Chapter 2
The soft chime of the bell above the door signaled Louis’ arrival at the diner. The quiet space had always felt like a reprieve in the mornings, a chance to steady himself before the chaos of the day unfolded. Hattie, the ever-cheerful waitress, greeted him with a familiar smile and a fresh cup of coffee before he’d even reached his booth.
“Morning, Louis,” she said warmly, setting the steaming cup on the table. “Your usual?”
Louis nodded, slipping his satchel from his shoulder and placing it carefully on the seat beside him. “Thank you, Hattie.”
She lingered for a moment, glancing at the book he pulled from his bag. Her brows lifted. “That the one everyone’s talking about?”
Louis glanced at the cover: The Weight of Silence by Blaise Revenant. “It is,” he said quietly.
Hattie chuckled, wiping her hands on her apron. “Heard it’s real heavy. You sure that’s what you want first thing in the morning?”
“It’s not so bad,” Louis replied with a faint smile. “At least it makes you think.”
Hattie nodded, retreating to the counter as Louis settled in. He flipped the book open to where he’d left off, the faint aroma of coffee mingling with the scent of the printed pages.
Unbeknownst to him, Lestat watched from across the street. He had arrived before Louis, his curiosity pulling him back to the diner after their shared moment at the bookstore. He had expected to see the man with his notebook, scribbling away as he always did, but when Louis pulled out his book, Lestat froze.
His heart, long dulled to the rhythms of life, skipped. A rush of exhilaration surged through him, unexpected and electric. Louis was reading his words.
Lestat leaned against a nearby lamppost, careful to remain out of sight, his sharp eyes trained on Louis. He watched as Louis’ gaze moved over the pages, his expression calm but thoughtful, occasionally shifting with subtle changes—a slight furrow of the brow, a faint twitch of the lips.
And then there were the thoughts.
Lestat focused, letting the faint hum of Louis’ mind drift toward him. The words were quiet, measured, but rich with meaning.
“It’s beautiful. The way he describes loneliness, as if it’s a shadow that grows heavier the longer it stays. He understands that part.”
Lestat’s smile widened.
But then, a flicker of doubt passed through Louis’ thoughts. “But he doesn’t know what it’s like to carry that weight in silence. He writes as if he’s screamed into the void and been heard. That’s not my experience. I’ve learned to stay quiet because no one is listening.”
Lestat’s smile faltered. He leaned closer, his focus narrowing on Louis’ furrowed brow as the man flipped another page, his thoughts a steady rhythm now.
“Does he really know this pain? Or is he imagining it? Could someone have lived through something so dark and survived it?”
The question struck Lestat like a chord, vibrating deep within him. He wanted to step closer, to slip into the booth across from Louis and say, Yes, I know it. I’ve lived it. But he didn’t. Instead, he remained in the shadows, watching, listening.
Louis took a slow sip of his coffee, his mind still turning over the words.
“It’s strange. The way the book makes me feel… connected to him, whoever he is. As if he’s written for me, but also missed something vital. My experience doesn’t align completely, but the parallels are there. Who is this man, Blaise Revenant, to know such truths? To speak so directly to the heart of something so universal?”
Lestat’s chest tightened. Louis wasn’t just reading the book; he was engaging with it, questioning it, challenging it. Lestat’s excitement deepened. He had written to be understood, to capture the weight of existence, but seeing it resonate with Louis specifically felt like more than he could have hoped for.
As Louis turned another page, his brow furrowed again. His thoughts took on a sharper edge.
“But there’s a distance here. Something he’s hiding. As if he’s telling the story but keeping himself apart from it. It’s brilliant, but frustrating. What is he holding back? What’s the truth behind these words?”
Lestat exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing as he studied Louis’ face. His mind was an intricate web of thought, curiosity interwoven with skepticism. Louis wasn’t content to simply accept the words; he wanted to understand the man behind them.
And for the first time in centuries, Lestat felt the pull of connection—not to an audience, but to one person.
The waitress returned with Louis’ breakfast, her cheerful chatter breaking the silence of his thoughts. Lestat stepped back slightly, giving Louis his privacy for a moment, though his gaze never wavered.
Louis ate slowly, his attention drifting between his food and the book. He paused occasionally, his eyes distant as though considering something deeply personal. Lestat leaned against the lamppost, his mind racing.
He wanted to know what Louis thought of every page, every sentence. He wanted to hear his voice speak the words aloud, to see the moment when his mind caught on the truths buried in the text. But more than that, he wanted to answer Louis’ questions.
Soon, mon cher, Lestat thought, a faint smile returning to his lips. Soon, you will know exactly who I am.
The restaurant exuded quiet sophistication, with warm ambient lighting casting golden hues across the room. The clinking of silverware and the soft murmur of conversation provided a soothing backdrop to the evening. Louis sat at the edge of the booth, his posture slightly relaxed for once, his hands resting on the smooth wood of the table. Across from him, Claudia was already two glasses into her champagne, her cheeks flushed and her energy infectious.
