Chapter 3
The courthouse was a towering structure of stone and glass, its austere facade reflecting the first hints of morning sunlight. Inside, the air buzzed with the low hum of voices and the rustle of papers, but Louis tuned it all out as he sat across from his client in a small, windowless conference room.
She was a woman in her late 30s, her dark hair tied back in a haphazard bun. Her eyes were dull, rimmed with exhaustion, and her hands rested limply on the table, her fingers twisting a tissue into shreds.
“It’s almost over,” Louis said softly, his voice low but firm.
She glanced up at him, her lips parting as though she wanted to speak, but no words came.
“I know this has been… unbearable,” Louis continued, leaning forward slightly. “And I won’t tell you it will be easy today. But we’re prepared. The truth is on our side, and once this is done, you’ll finally have the space to grieve. To heal.”
Her eyes filled with tears, but she nodded, her jaw tightening as she tried to hold herself together. “I didn’t… I didn’t do it,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I don’t know how they think I could.”
“They don’t think,” Louis replied firmly, his gaze steady. “They assume. And assumptions fall apart when you shine a light on them.” He sat back, his tone softening. “That’s what we’re going to do today. You trust me?”
She nodded again, this time with a little more strength. “Yes,” she said, her voice steadier now.
“Good,” Louis said, standing and gathering his notes. “Stay focused. Stay calm. And let me handle the rest.”
The courtroom was packed. The gallery buzzed with quiet murmurs as people shuffled into their seats, and the sharp rap of the judge’s gavel silenced the room. Louis sat at the plaintiff’s table, his posture straight, his expression calm but unreadable. He was a figure of quiet authority, his presence commanding respect before he even spoke.
Unbeknownst to him, Lestat sat in the balcony at the back of the room, his pale blue eyes fixed intently on Louis. He had slipped in unnoticed, his movements as fluid and unremarkable as a shadow. From his vantage point, he could see everything—Louis’ precision, the way he carried himself, the way the room seemed to revolve around him.
As the trial commenced, Louis rose to deliver his opening statement. His voice was calm, measured, and deliberate, each word chosen with surgical precision. He painted a picture of his client’s innocence, of the gaping holes in the prosecution’s case, and of the truth that would emerge when the lies were stripped away.
It was during the cross-examinations that Louis truly came alive. His questions were sharp, his tone steady but laced with an edge that made witnesses squirm.
“Mr. Daniels,” Louis said, addressing one of the key witnesses for the prosecution. “You testified that you saw my client leaving the victim’s house on the night in question. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” the man replied, his voice faltering slightly.
Louis nodded, flipping through his notes. “And you also testified that it was dark, and you were across the street at the time. Is that also correct?”
“Yes,” Daniels said again, shifting uncomfortably.
“Dark,” Louis repeated, his voice dropping slightly. “Across the street. Yet you were able to identify her so clearly?” He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Tell me, Mr. Daniels, how is it that you saw her so clearly when the police report states there were no streetlights on that block that night?”
Daniels froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
“You didn’t see her, did you?” Louis pressed, his tone sharper now. “You assumed. You guessed. Or perhaps you were told to say you did. Which is it?”
“I—I don’t…”
“Answer the question,” Louis demanded, his voice cutting through the room like a blade.
Daniels crumbled, stammering out a weak denial that only solidified the cracks in his credibility.
In the gallery, Lestat leaned forward slightly, his lips curving into a faint smile. He watched Louis with an intensity that bordered on admiration, his thoughts humming with curiosity.
The prosecution called their last witness, a forensic analyst whose testimony hinged on a partial fingerprint found at the scene. Louis listened carefully, his expression unreadable, as the witness described their methods and findings.
When it was his turn to cross-examine, Louis stood with the same calm authority he’d carried throughout the trial, his hands resting lightly on the edges of the plaintiff’s table.
“You’ve testified that the fingerprint found on the kitchen counter matches my client’s, correct?” Louis asked, his tone steady.
“Yes,” the analyst replied, their voice firm.
“And this match was made using a partial print?”
“Yes.”
Louis nodded, taking a few steps closer, his dark eyes locked on the witness. “Tell me, how many points of comparison were used to determine this match?”
“Twelve,” the analyst said, their confidence wavering slightly.
“Twelve,” Louis repeated, his voice calm but pointed. “Not the standard fifteen points of comparison required for a definitive match?”
“Well,” the analyst hesitated, their gaze flickering toward the prosecution table. “In some cases, twelve is sufficient.”
“In some cases,” Louis echoed, his tone cooling. “But this isn’t just some case , is it? This is a murder trial. A woman’s life hangs in the balance. And yet you’re telling this court that the most damning piece of evidence you have against her is a partial print with fewer than the standard points of comparison?”
The analyst shifted in their seat, their earlier confidence unraveling.
Louis took another step closer, his voice softening slightly, but there was steel behind his words. “Is it possible this fingerprint belongs to someone else? Someone who might have touched that counter at any time before or after my client’s visit?”
The analyst hesitated for a moment too long. “It’s… possible, yes.”
Louis nodded, letting the weight of that admission settle over the courtroom. He turned to the jury, his voice carrying a quiet force. “The prosecution wants us to believe this fingerprint is proof. But proof is concrete. It’s indisputable. What we have here is not proof. It’s an assumption.”
He let the word linger in the air before turning back to the analyst. “Now, let’s talk about context. My client has been to this home before—on friendly terms, as a guest. Is there anything about this fingerprint that places it in time? Anything that proves it was made during the alleged crime?”
