Chapter 5
The night after Claudia's tentative reconciliation with Lestat, the household settled into what felt like a fragile new equilibrium. Though nothing had been explicitly discussed between Lestat and the others, there was a subtle shift in the atmosphere—a lessening of tension, a hint of possibilities not yet explored but no longer entirely dismissed.
Louis noticed it first when Lestat joined them in the library before their evening hunt, offering suggestions about the nearby villages where prey might be found without drawing undue attention. He spoke primarily to Louis, but occasionally included Madeline in the conversation, and once or twice even addressed Claudia directly, without the studied avoidance that had characterized their interactions since Paris.
Claudia herself seemed different—still reserved, still watchful, but lacking the brittle edge that had defined her manner since their arrival in Russia. When Lestat mentioned a collection of Russian folk tales that might interest her, she thanked him with a small nod that contained neither sarcasm nor challenge.
"Perhaps," Louis thought hopefully as they prepared to leave for their hunt, "a corner has finally been turned."
They separated for the hunt as usual—Lestat on his own, Louis accompanying Claudia and Madeline to a nearby village where a festival provided cover for their predations. The night was successful; the villagers, deep in their cups and distracted by celebration, hardly noticed as three elegantly dressed strangers moved among them, selecting victims and leading them away from the crowded square to more secluded locations.
By the time they returned to the manor house, the eastern sky had begun to lighten. Louis expected to find Lestat already there, perhaps in the library or the music room where he sometimes spent the pre-dawn hours. But the house was silent and empty.
"Perhaps he found more interesting prey," Madeline suggested as they settled in the drawing room to wait for his return. "You know how he enjoys the challenge of the hunt."
Louis nodded, though a vague unease had begun to stir within him. It wasn't like Lestat to cut his timing so close to dawn. For all his recklessness in other matters, he had always been meticulous about securing shelter before the first rays of sunlight could threaten him.
As the sky continued to brighten, Louis's unease grew. He paced before the window, watching the horizon, while Claudia sat motionless in an armchair, her face betraying nothing of her thoughts.
"Should we look for him?" Madeline asked finally, voicing the question that hung in the air between them.
Louis shook his head. "The sun will rise soon. We wouldn't have time to find him and return before dawn."
"Then he'll have to seek shelter elsewhere," Claudia observed, her tone carefully neutral. "He's resourceful. He'll manage."
There was nothing to do but retire to their respective rooms as daylight claimed the world outside. Louis's last thought before the death-sleep took him was a prayer—strange, for a creature damned as he believed himself to be—that Lestat had found safe harbor from the sun.
---
The following evening, Louis woke with a sense of immediate urgency. He dressed quickly and hurried downstairs, hoping to find Lestat had returned during the day while they slept. But the house remained as empty as it had been at dawn.
Claudia and Madeline joined him in the entrance hall, both clearly sharing his concern though they expressed it differently—Madeline with open worry, Claudia with a studied composure that failed to entirely mask her tension.
"We should search for him," Louis decided, moving toward the door.
"Where?" Claudia asked practically. "He could be anywhere within a night's ride, and we have no idea which direction he went."
"The village," Louis suggested. "Someone might have seen him. Or perhaps Moscow—he's mentioned associates there."
"It's a vast city," Madeline pointed out. "And he's never told us precisely who these 'associates' are or where they might be found."
They stood undecided, the enormity of their task becoming clear. Lestat had always been the one to find them, not the other way around. Despite decades of proximity, he remained in many ways a mystery—his connections, his haunts, his habits when away from them all carefully guarded aspects of his existence.
"He doesn't want to be found," Claudia said finally, voicing what they all suspected. "If he did, he would have left some indication of his destination."
Louis refused to accept this. "We have to try," he insisted. "He might be injured, or trapped, or—"
He couldn't bring himself to voice the worst possibility: that the Théâtre had somehow traced them to Russia and taken their revenge on Lestat when he was alone and vulnerable.
In the end, they compromised. Louis would ride to Moscow to seek information about Lestat's possible whereabouts, while Claudia and Madeline would remain at the manor in case he returned on his own. They would reconvene at midnight to share whatever they had learned.
The night passed in fruitless searching. Louis returned from Moscow without any useful information; his inquiries among the city's night denizens had yielded nothing but vague rumors of a tall, handsome foreigner who might have been seen at the opera two nights earlier. Claudia and Madeline had no better news to report. The manor remained silent, Lestat's absence a palpable void at its center.
For three more nights, the pattern continued. Louis expanded his search to other nearby towns and villages, while Claudia and Madeline maintained their vigil at the manor. With each passing night, their concern deepened, though none of them voiced the growing fear that Lestat might not return at all.