“This,” Claudia announced, gesturing broadly with her glass, “is exactly what you needed, Louis. Good food, good company—” She paused dramatically. “And me.”
Louis arched an eyebrow, his lips curving into a faint smile. “A perfect evening, then.”
“Exactly,” Claudia said, her grin widening. She nudged Madeleine, who sat beside her with an amused smile. “Tell him, Maddie. He’s too serious.”
Madeleine chuckled softly, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Claudia thinks everyone is too serious. But she’s not wrong. It’s nice to see you out of the store, Louis.”
“And the firm,” Daniel chimed in from beside Louis, swirling his wine. “Not that I don’t admire your work ethic, but I’m pretty sure if you ever stopped working for a whole day, the universe would collapse.”
“It’s a delicate balance,” Louis replied evenly, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“See? You’re already loosening up,” Daniel said, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin. “Next thing we know, you’ll be cracking jokes.”
“He already did,” Claudia said, wagging her finger at Louis. “Chronologically? That was gold. You’re hiding a comedian under all that brooding.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Louis replied, though there was a warmth to his tone that hadn’t been there earlier.
The meal arrived, and the conversation ebbed and flowed naturally, the food and wine putting everyone in good spirits. For a while, Louis allowed himself to be present, the laughter and teasing a welcome distraction from the heaviness that usually weighed on him.
By the time dessert was served, Claudia’s laughter had grown louder, her movements more exaggerated as she leaned heavily against Madeleine. She waved for the server and ordered a round of shots, ignoring Louis’ disapproving glance.
“Relax, Louis!” Claudia said, nudging him with her elbow. “You’re out, you’re among friends—live a little!”
“Maybe we should slow down,” Louis said gently, his gaze flicking to Madeleine, who looked equally concerned.
“I’m fine,” Claudia said, rolling her eyes as the server placed the shots on the table. She lifted one triumphantly. “To Louis! For gracing us with his presence tonight.”
“Claudia,” Louis began, but Madeleine shook her head subtly, mouthing, Let her have this.
Louis sighed, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite himself. He lifted his own shot reluctantly, clinking glasses with the others before downing it.
The warmth of the alcohol settled in his chest, though it did little to ease his growing worry. Claudia’s laughter rang out again, loud enough to draw a glance from the neighboring table.
“She’s going to regret this tomorrow,” Louis murmured to Madeleine, his tone quiet but amused.
“She always does,” Madeleine replied with a small smile. “Let’s just make sure she gets home in one piece.”
Louis nodded, already pulling out his phone to call an Uber. Daniel excused himself a few moments later, citing an early meeting. “Good luck,” he said with a grin, clapping Louis on the shoulder.
By the time the Uber arrived, Claudia was leaning heavily against Madeleine, her eyes half-lidded as she murmured incoherently about the “best night ever.” Louis helped her into the car, making sure she was secure before stepping back to let Madeleine climb in beside her.
“Thank you,” Madeleine said softly, giving him a grateful smile.
Louis nodded, watching as the car pulled away into the night. He let out a slow breath, adjusting the collar of his coat as he prepared to walk the few blocks back to the bookstore.
“Louis.”
The voice stopped him in his tracks.
He turned slowly, his stomach sinking as Armand strolled toward him, his polished shoes clicking softly against the pavement. His suit was immaculate, a sharp contrast to the relaxed atmosphere of the night.
“Armand,” Louis said, his voice measured.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Armand said smoothly, his smile as sharp as a blade. His gaze swept over Louis, lingering just long enough to unsettle him. “Dining with friends, I see.”
Louis inclined his head. “It was a pleasant evening.”
“It must have been,” Armand said, stepping closer. “Though I can’t help but think it could have been better. If you’d been with the right company, of course.”
Louis forced a polite smile. “It’s late, Armand. I should be going.”
“Always so quick to leave,” Armand said, shaking his head with feigned disappointment. “You’re far too disciplined, Louis. You should let yourself indulge now and then.”
“I have plenty to keep me busy,” Louis replied carefully.
“Ah, but that’s not the same thing, is it?” Armand’s smile widened. “Come. One drink. Just around the corner. You’ve already had your serious evening—indulge me for a moment.”
Louis hesitated, glancing down the street. He felt the weight of Armand’s gaze, the subtle pressure that made refusal feel impossible. He sighed softly, his shoulders tensing. “Just one,” he said finally, his voice quiet.
Armand’s smile deepened. “That’s all I ask.”
As they began walking, Armand moved closer, his arm brushing lightly against Louis’. His presence felt overwhelming, suffocating, and Louis’ thoughts churned uneasily.
“This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have agreed.”
From a shadowed alley across the street, Lestat watched, his sharp eyes fixed on the pair. He could hear the subtle tension in Louis’ thoughts, the discomfort that radiated from him like a low hum.