The analyst faltered, their hands tightening on the edges of the stand. “No. Fingerprints don’t carry timestamps.”
Louis nodded again, his expression unreadable. He turned to the jury once more, his tone sharp now. “So what do we have? A partial print, taken out of context, used to imply guilt where there is no definitive proof. This is not evidence. This is speculation.”
He paced back toward his table, his hands brushing over the papers laid neatly in front of him. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we do not convict people on speculation. We do not condemn grieving mothers based on assumptions, on hearsay, or on half-truths. That’s why we have the law. That’s why we demand evidence—real, undeniable evidence—before we take someone’s life apart.”
Louis’ voice softened slightly as he stepped back toward the jury, his dark eyes scanning each of their faces. “And yet, today, the prosecution asks you to abandon that principle. To convict a woman who has lost everything based on nothing more than a partial print and the word of a witness who couldn’t possibly have seen what they claim.”
He gestured toward his client, who sat quietly at the table, her hands trembling in her lap. “Can we lock this woman away—this mother, this human being—on the basis of assumptions? Or do we hold ourselves to a higher standard, one where innocence is assumed until guilt is proven beyond a reasonable doubt?”
The room was silent, the weight of Louis’ words hanging heavy in the air.
“You’ve testified about the partial fingerprint,” Louis said, his voice steady. “Now, let’s discuss the other evidence you’ve presented. Specifically, the fiber analysis from the victim’s clothing.”
The analyst nodded, their nervous energy palpable. “Yes, fibers found on the victim matched materials from the defendant’s home.”
Louis stepped closer, his dark eyes pinning the analyst in place. “Matched materials from my client’s home,” he echoed. “That sounds definitive. But tell me, are these fibers unique? Are they manufactured only for her clothing?”
“No,” the analyst admitted, their voice faltering. “The fibers are common in many types of clothing.”
“So they could belong to anyone wearing similar materials?” Louis asked, his tone cooling. “Someone who shopped at the same department store, perhaps? Or anyone who walked into the victim’s home at any time?”
The analyst hesitated. “It’s possible, yes.”
Louis’ lips pressed into a thin line. He turned to the jury, gesturing toward the analyst. “Fibers aren’t fingerprints. They aren’t unique identifiers. And here we are again, being asked to assume guilt based on something as flimsy as ‘common fibers.’”
The judge’s gavel rapped lightly. “Mr. de Pointe du Lac, I remind you to stick to questioning the witness.”
Louis nodded, his expression calm but unyielding. He turned back to the analyst. “One final question,” he said. “The blood spatter analysis you discussed earlier—you claimed it indicated my client’s presence during the crime. Did you conduct that analysis yourself?”
“No,” the analyst admitted. “It was done by another lab.”
“A lab under contract with the prosecution,” Louis said smoothly, stepping closer. “A lab with a track record of overextending findings to match prosecutorial narratives. Isn’t that right?”
“I… I can’t speak to their record,” the analyst stammered.
“Of course not,” Louis said coolly. He turned to the judge. “Your Honor, I have no further questions for this witness.”
The judge nodded. “Court will recess for 15 minutes before the defense continues.”
From the balcony, Lestat watched in awe, his pale blue eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and admiration. Louis’ presence was magnetic, his arguments cutting and precise, dismantling the prosecution’s case piece by piece.
Lestat leaned back in his chair, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Mon cher, you are magnificent,” he thought, his gaze lingering on Louis as he returned to his seat, his expression calm but his posture tense with focus.
Louis returned to his table, his shoulders stiff with the tension of the morning’s proceedings. He sat down, reaching for his notes, his movements precise but heavy with focus. Barely had he begun to flip through the pages when a shadow fell across his table.
“Brilliant as always,” came the smooth, familiar voice.
Louis didn’t look up. “Armand.”
Armand slid into a chair across from him, uninvited as always, and leaned forward slightly, his sharp features alight with something between admiration and irritation. “You really do know how to command a room, don’t you?”
“Thank you,” Louis said curtly, his tone clipped as he continued scanning his papers.
“Must be exhausting, though,” Armand continued, his voice tinged with something sharper. “Carrying all that weight on your shoulders. Not to mention…” He paused, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “The social obligations. How did the rest of your evening go, by the way? Did your… friend enjoy your company?”
Louis froze for the briefest moment, his fingers tightening on the edge of a page. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come now,” Armand said, his smile widening as he leaned back in his chair. “The tall, golden-haired fellow? Lionel, was it?”
Louis’ jaw clenched. “Lestat,” he corrected sharply before he could stop himself.
“Ah, yes. Lestat,” Armand said, his tone dripping with mock politeness. “Are you planning to see him again, or was that just a one-night diversion?”
Louis finally looked up, his dark eyes narrowing as he fixed Armand with a cold stare. “I’m working, Armand. Perhaps you should try doing the same.”
Armand’s smile faltered briefly, but he recovered quickly, his expression slipping back into its usual blend of charm and arrogance. “Always so professional,” he said with a sigh, standing and brushing invisible lint from his suit jacket. “I admire that about you, you know. Even if you’re not the least bit fun.”
Louis didn’t respond, his gaze already returning to his notes as Armand turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the background noise of the courtroom.
From his place in the balcony, Lestat leaned forward slightly, his lips curving into a faint smile as Louis’ thoughts reached him.
“What’s Armand doing here? I don’t have time for distractions. I need to focus—”
Lestat tilted his head, catching the flicker of doubt, the faint ripple of curiosity beneath Louis’ frustration. He could feel the edges of Louis’ mind brushing against his own, a quiet storm of determination, irritation, and something unspoken.
