays a real life video game. Good reflexes, little awareness of traffic laws. "Just watch for cops—"
"Musicians?" Archie sounds skeptical — "She's my drag daughter." — This, Archie accepts.
"It's the next light!"
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Vroom, Lestat swings them around the corner, enough that Archie fumbles to grip onto something so he doesn't go careening into the driver's seat from the force of the pivot.
On cue with the chorus, which Lestat gamely sings along with, alongside the telepathic prod of, 'You watch for cops,' delegating duties. The scent of smoke might mask the lingering traces of blood, although likely this has been muddled already to dull human senses. They careen past a group of barhopping pedestrians, who all as a collective skitter backwards as a too-fast taxicab careens by, lives flashing before their eyes.
Someone yelling obscenities in their wake. "Va te faire foutre," muttered as Lestat glances at them in the rearview, a kind of agitated hop in his seat, blue eyes flaring black. Tempting to pick a fight. But he would rather Louis be in his arms, and they are honing in, and so—
"Did you enjoy it?" Lestat asks, shot backwards to Daniel. "It means very much to me that you would, you know."
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Laughing as they nearly vehicular-manslaughter half a dozen people, and Daniel doesn't bother explaining that watch for cops means just don't drive illegally so cops have no reason to notice us, because if they don't get any attention from nearly making human street lasagna, then they're probably as in the clear as they can get.
Archie thinks he might die even if there are no guns. Daniel pats him on the shoulder, bracing.
"I did." Daniel looks at Lestat through the mirror. His glasses are still on the top of his head, unearthly blue on display. (No more flashes of gold-orange-strange, like in the apartment.) "I am—"
Even though that was a curb, maybe.
"All those stops on the way up. Nice to just do something properly."
Is this!! What being a vampire is supposed to be. Interesting. A slippery slope, an education, finding himself.
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If Lestat had found it for him. He had tried, many times. And he had chosen Louis because he had believed Louis would enjoy his new existence, his latent anger given avenues to express itself, already stood on the outside of civilisation, already pinned down beneath his white neighbours, and then, through Lestat's blood, raised above them. Superior, immortal.
It had all seemed so obvious to Lestat. Lestat, whose idea of goodness is in being good at, quaintly 18th century of him: a good artist, a good lover, a good vampire. Louis, who could never let go of that thread within him, who suffers.
An essay of thought, a symphony of feeling, just a sparkly glimmer of it here in the fierce gladness he feels at Daniel's words and the thoughts that follow along. Perhaps, there is a world where Lestat is a good maker, even if he did not make this one, and may never make again.
"Isn't it?" he agrees. Nice to do something properly. What being a vampire is supposed to be.
Tires screech. Lestat does not break any (more) road rules that anyone calls the cops on him for. There is a tight slot at the edge of the road, and he shows off with a sliding stop that lays bruises across Archie's chest where the seatbelt stops and the wheels jar against the curb, but, "Voilà," Lestat declares. He leaves the engine running, his cigarettes in Archie's lap, and Daniel to deal with the rest.
Out into the night air to collect his guitar, cab shuddering with the negligent force of his handling, cigarette held between his teeth.
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He is also: paying Archie. Out of an envelope tucked into a pocket inside his vest, which makes him seem much more like a drug dealer than whatever else this guy has been thinking. (Not much. He thought the guitar was a suitcase, and Daniel does not correct him.) Nearly $1300, mostly flat 100s but there's an uneven selection of smaller bills. Absurd. Literally emergency bribe money, Daniel carries this for no reason other than to be used as a break-glass-if scenario.
Better than mind control. Archie even gives him his card.
Away, then, after Lestat, there is a momentary attempt to Act Casual in the discreet 'lobby', but the only other guest in this place had cleared out after Louis swept in, and his staff inhabit the ground floor now, a lone hotel employee at the ornate front desk merely raising his eyebrows at Daniel as he heads to the—
Elevator? Stairs?
'Hey are you still here? Feels like it, uh— so, listen—'
Is all the warning Louis gets before the Lestat-shaped missile zeroes in, probably.