“He’s too close. Why does he always have to push?”
And then there were Armand’s thoughts—darker, less guarded.
“He’s so controlled. It’s intoxicating. How long can he keep it up before he cracks?”
Lestat’s hands tightened at his sides, his jaw clenching as he followed silently, his presence masked by the night. He had planned to wait, to let the pieces fall into place naturally, but seeing Louis trapped in this moment, so clearly uncomfortable, stirred something deep and possessive within him.
The bar was intimate and moody, lit with a golden glow that reflected off its polished wooden surfaces. Louis stepped inside reluctantly, the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses doing little to soothe his growing unease.
Armand led the way with practiced confidence, his posture exuding authority. People turned to glance at him as he passed, some offering polite smiles, others simply drawn to the magnetism he carried like a mantle. Louis followed, his shoulders tense, his thoughts already spinning as they reached a table tucked into the corner.
“Here we are,” Armand said smoothly, gesturing for Louis to sit.
Louis hesitated for a moment before slipping off his coat and taking a seat. He barely had time to settle before Armand waved over a server, his sharp gaze scanning the drink menu like a battlefield map.
“Two Sazeracs,” Armand ordered without consulting Louis, his tone brisk and commanding.
Louis exhaled softly, his eyes drifting to the window. “Just one drink. I’ll finish it quickly, find an excuse, and leave.”
Across the room, Lestat entered silently, his sharp eyes catching sight of Louis almost immediately. He had been following at a distance, his curiosity ignited the moment Armand had approached Louis outside the restaurant. Now, standing near the bar, he watched as Armand leaned in too close, his voice too smooth, his movements too familiar.
Lestat’s jaw tightened, his centuries-honed instincts picking up on the tension radiating from Louis. His thoughts brushed against Louis’ mind, faint at first, then sharper as he focused.
“He’s so close. Too close. I need to get out of here.”
The server returned with their drinks, setting them down with a quiet efficiency. Armand lifted his glass, swirling the amber liquid with a slow, deliberate motion before taking a sip.
“Do you know why I like this drink?” Armand asked, his voice low and intimate.
Louis shook his head, his hand tightening around the base of his glass.
“It’s strong, but refined. It commands respect, much like the people who drink it.” He smiled, his fingers brushing lightly against Louis’ arm. “And you, Louis, command respect. Whether you realize it or not.”
Louis stiffened, his gaze fixed on the table. “This is a mistake. I shouldn’t have agreed to this.”
Armand’s hand lingered briefly on Louis’ arm before he pulled back, taking another slow sip of his drink. “You give so much of yourself—to your work, your family. But who takes care of you, Louis?”
Louis’ throat tightened. He raised the glass to his lips, taking a long sip, the burn of the alcohol doing little to calm the storm in his chest.
From his spot near the bar, Lestat’s eyes narrowed. He could hear Armand’s thoughts now, darker and more possessive.
“He’s unraveling. Just a little more. I can make him mine.”
The words made Lestat’s blood hum with anger. He turned, grabbing his drink from the counter and walking toward their table with a purpose that felt almost instinctual.
As he passed, he stumbled—just slightly—and the contents of his glass spilled across the edge of the table, splattering onto Louis’ lap.
“Oh! My apologies!” Lestat exclaimed, his voice rich with sincerity as he grabbed a napkin from the table. He crouched beside Louis, blotting at the liquid with quick, precise movements. “I wasn’t watching where I was going. How clumsy of me.”
Louis blinked, startled. “It’s… fine,” he murmured, though his hands hovered awkwardly in his lap.
“Please, allow me,” Lestat said, his tone earnest. He dabbed carefully at the damp fabric before glancing up. Their eyes met, and Lestat froze for a moment, his expression shifting into one of recognition.
“Wait,” he said, straightening slightly. “Louis? Louis de Pointe du Lac?”
Louis frowned faintly. “Do I… know you?”
“It’s me—Lestat,” he said with a broad smile, stepping back slightly to give Louis space. “Lestat de Lioncourt. From Tulane.”
Louis’ confusion deepened. “Tulane?”
“Yes!” Lestat laughed, shaking his head as if marveling at the coincidence. “It’s been years. You haven’t changed a bit. Still sharp, still the most composed man in the room.”
Armand’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening around his glass. “You two know each other?”
“Oh, we go way back,” Lestat said smoothly, extending a hand toward Armand. “Lestat de Lioncourt. A… former classmate of Louis’. And you are?”
“Armand Marchand,” Armand replied, his tone clipped as he shook Lestat’s hand.
“A pleasure,” Lestat said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He turned back to Louis. “I can’t believe this. I was just passing through town, and now here you are. It’s fate, isn’t it?”
Louis blinked, still caught off guard, but something in Lestat’s expression—warm, earnest, familiar—made him play along. “It’s… been a long time,” he said cautiously.