His smile deepened, his pale blue eyes fixed on Louis as he flipped through his notes with the same quiet intensity. Every movement was deliberate, precise, as if Louis carried the weight of the entire courtroom on his shoulders and bore it without faltering.
Lestat’s gaze flickered to the exchange between Louis and the man who had interrupted him—Armand. He watched as Armand leaned in too close, his smirk too confident, his words dripping with the kind of possessive jealousy Lestat found both predictable and tiresome.
But it wasn’t the flirtation that intrigued him—it was Louis’ response. He saw the way Louis’ fingers stilled on the page, the faint flicker of irritation that passed through his mind like a shadow. And then…
“Lestat,” Louis thought, the name surfacing suddenly, clear and vivid, like a flame piercing through the ordered chaos of his mind.
Lestat tilted his head, amusement flickering in his pale eyes. “He corrected him.” His smile softened, touched with something warmer, almost delighted. “How delightful.”
His gaze lingered on Louis, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the way his shoulders remained perfectly square even under the weight of Armand’s unwelcome presence. There was a control to Louis—a quiet dominance that radiated from him in the way he commanded the room, the way he dismantled every piece of evidence the prosecution threw at him without ever letting his emotions betray him.
“Look at him,” Lestat thought, his admiration swelling. “So composed, so fiercely in control. Like a storm trapped in glass.”
He leaned back further, his fingers steepled under his chin as he watched Louis dismiss Armand with quiet precision, his focus returning to the stack of papers in front of him.
“Magnificent,” Lestat mused, his smile deepening . “Mon beau, you are extraordinary. And you don’t even realize it.”
The courtroom was still, the air heavy with tension as Louis de Pointe du Lac rose from his seat. The rustling of papers and the faint creak of the jury’s chairs faded into silence, all eyes turning to him as he adjusted his suit jacket and stepped forward.
For a moment, he stood there, his hands clasped lightly in front of him, his dark eyes scanning the room with quiet intensity. The lines of his face, so often calm and composed, were sharper now—etched with determination and something deeper, something fierce.
When he began to speak, his voice was low but steady, each word measured and deliberate.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said, his tone carrying just enough weight to draw them in, “what we’ve seen over the course of this trial has been a painful unraveling of tragedy. A daughter’s life cut short, a family torn apart, and a mother forced to relive the worst moment of her life over and over again.”
He paused, letting the words settle like stones dropping into still water. The jury watched him closely, their expressions a mix of somber attention and quiet reflection.
Louis’ shoulders squared, his posture tall and commanding as he began to move, his steps slow and deliberate. His hands, once still at his sides, lifted slightly as he gestured—not wildly, but with a quiet precision that mirrored the control in his voice.
“We’ve heard a great deal from the prosecution about assumptions,” he said, his voice sharpening slightly. “Assumptions about fingerprints. Assumptions about fibers. Assumptions about timelines. And every one of those assumptions has fallen apart under scrutiny.”
His gaze swept over the jury, steady and unyielding. “But assumptions don’t just fall apart on their own. They crumble because they lack the foundation of facts. Evidence. Truth. And what we’ve seen here is the absence of all three.”
Louis turned, his profile sharp against the dim courtroom lighting as he faced the plaintiff’s table. His client sat there, her hands trembling slightly in her lap, her face pale but composed. He placed a hand lightly on the table, his tone softening as he spoke again.
“This is a grieving mother,” he said, his voice quiet but no less powerful. “A woman who has lost her only child. A woman who has been forced to relive that loss every day—not because she’s guilty, but because she was easy to blame.”
The room was so silent, it felt as though the very walls were listening. Louis straightened, his hands dropping to his sides as he took a step toward the jury box.
“Can we,” he asked, his voice rising slightly, “as a society, as a people, place someone in prison based on half-truths and assumptions? Can we convict this mother, who has suffered more than anyone should, without a single shred of factual, undeniable evidence to support these claims?”
He paused again, his dark eyes locking onto each juror in turn.
“This case isn’t about guilt or innocence,” he said, his voice softening again. “It’s about doubt. The doubt that hangs over every piece of evidence the prosecution has presented. The doubt that lingers in every word of their witnesses’ testimonies. And the doubt that should remind us of the principle our justice system was built upon: innocent until proven guilty.”
Louis’ body seemed to expand as he spoke, his presence filling the room. His movements were subtle but deliberate—the slight lift of his chin, the tightening of his jaw, the way his hands opened slightly as he gestured. He wasn’t just speaking; he was embodying the truth of his words.
“This mother,” he said, his voice growing firmer, “visited her daughter’s friends. She supported her daughter through her rebellious years, even when others turned their backs. And yet, she’s been painted as a villain. Why? Because it’s easier to believe a grieving mother is a criminal than to admit we might not have all the answers.”
He stopped in front of the jury box, his gaze piercing. “We don’t lock people away based on assumptions. We don’t tear lives apart because it’s convenient. We are better than that. We must be better than that.”
Louis stepped back, his hands clasping lightly in front of him again. The room felt charged, the silence vibrating with the weight of his words.
“I ask you,” he said, his voice soft but resonant, “to think not just with your minds, but with your hearts. To look at this woman, this grieving mother, and ask yourselves: have we been given the truth? Or have we been handed a story designed to make us believe the worst without proving anything at all?”
He let the question hang in the air, his gaze lingering on the jury one final time. Then, with a slight nod, he turned and walked back to his table, his movements calm and composed as he sat down.
His client reached for his hand, her touch trembling but grateful. Louis gave her a small nod, his expression softening for the briefest moment before his focus returned to the judge.
