Chapter 4
The journey east was arduous, even for creatures who did not tire as mortals did. They traveled only by night, taking shelter in abandoned buildings, forgotten crypts, and occasionally the homes of wealthy mortals whom Lestat would entrance with his hypnotic powers. With each passing night, they moved farther from Paris and the influence of the Théâtre des Vampires, crossing through the German states, then Poland, and finally into the vast expanse of Russia.
Throughout the journey, Lestat remained distant. He guided them with precision, arranged their accommodations, and hunted for them when necessary, but he spoke little. When he did speak, it was primarily to Louis, giving instructions about their route or warnings about potential dangers. To Claudia, he said almost nothing, and to Madeline, even less. It was as if he had erected an invisible barrier around himself, performing his duty as their protector but refusing to engage on any deeper level.
Claudia watched him with careful eyes but made no attempt to breach this self-imposed isolation. Perhaps she understood, better than Louis or Madeline, that wounds of the spirit healed more slowly than wounds of the flesh. Or perhaps she simply didn't know how to begin mending what she had so thoroughly broken.
After nearly a month of travel, they arrived at their destination—a grand manor house situated on the outskirts of Moscow, surrounded by dense forest and set back from the main road behind ornate iron gates. The house was built in the classical Russian style, with onion domes crowning several towers and intricate woodwork adorning the façade.
"You've been here before," Louis observed as Lestat produced a heavy key for the gate.
"A century ago," Lestat replied, pushing open the creaking gate. "Russia has always been... accommodating to our kind. The long winters, the isolated estates, the superstitious peasantry—it suits us."
The interior of the manor was surprisingly well-maintained, covered in dust but otherwise intact. Rich carpets, heavy furniture, and paintings in gilded frames spoke of wealth and refined taste. Lestat moved through the rooms with familiarity, lighting lamps and uncovering furniture with practiced motions.
"How do you come to own such a place?" Madeline asked, running her fingers over a finely crafted table.
Lestat paused in his activities, something like his old sardonic smile briefly touching his lips. "The previous owner owed me a debt," he said simply. "He found it easier to sign over the deed than to repay what was owed."
"And no one has claimed it since?" Louis pressed, knowing there was more to the story.
Lestat shrugged. "Russian aristocracy has suffered many... transitions over the years. Properties like this are sometimes forgotten in the chaos of revolution and war. Besides," he added, throwing open heavy curtains to reveal a snow-covered landscape beyond, "I have arrangements with certain individuals in Moscow to maintain my interests here."
"More of your mysterious acquaintances who 'owe you favors'?" Louis asked with a hint of his old skepticism.
"The world is full of people who owe me favors, Louis," Lestat replied. "It's one of the benefits of a long existence." He gestured around the grand entrance hall. "There are bedrooms enough for all of us on the second floor. Choose whichever suits you best. The servants' quarters in the east wing will be prepared for mortals we may need to... entertain."
With that, he picked up a lamp and ascended the grand staircase, leaving the others to explore their new home.
---
The first weeks in Russia passed in a blur of activity as they settled into the manor. Lestat arranged for deliveries of clothing, books, and furnishings from Moscow. He hired a small staff of local peasants to maintain the grounds during daylight hours, all of them kept ignorant of their employers' true nature through a combination of generous pay, limited contact, and occasional manipulations of their minds.
For Claudia, Lestat ordered an entirely new wardrobe—exquisite dresses in the latest European fashions, miniaturized to fit her child's form. For Madeline, he provided not only clothing but also materials for doll-making, seemingly remembering her former profession. And for Louis, he procured books in multiple languages, including several rare volumes that Louis had mentioned wanting to read during their years in New Orleans.
Yet despite these thoughtful provisions, Lestat himself remained aloof. He took a suite of rooms in the manor's west wing, as far from the others as the house allowed. He would emerge at nightfall to check that all was in order, occasionally join them for a meal (always a mortal brought to the house rather than hunted in the nearby village), and then retire to his rooms again, often not reappearing until the following evening.