“Far too long,” Lestat agreed. His gaze flicked briefly to Armand before returning to Louis. “We should catch up. I’d hate to lose the chance while I’m here.”
Armand’s jaw clenched. “Louis and I were in the middle of something.”
“Oh, of course,” Lestat said with an apologetic laugh. “But surely you won’t mind if I borrow him for a bit? We’re practically family, after all. Just one drink—purely nostalgic.”
Louis hesitated, his thoughts racing. “This is my way out. Take it. Take it now.”
“Another time, Armand,” Louis said quietly, standing and grabbing his coat.
Armand’s eyes darkened, but he forced a tight smile. “Of course. Another time.”
Lestat’s smile widened as he gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”
As they walked out into the cool night air, Lestat stayed close but careful, his presence steadying but unobtrusive. He could feel the relief pouring off Louis in waves, mingled with confusion and faint curiosity.
“Who is this man? And why do I feel like I owe him more than gratitude?”
From behind them, Armand lingered in the doorway, his gaze sharp and unyielding as he watched them disappear into the night.
As they walked, the soft glow of streetlamps cast long shadows on the pavement. Louis found himself glancing at Lestat more often than he intended, his curiosity growing with each step. The man was too composed, too smooth, and yet… there was something disarmingly genuine about him.
The silence stretched just long enough for Louis’ thoughts to spiral. Finally, he cleared his throat, his voice breaking through the night’s quiet. “How did you know my name?”
Lestat turned to him, his expression a mix of amusement and feigned surprise. “Your name?”
“Yes,” Louis said, his tone careful but firm. “You called me by my full name—Louis de Pointe du Lac. And Tulane. How did you know that?”
Lestat’s lips curled into a slight smile, his pace slowing as if he wanted to savor the moment. “Ah, that,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re not as much of a mystery as you think, mon cher.”
Louis’ brow furrowed, his suspicion clear.
“I heard the man at the bar say it,” Lestat said easily, gesturing back toward the bar they had left behind. “Armand, wasn’t it? He’s not exactly discreet when he speaks. He said your name quite clearly. As for Tulane…” Lestat’s gaze dropped briefly to Louis’ side, his smile widening. “Your phone case, of course.”
Louis blinked, momentarily thrown. He glanced down at his phone in his coat pocket and realized Lestat was right—his phone case bore the green-and-blue mascot of Tulane University.
“You really should be more careful about what you reveal,” Lestat added with a playful tilt of his head. “It’s all there for the observant to see.”
Louis nodded slowly, his tension easing, though a faint flicker of doubt remained. “I see,” he said softly, though his gaze lingered on Lestat.
Lestat leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a more conspiratorial tone. “Does that satisfy your curiosity, or do you still think I’m a mind reader?”
Louis gave him a flat look, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “Mind reader? No. But you are quick on your feet.”
Lestat chuckled, the sound rich and warm. “That, mon cher, is a compliment I’ll happily accept.”
For a moment, silence fell between them again, but this time it was lighter, less burdened. Louis let his gaze drift back to the street ahead, his thoughts quieter now but no less curious.
“That was a good answer. Too good.”
Lestat’s smile deepened, his hands slipping casually into his coat pockets as he walked. He didn’t comment on the thought, though he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride.
“You seem relieved,” Lestat said suddenly, breaking the silence.
Louis glanced at him. “Relieved?”
“From earlier,” Lestat said, his tone light. “Your… friend. He seemed rather persistent.”
Louis hesitated, his fingers brushing the edge of his coat pocket. “He’s my employer,” he said finally. “Persistent isn’t the word I’d use.”
Lestat arched an eyebrow. “No? Then what would you call it?”
Louis shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “It doesn’t matter. Thank you for stepping in.”
“Ah, but it does matter,” Lestat replied, his tone softening slightly. “No one should feel trapped in the company of another, no matter their rank or authority.”
Louis stopped walking, his gaze turning to Lestat with a flicker of something unreadable. “Why do you care?”
Lestat paused, his expression thoughtful as he met Louis’ gaze. “Because I’ve been there,” he said simply.
The honesty in his tone caught Louis off guard. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he nodded faintly and began walking again, his pace slower now.
Lestat fell into step beside him, his smile softer but no less present. “You shouldn’t worry so much, Louis. Life is too short to waste on people who don’t deserve your time.”
Louis huffed softly, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is,” Lestat replied, his tone lightening again. “Or at least, it should be.”
They walked on in companionable silence, the city’s quiet streets stretching ahead. For the first time in a long time, Louis felt a faint sense of ease—an inexplicable but welcome reprieve from the weight that so often pressed on his shoulders.
As they approached the front of Lestat’s house, Louis hesitated. From the outside, it looked unassuming—a typical New Orleans townhouse nestled between similarly modest homes. The shutters were a muted gray, the paint just slightly weathered, and a small garden of creeping vines framed the wrought-iron gate. It was elegant, but far from ostentatious.