From the balcony, Lestat watched in awe, his pale blue eyes gleaming with admiration.
The bookstore was quiet, the usual hum of customers replaced by the soft creak of floorboards and the muted rustle of pages. stepped inside, the familiar scent of aged paper and polished wood settling over him like a balm.
Claudia was behind the counter, her head resting on her folded arms as the dim light from a nearby lamp cast soft shadows across her face. The blinds were drawn halfway, filtering the afternoon sun into a gentle glow that spared her hangover any unnecessary agony.
“Good morning,” Louis said, his voice carrying a teasing lilt as he set his briefcase down near the counter. “Or should I say good afternoon? Rough night?”
Claudia groaned softly, lifting her head just enough to glare at him. “I told you those last two shots were a bad idea,” she muttered, her voice muffled and low.
“You told me?” Louis replied, his brows lifting in mock surprise. “I seem to remember it being you who ordered them.”
She slumped back into her seat, waving a hand dismissively. “Details. Maddie was supposed to stop me. I think she’s a terrible influence.”
Louis chuckled, moving behind the counter to flip through a pile of invoices. “I’ll be sure to let her know.”
Claudia peeked up at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Speaking of last night,” she began, her tone suddenly sharper, “Maddie mentioned something. She said Armand came over to you after we left. What happened?”
Louis stiffened, his fingers pausing over the papers in front of him. “Nothing worth mentioning,” he said lightly, but the faint tension in his voice didn’t go unnoticed.
Claudia straightened in her chair, her grogginess giving way to curiosity. “Nothing worth mentioning?” she echoed. “Louis, come on. You know how I feel about him. Did he do something? Say something?”
“Claudia,” Louis said firmly, his gaze meeting hers. “It was nothing.”
She frowned, worry flickering across her face. “He’s too persistent. If he—”
Whatever she was about to say was cut off by the faint buzz of Louis’ phone vibrating against the counter. He glanced at the screen instinctively, and his breath caught slightly at the message that appeared:
Unknown Number:I trust your early morning hasn’t been ruined by… what was his name? Armon?
Louis’ lips twitched into a small, unexpected smile. The deliberate misspelling of Armand’s name was far too intentional to be a mistake, and the lighthearted tone of the message tugged at something in him he didn’t want to name.
Claudia, slouched behind the counter, noticed immediately. Her brows shot up, her curiosity sharpening like a predator scenting prey. “What’s that?” she asked, her voice cutting through the quiet.
“Nothing,” Louis said quickly, his tone too casual as he attempted to slip the phone into his pocket.
Claudia wasn’t having it. In one swift motion, she reached over the counter and snatched the phone from his hand, her reflexes surprisingly quick for someone still nursing a hangover.
“Claudia,” Louis said, his voice low and warning as he reached for the phone.
She ignored him entirely, her eyes scanning the screen with increasing delight. Her grin widened as she read the text. “‘Arman,’ huh? And no name saved, just a number? Louis, you’re blushing. This is gold.”
“Give it back,” Louis said, his voice calm but firm, though the faint redness creeping up his neck betrayed his composure.
Claudia held the phone just out of reach, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Who is this? And don’t try lying to me—I’ve known you too long.”
“It’s none of your business,” Louis replied, his tone clipped as he stepped closer, his hand extended.
Louis’ jaw tightened. “Claudia.”
“Fine, fine,” she said with a dramatic sigh, handing the phone back with exaggerated reluctance. “But you’re not off the hook. I’ll find out eventually.”
“There’s nothing to find out,” Louis muttered, sliding the phone into his pocket and moving back to his papers with practiced efficiency.
Claudia rested her chin on her hand, her expression turning sly. “You say that, but I saw your face. Whoever this is, they’ve got you turning red.”
Louis didn’t respond, his focus returning to the papers in front of him. But his thoughts betrayed him, lingering on the text, on the way it had made him feel seen in a way he wasn’t entirely prepared for.
“Lestat,” he thought, the name flickering through his mind like a spark.
He sighed quietly, pulling the phone out of his pocket again when Claudia wasn’t looking. His fingers hesitated for a moment over the screen before he opened his contacts and began typing, L. Lioncourt - Savior.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, the absurdity of the name making the situation feel slightly less unsettling. He quickly added in the contact notes, "C ollege" friend and my Savior - I owe him a drink & clean pants.
With one final glance at the screen, he saved the contact and slipped the phone back into his pocket, ignoring the soft flutter in his chest that refused to settle.
Claudia glanced up as he turned his attention back to the invoices, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re smiling again,” she said, her tone full of suspicion.
“I’m not,” Louis replied evenly, flipping a page without looking at her.
“You are,” she insisted, sitting up straighter now, her interest reignited. “I don’t know who this mystery person is, but they’ve got you acting… weird.”
Louis gave her a flat look. “Focus on the customers.”
“What customers?” Claudia asked, gesturing to the empty space around them. She grinned when he rolled his eyes, slumping back into her chair with a satisfied sigh. “Fine, keep your secrets. But you’re not fooling anyone, boss.”
Louis didn’t respond, letting her words hang in the air as he buried himself in the numbers on the page. But even as he worked, the name in his phone lingered in his mind, accompanied by the memory of pale blue eyes, a teasing smile, and a connection he couldn’t quite define.
The coffee shop was tucked into the corner of a narrow cobblestone street, its awning faded but charming. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the faint trace of jasmine from the courtyard beyond. Louis arrived first, his dark coat buttoned neatly, his expression calm but laced with an undercurrent of tension. He didn’t normally spend time in places like this, but something about meeting Lestat here felt… right.