---
On the fifth night since Lestat's disappearance, Louis returned from another unsuccessful search to find the manor house illuminated. Lamps burned in windows that had been dark when he left, and as he approached the entrance, he heard sounds of movement within.
He burst through the door, hope and fear warring within him. "Lestat?" he called, his voice echoing in the vaulted entrance hall.
There was a moment of silence, then footsteps on the stairs. Lestat descended into view, dressed in a new suit of clothes Louis hadn't seen before, his hair freshly trimmed, his manner relaxed and unconcerned.
"Louis," he acknowledged, as if his five-night absence were nothing unusual. "You're back early from the hunt."
Louis stared at him, momentarily speechless with relief and frustration. "Where have you been?" he asked finally, his voice tight with suppressed emotion.
Lestat raised an eyebrow. "Out," he replied simply. "Taking care of some business that needed attention."
"For five nights?" Louis demanded. "Without a word to any of us?"
Lestat looked genuinely surprised. "Has it been that long? I lost track of time. Moscow is quite diverting when one knows where to look for entertainment."
Before Louis could respond, Claudia and Madeline appeared from the library, drawn by the sound of voices. Claudia stopped short when she saw Lestat, her expression flickering briefly between relief and something harder to identify before settling into its usual composed mask.
"You've returned," she said, her voice carefully modulated.
Lestat inclined his head slightly. "As you see."
Madeline, less guarded in her reactions, stepped forward. "We were concerned when you didn't come back before dawn. We thought perhaps something had happened to you."
Lestat's expression softened slightly. "Your concern is touching but unnecessary. I merely had some business that took longer than anticipated."
"What business?" Louis asked, unable to keep a note of accusation from his voice.
Lestat's eyes hardened. "My business, Louis. Nothing that concerns the rest of you."
Louis felt a familiar frustration rising within him—the same frustration he had experienced countless times during their years together in New Orleans. Lestat's secretiveness, his refusal to share even basic information about his activities, had been a constant source of tension between them.
"It concerns us when you disappear without warning for nearly a week," Louis insisted. "We thought you might be dead, or captured by the Théâtre, or—"
"The Théâtre is the least of my concerns at present," Lestat interrupted, moving past them toward the drawing room. "I've taken care of that particular problem."
The three of them exchanged glances before following him. Inside the drawing room, Lestat had already poured himself a glass of wine—another of the human affectations he maintained despite its uselessness to their kind.
"What do you mean, you've 'taken care of' the Théâtre?" Claudia asked, her interest clearly piqued despite her attempt at indifference.
Lestat sipped his wine before answering. "I've come to an arrangement with certain... interested parties in Paris. The Théâtre will no longer trouble us, nor will any other covens who might have been influenced by their vendetta."
"An arrangement," Louis repeated skeptically. "What sort of arrangement could possibly neutralize the threat of the most powerful vampire coven in Europe?"
Lestat's smile was cold. "The sort that involves revealing certain inconvenient truths about the Théâtre's own violations of vampire law over the centuries. It seems Armand and his followers have not been as scrupulous in their adherence to their precious rules as they would have others believe."
"And these 'interested parties' in Paris," Louis pressed. "Who are they?"
"Older vampires," Lestat replied. "Much older than Armand, older even than those who created him. Creatures who normally take little interest in the politics of younger covens, but who can be persuaded to intervene when it suits their purposes."
Claudia leaned forward, her eyes bright with curiosity. "I didn't realize such ancient ones still existed. You never mentioned them before."
"There are many things I never mentioned, Claudia," Lestat said, echoing what he had told her during their conversation at the pianoforte. "Many aspects of our world I chose not to share with either of you."
"For our protection?" Louis asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.
Lestat shrugged. "Sometimes. More often for my own convenience. Knowledge is power, Louis. I've never been in the habit of giving away power needlessly."
There was a moment of tense silence as they absorbed this admission. It was typical of Lestat—honest yet somehow still evasive, revealing a truth while simultaneously using it to deflect further questioning.
"So we're safe now?" Madeline asked finally, bringing the conversation back to more immediate concerns. "The Théâtre won't come after us again?"
"Not if they wish to continue existing," Lestat confirmed. "My... associates... have made the consequences of further pursuit quite clear to them."
Louis studied Lestat, noting subtle changes in his demeanor since his return. There was a new tension in his bearing, a heightened alertness beneath his casual manner. Whatever "business" had occupied him these past five nights, Louis suspected it had been more significant—and more dangerous—than he was admitting.
"You could have told us where you were going," Louis said finally. "We were worried."
Lestat's expression softened fractionally. "Yes," he acknowledged. "I could have. That was... thoughtless of me." It wasn't quite an apology, but from Lestat, it was a rare concession.