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Louis is too still, he knows. Not quite leveled out as he should be, not quite the picture of a vampire who spent a relaxing evening in with a bag of O negative and a book.
Aware, at the sound of the door, that he is not entirely certain how much time has passed on the balcony. Long enough for Daniel and Lestat's night to wind to a close, though that is not exactly a reliable metric.
Almost thinks to ask Daniel: Did something happen?
But abandons it as the door opens, in favor of asking once they're in the door.
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and there's a certain elegance to the way he leaps over the lounge furniture, clearing a good twenty feet and landing near silently, but less of it with the force of his embrace, an arm slung around Louis' shoulders, the bright glint in his eyes and grin closing in on his way to a kiss to the cheek, the swing of the guitar case on its handle in his hand. He smells like blood and weed.
"Bonsoir, bel homme," and Louis will find himself pivoted around, a little circle of motion. "Have you been having too much fun without me again?"
He is talking quite fast.
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"It was barely any speed."
He looks much the same as he did when they set out, aesthetically less vulnerable to sweating out makeup and hair extensions (not that Lestat needs the latter!). Blood blends into the dark shades of his clothes, a few stray speckles by one ear in silver hair are negligible. Speaking at his regular pace, and feeling upbeat from being fed and having a very funny car ride; the actual buzz faded around the time they hopped in the cab.
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One hand turns out, reaching to catch Lestat by the waist in the midst of all this movement while Louis looks at Daniel. Inhales, breathing them both in. The city clinging to them. Blood on their skin.
In some small measure, the vise grip around his heart loosens. Louis, in his soft flowing trousers and fine knit cardigan hanging off his shoulders, skin cool from the night air, looking between them.
"How was your night?"
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"How is our night," he says, rolling his attention back to Louis. "There is still plenty left."
Ish. Some hours before the air takes on that grey, stinging quality. If there is something odd about Louis' manner, his stillness and reserve, his automatic response is to steamroll over it.
"I wanted to come get you, now that all appetites have been sated." An innocent tip to his head. "Plus ou moins."
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"It's been good," he says, like a normal person. He moves in close enough to have to swerve out of the way of an in-motion guitar case. Checking in, Louis' stillness, and—
'Are you okay?'
Poker face, outwardly. He thinks he'll excuse himself soon, with talk of appetites and opening volleys of flirting going on, but he'll always have an instinct to touch base with Louis. It's a luxury to be able to do so in person, one he doesn't take for granted.
"Dinner, no arson, no car wrecks. Impeccable musical research."
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Dubai had been so quiet.
Ask me tomorrow.
Demurring, more obvious about the absence of an answer than Louis' early deflections.
He hasn't decided what he means to tell Daniel. Lestat, bright and smiling and demanding, Louis can let his focus realign as Lestat sways him about the cleared space in the center of the room.
"Tell me about the research," Louis invites, Daniel as much as Lestat. "What were your findings?"
Talk to him, is the real request. The room feels better with two of them in it; turn down the volume on the conversation replaying over and over in Louis' mind.
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"That I like it," he says, and laughs. He is so funny and interesting. "Look, I have this," a swing of the guitar case, finally breaking from Louis to twirl around and find a landing place to set down his acquisition on one of the sofas. "I'll learn how to play it tonight if you can't be lured out. Oh,"
and pivoting back, fishing something out from his jacket pocket. "For you," and takes Louis' hand to place into the object—an antique but operational pocket watch, formed of a metal that certainly appears to be real gold, with a matching tangly chain. "A souvenir."
From a dead person, sure. He had often warned against trophies back in the day, but then, Daniel has been party to his slowly adapting wardrobe built from easy targets wearing things he thought were cool, so maybe magpie behaviour is a recent habit.
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"Johnny Cash and Maynard James Keenan, and Poison. A hell of a soundtrack. I think that was Tool, and not A Perfect Circle."
Probably Tool. They were authentic elder millennials.
"Was that all you grabbed?" Notes on inventory. This time, his aside to Louis is out loud: "You've got fixers, right?"
That Lestat has jacked significant items from a crime scene is a thing.
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i hope he has a keytar in s3
theremin
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