Lestat arrived minutes later, sweeping through the doorway with a confidence that turned heads. His tailored suit, a deep navy that bordered on black, fit him perfectly, and the crisp white of his shirt stood out like a beacon. His golden hair gleamed in the soft light filtering through the shop’s old stained-glass windows.
“Louis,” Lestat greeted, his voice as smooth as silk as he slid into the seat across from him. “I must say, you pick the most charming places.”
Louis smiled faintly, his hands wrapped around the cup of coffee in front of him. “It’s quiet. I thought you might enjoy it.”
Lestat’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze lingering on Louis a moment too long. “Ah, but you know me so well already, don’t you?”
Louis huffed softly, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
Their conversation flowed easily, a blend of light teasing and subtle flirtation. Louis found himself relaxing despite the persistent flutter in his chest every time Lestat’s eyes met his.
When Louis finally mentioned the bookstore, it was almost offhand. “I don’t usually come to this area anymore unless I’m at the bookstore,” he said, glancing toward the window. “It’s just two blocks away. A small place—easy to miss if you’re not looking for it.”
Lestat’s interest piqued immediately. “A bookstore? You never mentioned that before.”
Louis shrugged, his tone casual though there was a hint of pride in his voice. “It’s not much. Just something I keep running. It’s… quieter than everything else in life.”
“Quieter,” Lestat echoed, his smile softening. “It sounds perfect. May I see it?”
Louis hesitated for the briefest moment before nodding. “Sure. If you want.”
The streets of the historic district were quiet, save for the occasional clip of heels on stone or the distant hum of a streetcar. Lestat walked beside Louis, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, though his eyes remained fixed on Louis with a mix of curiosity and fondness.
As they approached the bookstore, Louis’ steps slowed slightly. His posture stiffened as a familiar figure approached from the opposite direction—a woman with dark hair pinned neatly back, her stride purposeful and her expression sharp.
“Grace,” Louis said, his voice even but quieter now.
Grace’s eyes flicked between Louis and Lestat, her brows raising slightly as she came to a stop. “Louis,” she greeted, her tone formal but polite. Her gaze lingered on Lestat for a moment before returning to her brother. “I didn’t realize you were out.”
“I was meeting up with a friend,” Louis said smoothly, his hand gesturing slightly toward Lestat. “This is Lestat. We… went to college together.”
Lestat’s lips instantly twitched into a faint smile at their inside joke as he extended a hand. “A pleasure,” he said, his tone warm and refined.
Grace hesitated for a fraction of a second before shaking his hand briefly. “Likewise,” she said, though her eyes lingered on Louis with a faint, unreadable expression.
In her mind, Lestat caught the flicker of discomfort and judgment. “College friend,” she thought skeptically . “Isn’t that what he said about—” The memory shifted sharply to one of Louis’ old friends, a man Grace had always found too attentive to her brother, always hanging around just a little too much for thier liking, the way Louis would smile at him, hmm, not right.
Her thoughts tightened with disapproval, laced with a familiar undercurrent of righteousness. “And now this one? Another polished, overly charming man? Louis wouldn’t bring him around if it wasn’t… No. I hope this isn’t like before. Mamaw wouldn’t approve. None of us would.”
Lestat’s gaze didn’t falter, but the smile in his eyes dimmed just slightly as he caught the undercurrent of suspicion and judgment. “Ah, so she disapproves. How quaint. Protective, but from a place of control rather than care. Poor Louis, carrying this weight.”
“You should visit Mamaw soon,” Grace said aloud, her voice polite but cool. “She asks about you.”
Louis nodded, his face carefully neutral. “I’ll try.”
Grace studied him for a moment longer, her gaze flicking briefly to Lestat again, her thoughts prickling with unease. “Another secret? He’ll only hurt himself. Why does he keep pulling these people into his life? He knows better.”
Lestat’s smile softened slightly, though his eyes lingered on Grace with a fleeting note of pity. “Such a heavy hand, mon cher. You’re trapped in their expectations. I wonder how long you can keep this up.”
“Enjoy your afternoon,” Grace said at last, her tone still formal but distant as she nodded once more to Lestat and walked away without looking back.
As soon as she was out of sight, Louis exhaled quietly, his shoulders dropping slightly as he began walking again.
“She seems lovely,” Lestat said gently, though his tone carried a hint of something deeper—perhaps sympathy or quiet amusement.
Louis didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the cobblestones in front of him. “She’s… family,” he said at last, his voice tight and tired.
Lestat didn’t press further, though his thoughts turned once more to Grace’s mind. “This is what he carries every day. Expectations. Judgment. Secrets. It’s no wonder he’s so tightly wound.”
He could feel the shift in Louis’ demeanor as they approached the store, the way his walls had gone up so suddenly, and it stirred something in him—a quiet ache, a desire to ease the weight Louis seemed to carry everywhere he went.
The bookstore was as Louis had described—tucked just below street level, its entrance marked by a small wrought-iron sign and a narrow staircase leading down. The space was warm and inviting.
Lestat stepped inside, his sharp gaze sweeping over the room with unhidden admiration. “Quieter than everything else in life, indeed,” he said softly, a faint smile playing at his lips.
Louis moved behind the counter, his movements precise and familiar as he tidied a stack of books. “It’s not much,” he said again, though his tone betrayed the affection he felt for the space.
“It’s perfect,” Lestat replied, his voice sincere as he wandered through the aisles. He paused in front of a shelf lined with leather-bound volumes, his fingers brushing lightly over the spines. “So many stories here. So many lives.”