The tension in the room eased slightly. Claudia, who had been watching Lestat with careful attention, turned to Madeline. "It's still early," she said. "Perhaps we should hunt. I find I'm rather hungry tonight."
Madeline glanced between Claudia and the two male vampires, clearly understanding that Claudia was creating an opportunity for Louis and Lestat to speak privately. "Yes," she agreed. "The next village is having some kind of festival, I believe. It should provide ample opportunities."
Lestat nodded his approval. "Take the carriage," he suggested. "The roads are treacherous with ice this time of year."
After Claudia and Madeline had departed, Louis and Lestat were left alone in the drawing room, the silence between them heavy with unspoken thoughts.
"You didn't tell them everything," Louis observed finally.
Lestat's lips curved in a small, appreciative smile. "No," he agreed. "I didn't."
"Will you tell me?"
Lestat considered him for a moment, then set down his wine glass. "Walk with me," he said, rising from his chair. "The night is clear, and I find I need air after being cooped up in carriages for so long."
They donned their coats and stepped out into the bitter Russian night. The sky above was a vault of crystal clarity, stars blazing with a cold fire that seemed to reflect the snow-covered landscape below. Their breath would have fogged the air had they been human; as vampires, they moved through the frigid night without discomfort, their preternatural bodies impervious to the cold.
They walked in silence for a time, following a path that wound through the estate's formal gardens, now transformed by winter into geometric arrangements of snow and ice. Louis waited, knowing from long experience that Lestat would speak when ready, not before.
"The Théâtre sent another hunting party after us," Lestat said finally, his voice matter-of-fact. "A larger one this time, led by Armand himself. They tracked us as far as the Polish border before losing our trail."
Louis felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter night. "How did you know?"
"I've maintained... connections... throughout Europe since long before I met you," Lestat replied. "Eyes and ears in places Armand would never suspect. When they crossed into Prussia, I was informed."
"So your disappearance wasn't just to make arrangements in Paris," Louis surmised. "You went to confront them."
Lestat's laugh was soft and without humor. "Not to confront. To finish." He stopped walking, turning to face Louis directly. "I told you before that the Théâtre would no longer trouble us. What I didn't specify was that the Théâtre no longer exists at all."
Louis stared at him, comprehension dawning slowly. "You destroyed them," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "All of them."
"Not alone," Lestat clarified. "As I said, I have associates—older vampires who have their own reasons for wanting Armand and his coven removed from the board. I merely... facilitated their intervention."
"And Armand?"
Lestat's eyes gleamed in the darkness. "Meeting the dawn as we speak, I imagine. Somewhat against his will."
Louis absorbed this information slowly, trying to reconcile the Lestat beside him—cool, calculating, ruthlessly efficient—with the impulsive, theatrical creature he had known for so long. "You've changed," he observed.
"No," Lestat corrected him. "I've revealed more of myself. There's a difference." He resumed walking, Louis falling into step beside him. "I've always been what I am, Louis. I've simply allowed you to see only those aspects that served my purposes."
"And what purpose does it serve to show me this side of you now?"
Lestat was silent for several paces. "Perhaps I'm tired of wearing masks," he said finally. "Perhaps nearly dying at the hands of my own creation made me reconsider the value of deception, even well-intentioned deception."
They had reached a small pavilion at the far end of the garden, a decorative structure of stone and iron that offered shelter from the elements. Lestat brushed snow from a bench inside and gestured for Louis to join him.
"Or perhaps," Lestat continued as they sat, "I simply want you to understand what I am before you make decisions about our future together."
Louis felt something stir within him at these words—hope, perhaps, or simply desire. Throughout their long and complicated relationship, Lestat had always held himself apart, maintaining an emotional distance even in their most intimate moments. Now, for the first time, he seemed to be offering something more.
"What decisions?" Louis asked, his voice soft in the quiet of the night.
Lestat turned to face him, his expression serious in a way Louis rarely saw. "I told Claudia that we might try to build something new, something honest, from the ruins of what we were," he said. "The same applies to you and me, Louis. But honesty requires that you see me clearly, without the comfortable illusions you've constructed over the decades."
Louis reached out, his hand finding Lestat's in the darkness. "I've never seen you as clearly as I wanted to," he admitted. "You've always kept parts of yourself hidden."
"Yes," Lestat agreed, his fingers cool and still beneath Louis's. "And you've filled those empty spaces with your own projections—sometimes making me more monstrous than I am, sometimes more noble. Neither is the truth."
"And what is the truth, Lestat?" Louis asked, moving closer on the bench, drawn by the rare openness in Lestat's manner.