“This is your house?” Louis asked, glancing at Lestat with a faint note of surprise.
Lestat smiled, his hand resting lightly on the gate as he pushed it open. “You sound doubtful, mon cher. Did you expect a castle?”
Louis blinked, his brow furrowing slightly. “No, I just… It’s quieter than I thought it would be.”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” Lestat replied, his voice carrying a faint lilt of amusement. “Come. I think you’ll find the inside more interesting.”
He led Louis up the stone steps to the front door, producing a sleek brass key that clicked softly in the lock. The door opened with a faint creak, revealing a dimly lit hallway. Lestat gestured for Louis to enter first, his smile warm but unreadable.
Louis stepped inside, and the moment his eyes adjusted to the light, he froze.
The interior was breathtaking. The hallway opened into a spacious parlor, its high ceilings adorned with intricate plasterwork and gilded moldings. The walls were lined with paintings—portraits, landscapes, abstract pieces—all framed in gold and silver, their styles spanning centuries. The furniture was an eclectic mix of periods and designs: a sleek Art Deco sofa paired with a Louis XV armchair, a mid-century coffee table set beneath a crystal chandelier.
Everywhere Louis looked, there was something extraordinary—a sculpture on a pedestal, a vase that seemed older than the city itself, a tapestry draped across the far wall.
“This…” Louis began, his voice trailing off as he turned in a slow circle. “This is incredible.”
Lestat stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. He watched Louis with a faint smile, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “You like it?”
“Like it?” Louis shook his head, his gaze darting from one piece to another. “I don’t even know where to start. This… this isn’t just a home. It’s a museum.”
Lestat laughed softly, his hands slipping into his pockets as he leaned against the wall. “A museum? Perhaps. But museums are open to the public. This is just for me.”
Louis’ brow furrowed as he stepped closer to a painting—a hauntingly vivid portrait of a woman in 18th-century attire, her eyes sharp and defiant. “Where did you find all of this? These aren’t things you just… buy at an auction.”
Lestat hesitated for the briefest moment before answering. “Here and there,” he said lightly, waving a hand as if dismissing the question. “I’ve traveled a great deal over the years. You’d be surprised what one can collect with enough time and… passion.”
Louis turned to him, his curiosity evident. “And you have a passion for art?”
“A passion for beauty,” Lestat corrected, his voice softer now. “For the things that remind us what it means to feel alive.”
Louis’ gaze lingered on him for a moment before shifting back to the room. He stepped toward a marble bust resting on a pedestal, his fingers itching to touch it but stopping just short. “This is incredible,” he murmured again, his voice tinged with awe. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Few have,” Lestat said, his tone laced with amusement. He walked over to a nearby cabinet, pulling it open to reveal a row of crystal glasses. “But you… You see it, don’t you? The way it speaks.”
Louis frowned faintly, his fingers brushing the edge of the pedestal. “It does. There’s something… alive about it. As if it carries the weight of the time it’s seen.”
Lestat’s smile deepened as he poured two glasses of a deep red wine, his movements fluid and precise. “You have an eye for these things, Louis. Most people don’t.”
Louis turned to face him, his expression earnest. “I’ve never had the chance to see something like this. Where did you find the time to… gather all of this?”
“Time is something I’ve always had in abundance,” Lestat replied smoothly, handing Louis a glass. “But the where…” He paused, his eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief. “Let’s just say I’ve always been drawn to the places where history is being made.”
Louis studied him for a moment, his thoughts flickering with questions he didn’t dare ask. He took a sip of the wine, the rich flavor settling on his tongue as his gaze drifted back to the room.
“And this?” he asked, gesturing to a large tapestry depicting a medieval battle, the threads shimmering faintly in the low light.
“France,” Lestat said with a faint smile. “The Loire Valley, to be precise. A small chateau that no longer stands. I saved it before the rest was lost to time.”
Louis arched an eyebrow. “You saved it?”
“I have a knack for recognizing things worth preserving,” Lestat said lightly, taking a sip of his wine.
Louis shook his head, his expression a mix of awe and disbelief. “I don’t understand how someone like you… how you managed all of this. It’s like you’ve lived ten lives.”
Lestat smiled, his gaze steady as he met Louis’ eyes. “Perhaps I have.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, charged with a weight that Louis couldn’t quite place. He opened his mouth to respond, but something in Lestat’s expression stopped him. There was a knowing in his eyes, a depth that felt almost too vast to comprehend.
Instead, Louis turned away, his gaze drifting back to the room. “I don’t think I could ever leave a place like this. It’s…” He searched for the right word. “It’s timeless.”
Lestat’s smile softened, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face. “That’s the idea, mon cher.”
As Lestat disappeared into another room to retrieve the pants, Louis remained where he stood, his fingers grazing the rim of his wine glass. He let his gaze wander, his eyes tracing the ornate details that surrounded him. Every corner of this home was alive with history—paintings that seemed to breathe, furniture that whispered of long-forgotten conversations, and artifacts that bore the weight of countless lives.