Louis watched this self-imposed exile with growing concern. "He provides for us like a phantom benefactor," he observed to Claudia one evening as they sat in the library. "Present in his effects but absent in his person."
Claudia looked up from the book she had been pretending to read. "What did you expect, Louis? That he would forgive and forget? That we would resume our strange little family as if nothing had happened?"
Louis sighed, setting aside his own book. "No, not that. But this half-life, this... arrangement where he acts as our guardian but refuses to engage with us at all—it can't continue indefinitely."
"Why not?" Claudia asked, her tone deliberately neutral. "It seems a reasonable compromise. He fulfills his sense of obligation toward us without having to face the discomfort of my presence."
"Is that what you think this is? Avoidance of discomfort?"
Claudia's delicate features settled into an expression of adult cynicism that was always disconcerting on her child's face. "What else would it be? I tried to kill him, Louis. I poisoned him, cut his throat, and left him to die. That he saved me from the Théâtre doesn't change those facts."
"No," Louis agreed slowly. "It doesn't. But it does suggest that despite everything, he still cares for you. For us."
Claudia was silent for a moment, her fingers tracing patterns on the cover of her book. "Perhaps," she said finally. "Or perhaps he simply couldn't bear to see his possessions destroyed by anyone but himself."
"Is that how you still see it? That we're merely his possessions?"
She looked up at him, her ancient eyes solemn in her child's face. "Aren't we? He made us, Louis. He gave us this dark gift without our consent. He shaped our existence according to his whims. What would you call that, if not ownership?"
Louis had no immediate answer. It was a question he had grappled with himself over the decades of his vampire existence. Did Lestat view them as family, or as property? As companions, or as playthings? Perhaps even Lestat himself didn't fully understand the nature of the bonds he had created.
Before he could formulate a response, the library door opened, and Madeline entered. She had adapted to their nocturnal lifestyle with surprising ease, though there was still something fragile about her, as if she hadn't fully embraced her transformation.
"He's gone hunting," she announced without preamble, settling into a chair near Claudia. "I saw him riding out as I was coming from my workshop."
"Alone?" Louis asked, though he knew the answer.
Madeline nodded. "As always."
The three of them sat in silence for a moment, the crackling of the fire in the grate the only sound in the vast library.
"This isn't working," Madeline said suddenly, surprising both Louis and Claudia with her directness. "This... arrangement. We cannot continue like this indefinitely."
"What would you suggest?" Claudia asked, a hint of sharpness in her tone. She had never fully warmed to Madeline, despite having chosen her as a companion.
Madeline met Claudia's gaze steadily. "Someone needs to talk to him. Really talk to him, not just about household matters or hunting arrangements. About what happened in New Orleans. About what happens now."
"And you think that someone should be you?" Claudia's voice held a note of challenge.
Madeline shook her head. "No. It should be you, Claudia."
Claudia's eyes widened slightly, the only indication of her surprise. "Me? He barely looks at me, let alone speaks to me."
"Precisely," Madeline replied. "The wound is between you and him. It is you who must take the first step toward healing it."
Claudia looked away, her perfect features composed in an expression of studied indifference. "What makes you think I want it healed?"
Madeline's laugh was soft and knowing. "Because you watch him, Claudia. When you think no one is looking, you watch him with such longing it breaks my heart. Whatever you may say, whatever you may believe about your feelings toward him, there is a part of you that yearns for his approval, his attention... his love."
Claudia's head snapped up, her eyes flashing with anger. "You know nothing of my feelings," she hissed.
"Don't I?" Madeline countered gently. "I was your doll-maker before I was your vampire companion. I've spent a lifetime studying the faces of children, creating perfect replicas of their expressions. I know longing when I see it, Claudia, even on a face that hides its emotions as skillfully as yours."
Louis watched this exchange with growing interest. Madeline had shown unexpected depth and perception, seeing what he himself had missed—or perhaps had been unwilling to acknowledge.
Claudia rose abruptly from her chair. "This conversation is absurd," she declared. "Lestat and I have nothing to discuss. The arrangement as it stands suits us both perfectly well."
With that, she stormed from the library, her small form vibrating with suppressed emotion.