"That I am neither the villain of your imaginings nor the hero of your occasional fantasies," Lestat replied. "That I have lived for centuries doing what was necessary to survive, to thrive in a world that would destroy me if it knew what I was. That I have been both cruel and kind, selfish and generous, calculating and impulsive." His eyes met Louis's directly. "That I have loved you, in my way, even when that love expressed itself in forms you couldn't recognize or accept."
Louis felt something break open within him at these words—a barrier he hadn't known existed until it was gone. He leaned forward, closing the distance between them, his lips meeting Lestat's in a kiss that held decades of longing, resentment, desire, and need.
For a moment, Lestat responded, his hand rising to cup Louis's face with unexpected tenderness. Then, gently but firmly, he pulled away.
"Lestat?" Louis questioned, confusion and hurt evident in his voice.
Lestat stood, moving a few paces away, his back to Louis as he stared out at the snow-covered garden. "I can't, Louis," he said, his voice low. "Not now. Perhaps not ever again."
Louis rose as well, closing the distance between them. "Why? You just said you loved me."
"I said I loved you in my way," Lestat corrected, turning to face him. "But love between us has always been more destructive than nurturing, hasn't it? We tear at each other, Louis. We wound and are wounded in return."
"It doesn't have to be that way," Louis insisted. "We can learn, change—"
"Can we?" Lestat's smile was sad. "After all these years, all the pain we've inflicted on each other, do you really believe we can change the fundamental nature of what exists between us?"
"I love you," Louis said simply, offering the words like a talisman against Lestat's doubt.
Lestat shook his head, his expression a mixture of affection and regret. "No, Louis. You're in love with a ghost—the Lestat who made you, who introduced you to darkness and beauty and terror all at once. You don't love me; you love what I represent to you. It's a kind of Stockholm syndrome, this attachment you feel."
Louis recoiled as if struck. "That's not true," he protested. "What I feel for you is real."
"Perhaps," Lestat conceded. "But it isn't healthy, for either of us. And I'm tired, Louis. Tired of the cycle we've been trapped in for decades—passion and betrayal, desire and disappointment, love turning to hatred and back again." He sighed, the sound unexpectedly human in the silent winter night. "I didn't save you from the Théâtre to reclaim you as my possession. I saved you because, despite everything, I couldn't bear to see you destroyed."
"I never said I was your possession," Louis objected.
"Didn't you?" Lestat asked gently. "Every time you railed against the 'dark gift' I gave you without your consent. Every time you blamed me for what you had become. Every time you cast me as your creator and therefore responsible for your choices." He shook his head. "That's not love, Louis. That's dependency masquerading as passion."
Louis had no immediate response to this assessment, uncomfortably aware of the truth it contained. Had he been using Lestat as a convenient target for his self-loathing all these years? Had what he called love been merely the twisted bond between captor and captive?
"What happens now, then?" he asked finally.
Lestat's expression softened. "Now? Now we learn to exist together without the toxic patterns of the past. Now you accept that I'm neither your salvation nor your damnation, but simply another creature navigating eternity as best he can." He gestured toward the manor house, visible in the distance through the bare trees. "I've secured this place for us. I've neutralized the threat from the Théâtre. I've fulfilled what obligations I have as your maker. Beyond that..." He spread his hands in a gesture of release. "You're free, Louis. All of you. Free to stay or go, free to hate me or not, free to build whatever existence you choose."
"And if I choose to stay?" Louis asked, his voice barely audible.
"Then stay," Lestat replied simply. "But stay as an equal, not as a creation seeking approval or absolution from his maker. Stay because this is where you wish to be, not because you have nowhere else to go."
With that, he turned and began walking back toward the house, his tall figure soon swallowed by the darkness of the winter night. Louis remained in the pavilion for a long time, watching the stars wheel overhead, contemplating the unexpected gift Lestat had offered him—not reconciliation or renewed passion, but something perhaps more valuable and certainly more rare: freedom, not from their bond, but from the destructive patterns that had defined it for so long.
When he finally returned to the manor house, the night was well advanced. Claudia and Madeline had returned from their hunt, and Lestat had retired to his chambers. Louis paused outside his door, hand raised as if to knock, then lowered it again. Some conversations, he realized, were better left for another night, when the wounds of honesty were less raw, and the path forward clearer.
For now, it was enough to know that they had survived—not just the Théâtre's vengeance, but their own capacity for mutual destruction. Whether what emerged from this survival would be stronger or merely different remained to be seen, but for the first time in decades, Louis felt something like hope for their strange, immortal family.
He retired to his own rooms as dawn approached, carrying with him Lestat's words: "You're free." Not a rejection, he realized now, but the greatest gift one immortal could offer another—the acknowledgment of autonomy, of worth independent of the blood bond between them. Whether he chose to build on that gift or squander it was, at last, entirely his decision to make.