Louis took another sip of the wine, savoring the warmth that spread through him. It wasn’t just the wine that loosened his tension; it was the atmosphere, the feeling of being surrounded by stories that someone had cared enough to preserve.
“This house…” Louis thought, his gaze lingering on a gilded mirror with an intricately carved frame. “It’s like stepping into another world. Every piece is a story. Every story is a life. How can anyone live in a place like this and not feel connected to everything?”
The realization struck him like a quiet truth—he did feel connected here. And it wasn’t just to the objects.
His own apartment felt sterile in comparison. The blank walls, the plain furniture, the stacks of untouched books. It was a space where silence hung heavy, broken only by the occasional click of his camera. He took photos when time allowed, but he didn’t think much of them. They weren’t remarkable—just snippets of life he passed by.
Yet even those unremarkable photos told stories. Stories only he noticed.
“And here…” Louis thought, glancing toward a painting of a ship on a stormy sea.
His thoughts drifted to Lestat. His host had seemed so at ease, moving through this grand, almost overwhelming space as if it were nothing. There was an energy about him, a quiet self-assurance that was hard to place.
“Who is this man?” Louis wondered, his brow furrowing slightly. “How does someone like him…”
He felt a small connection forming, inexplicable but undeniable. In the short time they’d spent together, Lestat had made him feel more at ease than he’d felt in years. He didn’t understand it, but there was something in Lestat’s presence that felt… safe.
And that was the strangest part. He never felt safe. Not in his own home, not with his family, not even with himself. But here, in this stranger’s house, surrounded by centuries of collected beauty, he felt the faintest flicker of something he couldn’t name.
Before he could delve further into the thought, Lestat reappeared, stepping into the room with a pair of deep burgundy pants draped over his arm.
“I hope these fit,” Lestat said, his voice light and teasing as he handed them to Louis. “Though I suspect you’ll make them look better than I ever could.”
Louis blinked, pulled from his reverie. He accepted the pants with a small nod, his fingers brushing the luxurious fabric. “Thank you,” he murmured, glancing down at them.
“Of course,” Lestat replied, gesturing toward a tall folding screen in the corner of the room. “There’s a changing screen over there. Take your time, mon cher. Make yourself comfortable.”
As Lestat retreated to the far side of the room, Louis sipped his wine again, the thought lingering in his mind:
“How does someone like him exist?”
Louis stepped behind the ornate folding screen, its carved patterns casting delicate shadows across the floor as the soft glow of the room filtered through. The wineglass in his hand trembled slightly as he set it on the edge of a nearby table, his nerves catching up with him now that he was out of direct sight.
He unfolded the burgundy pants, his fingers brushing over the fabric. “These are too nice,” he thought, shaking his head slightly. “Who keeps something like this as a spare?”
From his place by the far wall, Lestat leaned casually against a marble-topped console table, his pale blue eyes fixed on the shifting silhouette behind the screen. His lips curved into a faint smile as he caught Louis’ thoughts, layered with curiosity and quiet unease.
“You’re very quiet back there,” Lestat said, his voice light and teasing. “Don’t tell me you’ve been rendered speechless by a simple pair of pants.”
Louis hesitated, pausing mid-motion as he slipped one leg into the trousers. “I don’t usually borrow clothes this nice,” he replied, his voice muffled slightly by the screen.
Lestat chuckled, tilting his head as he watched the shadows move. “It’s only fabric, mon cher. I promise they won’t bite.”
Louis exhaled, shaking his head as he adjusted the waistband. “Why do you have something like this lying around anyway? These aren’t exactly… casual.”
“Ah,” Lestat said, his smile widening. “A good host is always prepared. You never know when you might need to lend a guest something a little more refined.”
“Do you have guests often?” Louis asked, his tone skeptical.
“Rarely,” Lestat admitted, his voice softening. “You’re something of an exception.”
Louis stilled for a moment, the weight of the statement settling over him. He didn’t know how to respond, so he reached for the belt loops instead, pulling the pants snug.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” Louis said after a beat, gesturing toward the luxurious surroundings even though Lestat couldn’t see him. “This place… your collection.
“Where did it all come from?” Louis asked, stepping into view as he re-emerged from behind the screen. The burgundy pants fit him perfectly, their rich color striking against his white shirt.
Lestat’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, his smile sharpening slightly. “Here and there,” he said with a shrug, swirling the wine in his glass. “I’ve traveled a great deal. The right eye, a little luck, and a lot of charm can open doors you wouldn’t believe.”
Louis crossed his arms, leaning against the screen. “That sounds… vague.”
Lestat laughed, setting his glass down on the table beside him. “What would you prefer? A detailed inventory of every auction house and gallery I’ve ever visited?”