Madeline sighed, looking at Louis with a mixture of frustration and sympathy. "She's as stubborn as he is."
"Yes," Louis agreed. "They always have been more alike than either would care to admit."
---
Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months, with no significant change in their strange household dynamic. Lestat continued his self-imposed isolation, emerging only to ensure their needs were met before retreating again to his private chambers. Louis and Madeline attempted to create a semblance of normal life, reading, conversing, occasionally venturing into Moscow for cultural events or simply to walk among mortals again. Claudia alternated between periods of engaging with these activities and withdrawing into solitude that mirrored Lestat's.
Winter deepened, wrapping the manor in a blanket of snow and ice. The long Russian nights suited their vampire nature, giving them more hours of darkness in which to exist. Yet despite this natural advantage, a pall of melancholy hung over the household, as if the emotional winter inside matched the physical one without.
It was during one particularly brutal snowstorm that things finally came to a head. The wind howled around the manor house, rattling windows and sending drafts through even the best-insulated rooms. Louis and Madeline had gone into Moscow earlier in the evening to attend an opera performance, leaving Claudia alone with the silent presence of Lestat elsewhere in the house.
Claudia wandered the darkened corridors, a small figure in a blue velvet dress, her golden curls catching the occasional flicker of lamplight. She found herself drawn toward the west wing, to the suite of rooms that Lestat had claimed as his domain. She had not ventured there since their arrival, respecting the unspoken boundary he had established.
Yet tonight, driven by some impulse she couldn't—or wouldn't—name, she approached his door. From within came the soft sounds of music—Lestat playing the pianoforte, a talent he had cultivated during their years in New Orleans. The melody was unfamiliar to Claudia, something melancholy and Russian, perhaps learned during his previous time in this country.
She stood outside the door for a long moment, listening. Her small hand rose, hesitated, then fell back to her side. Whatever courage had brought her this far seemed to desert her at the final moment.
As she turned to leave, the music stopped abruptly.
"Either come in or go away, Claudia," Lestat's voice called from within. "But do stop hovering outside my door like a restless spirit."
Claudia froze, caught between retreat and advance. After a moment's hesitation, she turned the handle and pushed the door open.
Lestat's chambers were elegantly appointed, much like the rest of the house, but with a distinctly personal touch. Books and musical scores were scattered about, along with sketches and paintings that appeared to be his own work. He sat at a grand pianoforte near the window, his back to her, fingers still resting on the keys.
"Did you want something?" he asked without turning, his voice carefully neutral.
Claudia took a few steps into the room, her footfalls silent on the thick carpet. "I heard you playing," she said. "It was beautiful."
"Tchaikovsky," he replied. "A Russian composer. You would like his work, I think. Very emotional."
An awkward silence fell between them. Claudia moved further into the room, examining the paintings that leaned against the walls. Many were landscapes, scenes of Paris, New Orleans, and places she didn't recognize. Others were portraits—Louis featured in several, looking younger and less careworn than he did now. And there, half-hidden behind others, was a portrait of Claudia herself, painted in what she recognized as Lestat's distinctive style.
She reached for it, drawing it out to examine more closely. It showed her as she had been shortly after her transformation, her child's face still holding traces of human innocence that had long since been replaced by vampire knowledge.
"You painted this," she said. It wasn't a question.
"In New Orleans," Lestat confirmed, finally turning to look at her. "During our first years together."
Claudia studied the portrait, noting the care with which every detail had been rendered—the exact shade of her hair, the curve of her cheek, the questioning look in her eyes that had once been genuine before it became a calculated tool.
"You made me beautiful," she observed.
"I painted what I saw," Lestat replied. "You were beautiful, Claudia. You still are, in your way. Beautiful and terrible, like all perfect things."
She set the portrait down carefully, turning to face him fully. "Is that why you made me? Because you wanted something beautiful and terrible?"
Lestat's laugh was short and without humor. "I made you because Louis was threatening to leave me," he said, his honesty brutal. "I thought a child would bind him to me, give him a reason to stay. You were a tool, Claudia, a means to an end." He paused, his expression softening slightly. "At first."