Louis watched him quietly, his chest tightening slightly as he noticed how effortlessly Lestat seemed to belong in the space—elegant, composed, and somehow larger than life even in the humblest of places.
“You’ve built something beautiful,” Lestat said, turning to face him. “It suits you.”
Louis hesitated, his gaze dropping briefly before returning to Lestat’s. “Thank you,” he said softly, the words carrying more weight than he intended.
Lestat moved slowly through the bookstore, his fingers lightly brushing the spines of books as he wandered the narrow aisles. His movements were unhurried, his sharp gaze taking in the space with quiet appreciation. He paused in front of a small display table, his lips twitching into a faint smile as his eyes landed on a familiar title: The Weight of Silence .
He picked it up, holding it lightly in one hand as he turned to Louis. “What about this one?” he asked, his voice light with feigned curiosity. “Have you read it?”
Louis glanced up from where he was adjusting a stack of books behind the counter. His gaze flicked to the cover in Lestat’s hand, and his expression softened slightly. “I’m almost done with it, actually,” he said, stepping closer.
“Ah,” Lestat said, tilting his head as though studying the book more closely. “And? Is it worth the read?”
Louis hesitated, his hands sliding into his pockets as he considered the question. “It’s… thought-provoking,” he said finally, his tone careful. “The writing is sharp—almost too sharp at times. Like the author is trying to cut straight to the heart of something painful but can’t decide whether they want to heal it or make it bleed.”
Lestat’s lips curved into a faint smile, though he kept his tone casual. “That’s quite an observation. And the story itself?”
Louis’ brows furrowed slightly as he thought about it. “It’s good. Really good. The themes—grief, solitude, the weight of carrying something you can’t explain to anyone else—they’re powerful. But…” He trailed off, his gaze shifting slightly as he considered his next words.
“But?” Lestat prompted, stepping closer, the distance between them shrinking just enough for Louis to notice.
Louis huffed softly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But it can be a little self-indulgent at times. Like the author gets lost in their own thoughts and forgets about the reader. It’s compelling, but it also feels like they’re wrestling with their own demons while you’re watching.”
Lestat chuckled, his voice low and warm. “Isn’t that part of the appeal? Watching someone else’s demons dance for a while so you don’t have to look at your own?”
Louis tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in thought. “Maybe. But I think it’s more than that. It feels like the writer is reaching for something—connection, understanding—but they don’t quite believe they deserve it.”
For a moment, Lestat said nothing, his gaze fixed on Louis with a mix of amusement and something deeper. He couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride at Louis’ thoughtful critique.
As they spoke, Lestat took another small step closer, his presence brushing into Louis’ space. Louis didn’t seem to notice at first, his focus still on the book. But then, as he spoke again, he unconsciously leaned slightly toward Lestat, the space between them growing almost imperceptibly smaller.
“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” Lestat said finally, his voice softer now, his gaze flickering to the faint flush coloring Louis’ cheeks.
Louis shrugged, though his movements were slower, his eyes briefly flicking to Lestat’s before dropping back to the book. “It’s a good book. It makes you think.”
Lestat’s smile deepened. “I’d say it’s done more than that.”
Before either of them could say more, the creak of the front door broke the quiet moment between Louis and Lestat.
“Louis?” Claudia’s voice rang out as she stepped inside, her tone light and familiar. “I figured you’d be here, so I brought you some—”
She stopped mid-sentence as her eyes landed on Louis and Lestat, who were standing close together near the counter. Her brows lifted slightly, her eyes darting between them as a slow smile spread across her lips.
“Oh,” she said, setting the brown paper bag down on the counter with deliberate care. Her tone was bright, but there was an unmistakable edge of curiosity. “Well… hello.”
Louis straightened immediately, his posture stiffening slightly as he took a subtle step back from Lestat. A faint blush crept up his neck, barely noticeable to anyone who didn’t know him well. “Claudia,” he said evenly, his voice calm but carrying an unspoken warning not to press further. He motioned toward Lestat with a slight gesture of his hand. “This is Lestat. We… met recently.”
Lestat picked up a slight warning and panic in Louis' mind, “Please don’t embarrass me, please.”
Lestat, ever graceful, turned to Claudia with a warm, disarming smile, his pale blue eyes locking onto hers with effortless charm. He stepped forward slightly, offering his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Claudia,” he said smoothly, his French accent curling faintly around the words. “Louis has spoken so highly of you.”
Claudia blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the compliment. She took his hand, her grip firm but her movements slightly awkward. “Hi,” she replied, a hint of warmth creeping into her tone despite her surprise. “Nice to meet you too. And I, uh… like your suit,” she added, her gaze briefly flicking over his impeccably tailored outfit.
Lestat’s smile deepened, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Thank you,” he said lightly. “And I must say, your shirt is absolutely delightful. Very Vintage.”
Claudia glanced down at her brightly patterned classic rock shirt, then back up at him, a small laugh escaping her. “Oh, uh, thanks! I wasn’t sure it would work, but I figured, why not?”
In her mind, Lestat caught a swirl of emotions—confusion, curiosity, and a flicker of excitement.
“Okay, wow. He’s gorgeous. Like, too gorgeous. Who is this guy? Louis never brings anyone here. This must be… oh! This is him, isn’t it? The guy from the text! Please let him be a good person.”
Louis shifted slightly, his gaze flicking between Claudia and Lestat. “Claudia,” he said, his voice quieter now, “did you need something?”