Louis’ brow furrowed. “You don’t seem like the type to haunt auction houses.”
“Very astute,” Lestat said, his voice softening. “Let’s just say that I prefer to… acquire my treasures more directly. It’s easier to form a connection with something when you’re there to witness its story unfolding.”
Louis frowned faintly, his curiosity deepening. “You mean you were there when some of these pieces were…” His voice trailed off, uncertainty clouding his expression.
“Acquired?” Lestat finished for him, his eyes gleaming with amusement. He stepped closer, closing the space between them just slightly. “Yes. I’ve always found it’s better to see things firsthand. Photographs never do justice to history, don’t you think?”
Louis blinked, caught off guard by the sudden proximity and the intensity in Lestat’s gaze. “I… wouldn’t know,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “I’ve never seen anything like this in person before.”
Lestat’s smile softened, and for a moment, his playful veneer seemed to slip, replaced by something gentler. “You see it, though,” he said, his tone quieter now. “The way it speaks. Not everyone does.”
Louis looked away, his gaze falling to the glass of wine on the table. He reached for it, taking a slow sip before murmuring, “I take photos. They’re nothing special. Just… things I notice.”
Lestat tilted his head, intrigued. “Things you notice?”
“Little moments,” Louis said, his voice thoughtful now. “A shadow, a crack in a wall, the way light hits something at just the right angle. They’re not good—just stories I see and want to keep.”
“That sounds more remarkable than you give yourself credit for,” Lestat said, his voice earnest.
Louis huffed softly, the sound self-deprecating. “No one else thinks so.”
“I do,” Lestat said, the words quiet but deliberate.
Louis looked at him then, startled by the sincerity in his voice. For a moment, the tension between them felt tangible, humming in the air like an unspoken truth.
Lestat smiled again, brighter this time, stepping back to give Louis space. “Well, the pants suit you, mon cher. Far better than I could have hoped.”
Louis shook his head, his lips curving into a faint smile despite himself. “You’re… something else,” he muttered.
Lestat laughed, the sound rich and unrestrained. “That, Louis, may be the most honest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“Come,” Lestat said, motioning for Louis to follow him. “There’s something I think you’ll appreciate before you go. You mentioned stories, didn’t you?”
Louis hesitated for a moment, glancing toward the door, but the faint flicker of curiosity won out. He nodded and followed Lestat through a wide archway into a side room.
This space was smaller, more intimate, but no less breathtaking. The walls were lined with bookshelves that stretched to the ceiling, their contents a mix of leather-bound tomes and weathered manuscripts. In the center of the room stood a large painting, illuminated by a single soft light.
It was a masterpiece, its colors rich and vibrant despite its evident age. The scene depicted a sprawling countryside, a crumbling estate perched atop a hill. The brushstrokes were so detailed that Louis felt as though he could step into the painting and feel the wind rustling through the grass.
“This,” Lestat said, stepping beside Louis, “is a piece from the Loire Valley. Late 18th century. The artist was relatively unknown in his time, but his work captured something… timeless.”
Louis stared at the painting, his breath catching slightly. “It’s incredible,” he murmured. “You can almost feel it—the air, the quiet. It’s like being there.”
“That’s what drew me to it,” Lestat said, his voice quieter now. “It doesn’t just show you a place. It takes you there.”
Louis turned to him, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “You said you’ve traveled a lot. Is that how you found it?”
Lestat’s lips curved into a faint smile, his expression thoughtful. “In a way. I came across it years ago during one of my trips through France. It wasn’t hanging in a gallery—it was tucked away in the corner of an old estate, barely noticed.” He paused, his tone softening. “I couldn’t leave it there. Something about it felt… alive.”
Louis nodded, his eyes lingering on the painting. He didn’t press further. The explanation made sense—Lestat clearly had the means and the taste to discover hidden treasures during his travels. Wealth, time, and curiosity could explain nearly anything about the man.
Still, there was something about the way Lestat spoke, as if he’d lived through eras rather than merely studied them. It was a fleeting thought, easily dismissed, but it lingered at the edges of Louis’ mind like the soft hum of a far-off note.
Louis glanced at the clock mounted above the marble fireplace and sighed softly. The time had slipped away from him, and though the wine and conversation had dulled the sharp edges of his day, reality began pressing its way back in.
“I should go,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.
Lestat, who had been leaning casually against the edge of a nearby console, straightened slightly. His lips curved into an easy smile, though his pale blue eyes held a flicker of something deeper. “So soon? And here I thought I’d managed to charm you into staying forever,” he teased, though his tone was light, almost wistful.
Louis offered a faint smile, polite but distant. “It’s late. I have… obligations in the morning.”
“Ah, the trials of responsibility,” Lestat said with mock gravity, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. “I’ll confess, mon cher, I don’t envy you. Enduring another day in the company of someone like Armand? That would require a full night’s rest and perhaps divine intervention.”