"And later?" she pressed, moving closer to the pianoforte.
Lestat regarded her thoughtfully, as if truly seeing her for the first time since their reunion. "Later," he said slowly, "you became something else. Something unexpected. Neither tool nor toy, but something... real. Something I hadn't anticipated."
"What?" Claudia asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Lestat turned back to the keys, his fingers picking out a simple, melancholy melody. "A daughter," he said finally. "My daughter, in some strange way I never intended but couldn't deny."
Claudia's chest tightened with an emotion she couldn't name. "Your daughter," she repeated. "The daughter who tried to kill you."
Lestat's playing continued, the melody gaining complexity as his agile fingers danced over the keys. "Yes," he acknowledged. "The daughter who hated me enough to plan my destruction with cold precision. The daughter who fed me poisoned victims and cut my throat while I lay helpless." His eyes flicked to her briefly. "The daughter who called me 'daddy' when she thought she was about to die."
Claudia flinched as if struck. "I was desperate," she said. "I would have said anything to save myself."
"Perhaps," Lestat conceded, his playing never faltering. "Or perhaps in that moment of extremity, some truth emerged that you've spent decades trying to deny." The melody reached a crescendo, then softened again. "That despite everything, despite the hatred and resentment and rage, some part of you still sees me as your father."
Claudia was silent, unable or unwilling to confirm or deny his assessment.
Lestat's hands stilled on the keys, the final notes hanging in the air between them. "Why did you come to my door tonight, Claudia? What do you want from me?"
It was the question she had been avoiding, even in the privacy of her own thoughts. What did she want from Lestat? Forgiveness? Understanding? Some acknowledgment of the wrongs he had done her in making her what she was?
"I don't know," she admitted finally, the truth surprising her as much as it seemed to surprise him.
Lestat studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to her astonishment, he shifted on the piano bench, making room beside him.
"Sit," he said, the word somewhere between invitation and command.
After a moment's hesitation, Claudia approached and seated herself beside him on the bench, her small form a stark contrast to his tall, lean figure.
"Put your hands on the keys," he instructed, demonstrating the proper position. "Like this."
Claudia complied, her child's hands looking absurdly small against the ivory keys.
"Music," Lestat said, guiding her fingers to play a simple sequence of notes, "is one of the few genuine pleasures our kind can still enjoy. It speaks to something in us that transcends the bloodlust, the endless hunger." He demonstrated a more complex sequence, watching as she mimicked it with surprising accuracy. "You have a natural talent," he observed.
"I never tried before," Claudia said, experimenting with the keys, finding patterns that pleased her.
"No," Lestat agreed. "There were many things I never taught you, many experiences I never thought to share." His hands joined hers on the keyboard, creating harmonies to complement her tentative melody. "Perhaps that was my greatest failure as your maker. Not the transformation itself, but what came after."
They played together for a time, the music forming a bridge between them that words had failed to build. Outside, the storm continued to rage, but within Lestat's chambers, a different kind of tempest was gradually, tentatively, beginning to calm.
"I still hate you sometimes," Claudia said eventually, her hands never stopping their dance across the keys.
"I know," Lestat replied simply.
"But I don't want to kill you anymore," she added, glancing up at him from beneath her golden curls.
Lestat's lips quirked in the ghost of a smile. "That's... reassuring to hear."
"Can we... coexist?" she asked, finding it easier to speak while her hands were occupied with the music. "Not as we were before, but... something different? Something honest?"
Lestat was silent for a long moment, his own playing slowing as he considered her question. "I don't know," he admitted finally. "But perhaps we can try."
It wasn't forgiveness, not yet. It wasn't reconciliation or redemption or any of the neat resolutions that mortals might have sought. But for creatures such as they were, with eternity stretching before them and the weight of decades of pain and betrayal behind them, it was a beginning—fragile and uncertain, but real.
As the storm howled around the manor house and the night deepened toward dawn, maker and creation sat side by side at the pianoforte, their music weaving together in tentative harmony, neither fully trusting nor entirely rejecting the possibility that something new might emerge from the ashes of what they had destroyed.