Claudia blinked, snapping out of her thoughts. “Oh! Yeah, lunch,” she said, turning back to the bag she’d set on the counter. She began unpacking its contents, her movements brisk. “I brought enough for you, and…” She glanced at Lestat, her lips curving into a sly smile. “Actually, I think I have enough for three. Lestat, would you like to join us? My appetite’s usually huge, but I think I can share.”
“Claudia,” Louis said quickly, his tone firm but not unkind. “That’s not necessary. I’m sure—”
“I’d love to,” Lestat interrupted smoothly, his gaze flicking to Louis with a hint of mischief.
Claudia beamed, clearly pleased with his answer. “Great! Let me set everything up,” she said, pulling out sandwiches, drinks, and a small container of fruit.
Louis sighed softly, lowering his voice as he turned to Lestat. “She can be a lot,” he murmured, his tone quiet and apologetic. “She’s going to ask you a million questions.”
Lestat leaned in slightly, his smile softening. “And I’m looking forward to every single one,” he said warmly. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered, mon cher.”
Louis shot him a quick glance, his blush deepening. “Don’t encourage her,” he muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched slightly.
Claudia returned with the sandwiches, setting them down on the counter with an almost theatrical flourish. “Alright,” she said, gesturing for them to sit. “Dig in!”
As they settled in, Claudia wasted no time. “So, Lestat,” she began, unwrapping her sandwich. “What do you do? How did you and Louis meet?”
Lestat smiled, taking a sip of water before answering. “We met recently,” he said, his tone light and teasing. “As for what I do… I’m something of a wanderer. I’ve worn many hats, but right now, I suppose you could call me a writer.”
Claudia’s eyes lit up. “A writer? That’s amazing! What kind of stuff do you write?”
“Stories,” Lestat said vaguely, his gaze flicking to Louis for a brief moment before returning to Claudia. “Anything that inspires me. People, places… moments like these.”
Claudia nodded, clearly intrigued. “You must have so many interesting experiences. I would love to travel to Europe. Maybe you can take Louis and I with you next time. Is that a french accent I hear?”
Louis sighed, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Claudia,” he said, his tone carrying a quiet exasperation.
“What?” she said innocently, popping a piece of fruit into her mouth.
As Lestat answered with stories about Paris, Rome, and the hidden gems of the world, Louis found himself relaxing. His tension melted away, replaced by a quiet fascination as he watched Lestat talk.
Lestat’s hands moved gracefully as he spoke, his gestures elegant yet unpretentious. His voice, smooth and rich, carried a quiet intensity that drew Louis in. He noticed the way Lestat’s lips curved when he smiled, the way his pale blue eyes seemed to gleam when he laughed softly at something Claudia said.
“He’s… stunning,” Louis thought, his breath catching slightly. “Ridiculously attractive. How is someone like this real, like for real?”
He didn’t realize he was staring until Lestat laughed loudly.
Claudia sat forward, her chin propped on her hand as she studied Lestat with open curiosity. “Paris and Rome? You’ve been to all the big ones,” she said, a grin tugging at her lips. “Okay, so what’s your least favorite place you’ve been? Somewhere that didn’t live up to the hype?”
Lestat laughed softly, his voice warm and melodic. “That’s a dangerous question,” he said, his tone teasing. “I wouldn’t want to offend anyone’s sensibilities.”
“Oh, come on,” Claudia pressed, leaning closer. “I’m sure Louis can take it if you trash somewhere he likes. Right, Louis?”
Louis gave her a flat look, though the corner of his mouth twitched faintly. “I’m not the one asking loaded questions,” he said, picking at the corner of his sandwich wrapper.
Claudia rolled her eyes dramatically before turning her attention back to Lestat. “Alright, fine. What about somewhere that surprised you, then? Somewhere you didn’t expect to love but did anyway?”
Lestat tilted his head, considering her question thoughtfully. His pale blue eyes flicked to Louis briefly, catching the quiet way he was listening, his body now more relaxed as he leaned slightly against the counter. “He’s letting his guard down,” Lestat thought, a flicker of warmth stirring in his chest.
“New Orleans,” Lestat answered after a pause, his voice softer now.
Claudia blinked. “Really?” she asked, clearly not expecting the answer.
Lestat nodded, his gaze steady. “It’s a city of contradictions. The beauty and the decay, the vibrancy and the quiet shadows. It feels alive in a way few places do.”
Louis looked up at that, his dark eyes meeting Lestat’s for a brief moment. There was something unspoken in the way Lestat spoke of the city—an understanding, a depth that Louis hadn’t expected.
“See, Louis?” Claudia said, breaking the moment as she grinned at him. “You always say the same thing. Guess you’re not the only one who gets it.”
Louis huffed softly, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”
Claudia smirked, clearly enjoying herself. She turned back to Lestat, her tone playful again. “So, what’s the deal? Are you sticking around here for long, or are you one of those mysterious, always-on-the-move types?”
Lestat chuckled, his gaze flicking to Louis briefly before he answered. “I suppose you could say I have a habit of moving around,” he admitted, his voice light. “But for now, I think I’ll stay a while. This city… it has a way of drawing you in.”
Louis felt his chest tighten slightly at the words, though he quickly brushed the feeling aside. He focused instead on his sandwich, though his thoughts kept circling back to Lestat—the way his voice carried a certain weight even in the simplest of statements, the way his smile seemed to hold secrets Louis couldn’t begin to unravel.
“He’s… mesmerizing,” Louis thought, his brow furrowing slightly. “And that’s dangerous.”
Claudia, oblivious to Louis’ inner turmoil, grinned at Lestat’s answer. “Good. You should stay. We could use more people like you around here.”