Louis’ lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement breaking through his guarded expression. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted softly, though his tone remained measured.
Lestat’s smile widened, but he let the moment linger without pushing further. He could sense the churn of Louis’ thoughts, the weight of something unspoken pressing behind his calm demeanor.
As Louis entered the foyer again his thoughts churned. Despite the calm exterior he presented, his mind was anything but still.
“She’s innocent,” he thought, the certainty sharp and unyielding. “But the details… the timeline doesn’t hold, god, I know I can help her, but I’m always nervous the night before a case like this.”
The weight of the case bore down on him, heavy and relentless. He had built his career on defending the defenseless, on unraveling truths no one else could see. And though the city knew him as the lawyer who never lost, Louis never saw it that way. Every case was a battle—one he couldn’t afford to lose, not when so much was at stake.
Louis reached for the door, his hand brushing the cool brass of the handle. “Thank you,” he said, his voice quieter now. “For tonight. For stepping in. And for the wine.”
“Anytime,” Lestat said smoothly, stepping closer but keeping a respectful distance. “It was a pleasure, truly. And who knows? Perhaps you’ll endure my company again someday.”
Louis hesitated, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor before he turned the knob. “Goodnight, Lestat,” he said softly.
“Goodnight, Louis,” Lestat replied, his voice warmer now, the name lingering like a melody.
Louis stepped outside, the cool night air brushing against his face. He descended the steps, the distant hum of the city filtering in around him.
But just as he reached the edge of the porch, he paused, the weight of the evening settling over him. He turned back, his expression unreadable as he stepped closer to the door once more.
“Your phone,” he said abruptly, his voice sharper than intended.
Lestat blinked, caught off guard. “My phone?”
Louis nodded, his hand outstretched. “Just… give it to me.”
Bemused, Lestat retrieved his phone from his pocket and handed it to Louis without question. He watched with quiet fascination as Louis opened the contacts app and began tapping in a number.
“What’s this?” Lestat asked, his voice touched with amusement.
When Louis handed the phone back, his expression remained carefully neutral. “In case you need the pants back,” he said dryly.
Lestat glanced down at the screen, his smile widening as he read the contact name: Louis. He looked up, his pale blue eyes gleaming with something deeper, something almost triumphant.
“How generous of you,” Lestat said, his tone laced with warmth.
“Goodnight, Lestat,” Louis said again, his voice softer now, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
“Goodnight, Louis,” Lestat replied, watching him leave with a mix of curiosity and quiet satisfaction.
The Uber ride was quiet, save for the soft hum of the radio playing some nondescript jazz tune. Louis leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, staring out at the city lights flickering in the darkness. He couldn’t stop replaying the evening in his mind—the opulence of Lestat’s home, the teasing lilt in his voice, and the way his pale blue eyes seemed to see far too much.
“What was I thinking?” Louis thought, his chest tightening with embarrassment. “I gave him my number. My number. For what? To get the pants back?”
The words felt ridiculous even in his own head. Lestat’s charm had disarmed him, leaving him off-balance in a way he hadn’t felt in years. That small, inexplicable sense of safety he’d felt in Lestat’s presence now felt like a betrayal of his own instincts. He should have left earlier. He should have stayed more guarded.
And yet…
He sighed, dragging a hand down his face as he tried to shake off the memory of Lestat’s amused smile, the way he’d leaned so effortlessly against the doorframe as if he belonged in every moment he occupied.
“I need to forget about it,” Louis told himself firmly. “Focus on what matters.”
As the car pulled up to the bookstore, Louis stepped out into the cool night air, his coat pulled tightly around him. The familiar scent of old wood and paper greeted him as he unlocked the door and stepped inside, the soft creak of the floorboards beneath his feet grounding him in the quiet space.
The bookstore was his sanctuary—a place where the chaos of the outside world faded into the background. The rows of neatly shelved books stood like sentinels, their spines catching the dim light of the lamps he flicked on as he moved through the space.
It was 11:50 p.m., but Louis didn’t care. Sleep could wait. He needed to work.
He set his briefcase down on the counter, pulling out the meticulously organized files for the case that had consumed his thoughts for weeks. The mother was innocent—he knew it in his gut—but proving it was another matter entirely. The prosecution’s case was sharp, and the jury wouldn’t be easily swayed without undeniable proof.
Louis flipped through the papers, his eyes scanning every line of testimony, every piece of evidence. The details had to align perfectly. There could be no room for doubt.
He glanced at the clock. Midnight. The hours stretched ahead of him, a quiet expanse of time he would fill with work. The embarrassment of the evening, the lingering tension in his chest—all of it would fade once he immersed himself in the precision of his task.
This was where he thrived, in the stillness of the night, surrounded by the quiet company of books and the relentless pursuit of justice.
And yet, as he settled into his work, a faint thread of distraction lingered at the edges of his thoughts. A voice, a smile, a pair of pale blue eyes that refused to fade from his memory.