Lestat’s smile softened, and he tilted his head slightly as he studied her. “She’s protective,” he thought, catching the subtle undertones of her thoughts. “Curious, but fiercely loyal. She only wants what’s best for him.”
“So, Louis,” Claudia said, turning her attention back to him with a mischievous glint in her eye. “What’s it like having a friend who’s actually cooler than you? Must be a first.”
Louis gave her a flat look, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “I’m used to your over-the-top commentary, Claudia,” he said dryly.
Claudia laughed, clearly delighted by Louis’ response. She leaned forward, her chin resting in her hand as she studied him with an amused glint in her eye. “Come on, admit it. You like him,” she said, gesturing toward Lestat with a playful nod.
Louis glanced at Lestat from the corner of his eye, his expression carefully neutral, but the faintest tension in his jaw betrayed his unease. “He’s… fine,” he said simply, though his voice betrayed a note of warmth he didn’t quite manage to hide.
“Fine?” Lestat thought, suppressing the urge to chuckle aloud. “Oh, mon cher, you’re trying so hard to seem unaffected. But I can see it—the way you’re pulling back, afraid to give yourself away.”
Louis’ gaze flicked back to his plate, but not before Lestat caught the way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly, the faint flush creeping up his neck.
Lestat leaned forward, resting his forearms lightly on the table, his smile turning playful. “Just fine?” he teased, his gaze locking onto Louis with a spark of mischief. His voice was low and smooth, as though the words were meant only for Louis despite Claudia sitting right there.
Louis’ cheeks darkened immediately, the faint blush spreading across his high cheekbones. He quickly turned his attention back to his sandwich, his hands moving slightly more deliberately than necessary as he unwrapped it. “Don’t push your luck,” he muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched faintly, betraying a flicker of amusement he couldn’t quite suppress.
Lestat’s sharp eyes missed nothing—not the way Louis’ fingers tightened just slightly on the edge of the sandwich, not the way his lashes flickered downward to avoid his gaze. But more than that, he caught the quiet storm of thoughts swirling just beneath Louis’ composed exterior.
“Stop blushing, Louis,” Lestat heard faintly, the thought tinged with frustration and a touch of panic. “He’s just teasing. Don’t give him anything to work with.”
Lestat’s smile deepened, his amusement growing. “Oh, but you’re giving me everything, mon cher. Every flicker of doubt, every guarded thought. How long will you keep this wall up?”
Louis dared a glance back at Lestat, and the intensity in Lestat’s gaze made his stomach flip unexpectedly. His lips parted slightly, almost like he was going to say something, but he snapped his mouth shut again, dropping his gaze to his plate.
“He’s so composed,” Lestat thought, a quiet admiration swelling in his chest. “And yet so vulnerable when you know where to look. Every slight twitch, every small hesitation—it’s like he’s trying to hold the world on his shoulders.”
Louis’ thoughts continued, fragmented and filled with conflict. “There’s no way he actually likes me. He’s just charming—he probably does this with everyone. I’m reading too much into it. He’s… unattainable. People like him don’t…”
“Louis,” Lestat said softly, his tone dropping just enough to draw him out of his thoughts. “You’re not eating.”
Louis blinked, startled out of his spiral, and glanced down at the sandwich in his hands like he’d forgotten it was there. He cleared his throat softly, his lips pressing into a faint line. “I’m just… thinking,” he said simply, though his voice lacked conviction.
Claudia smirked, clearly oblivious to the unspoken tension passing between them. “That’s his problem, Lestat—he thinks too much,” she said lightly, leaning back in her chair. “Sometimes I wish I could just shake him out of it.”
Lestat chuckled, his gaze flicking to Claudia for a brief moment before returning to Louis. “I think he’s perfect just as he is,” he said smoothly, his voice rich with warmth.
Louis’ breath caught, though he quickly masked it by taking a slow sip of water. His heart stuttered in his chest, and he cursed the way it seemed to betray him every time Lestat so much as smiled at him.
“Stop it, Louis,” his thoughts scolded. “He’s just being nice. That’s all this is. He doesn’t mean it.”
But the way Lestat’s gaze lingered—soft yet penetrating—made him question everything.
Claudia watched the exchange with barely concealed amusement, her mind buzzing with thoughts Lestat caught easily. “They’re so into each other. It’s kind of ridiculous. He better not screw this up. Louis needs someone like this—someone who actually makes him light up.”
Claudia said with a grin. “I like you, Lestat. You keep him on his toes.”
Louis groaned softly, running a hand over his face. “Claudia, please.”
“What?” she said, feigning innocence. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”
Lestat laughed again, his voice rich and full of amusement. He leaned slightly closer to Louis, his tone dropping just enough to feel intimate. “You’re lucky to have her,” he said softly, his eyes warm.
Louis glanced at him, his expression softening for a brief moment. “I know,” he said quietly.
Claudia, sensing the shift in tone, leaned back in her chair with a satisfied smile. “Alright,” she said, reaching for her drink. “Now that I’ve done my part embarrassing you, I’ll let you two get back to… whatever this is.”
“Claudia,” Louis said warningly, though his tone lacked any real bite.
She laughed, waving him off as she gathered the trash. “Relax, boss. I’m just teasing. But seriously, don’t screw this one up.”
As she left the table, humming softly to herself, Lestat turned back to Louis, his gaze steady. “She’s wonderful,” he said softly, his voice carrying a note of admiration.
Louis sighed, his shoulders relaxing again as he leaned slightly against the counter. “She means well,” he said simply, though there was a faint smile playing at his lips.