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Mais la FATALITÉ ne connaît point de trêve :
Le ver est dans le fruit, le réveil dans le rêve,
Et le remords est dans l’amour : telle est la loi.
But Fate knows no reprieve:
The worm is in the fruit, awaking in the dream,
And remorse is in love: such is the law- Nevermore, Paul Verlaine
Claudia’s presence heralded nothing so much as a return to the status quo—a relentless enduring of the company of someone Lestat despised, who he knew despised him in turn. All in all, it reminded him much of his brothers, so perhaps she was right to call herself his sister. She certainly brought the same intelligence and general lack of sophistication to the table.
Granted, it was Lestat who had brought her back to New Orleans, but that was only for Louis’ sake. Everything was for Louis’ sake. Therein lay the problem. It was, as far as Lestat was concerned, his own greatest flaw. His hamartia , if you will. Love made him lenient, indulgent, blinded him to realities he rather wished to obscure from himself. He had lived without Louis for six years and it had ruined him, and returned to his arms, he encountered only the same coldness; not love but—tolerance. Yes, that was it. After all his groveling he’d been granted readmission to the Rue Royale, and what he received in exchange for this lowering of himself was tolerance .
Love, for Lestat, was abundance and joy. For Louis, it was the same starvation he imposed upon himself. If he could love at all. Well, no. Certainly he could. But the breadth of his capacity was small, and seemingly allowed room only for a girl Lestat should have left to die when he had the chance.
Instead, here Lestat was. Prisoner in his own home; tolerated, starved.
Hungry.
“I am tired of New Orleans,” he told Louis one night when the blood of a young widow was still fresh upon his tongue. She had screamed for her dead husband, an ironic twist of tale he was sure Claudia would have appreciated. Kissing Louis with the blood and terror in his mouth, he watched Louis’ expression change at the taste.
Tolerance.
Barely that, really.
“You love New Orleans,” Louis pointed out. He was sat on the sofa in the same place Lestat was sure he had left him a few hours earlier, a book in his lap that he had, for now, deigned to ignore in favor of Lestat. Duke Ellington played over the radio, so softly it was more a hum than music.
He ran his hand down Louis’ arm and picked the book out of his grasp, ignoring Louis’ protestations. “I need a change,” he said. “Soon this country too will join this pointless war the Europeans have started, and then where will we be? Feasting on starving bodies? I may as well resign myself to your diet.”
“I killed just yesterday,” Louis said, with the air of an impending argument. “What more do you want from me?”
What a question! What did Lestat want? Immortal love, affection, a scrap of attention if Louis could tear himself away from his infernal books for even a second. He gave everything and surely he deserved everything in return? Surely he was owed that.
“I was reading that,” Louis said when Lestat dropped his book on the coffee table, rather mildly as if he didn’t consider it worth the argument. “At least bookmark it.”
“What is it today, more Russian self-flagellation?”
“Ruminations on utilitarianism, actually.”
“Riveting.” Lestat lowered himself on the couch next to Louis and let his hand rest on Louis’ wool-clad thigh. “Might we ruminate on something else tonight?”
“Your lines used to be better,” Louis said but didn’t immediately grasp for his book again, which Lestat took as an encouraging sign. He pressed his lips to the proud line of Louis’ jaw and allowed his attention to linger there as his hand wandered up Louis’ leg. Louis made a soft sound that could have been a moan or a sigh.
“Let me,” Lestat murmured against his skin. “Let me, let me,” a profane litany of desire. He slid his hands between Louis’ legs and felt Louis’ frame stiffen in response. If he was soft, surely it was only because he needed some encouragement, perhaps the tease of teeth on his neck.
Louis drew back the second Lestat’s fangs caressed his skin. “Perhaps not—tonight,” he said. “Claudia could be home at any moment.”
Claudia. Of course. Rage boiled in Lestat’s veins so hotly for a moment he thought he might destroy something. He felt the fire of arousal mixed with fury, a potent combination. And here was Louis, looking up at him in admonishment. “Mon cher, please. Another night, yeah?” He extracted himself from Lestat’s embrace and reached for his Russian philosopher.
Lestat let go. There were other beds in New Orleans he was welcome, bodies that didn’t turn from him. He should leave this city as he’d vowed to do—damn Claudia, damn Louis, damn them all to hell.
But then there was the love.
And so, he endured.
*
Antoinette was entirely too willing. It was both the reason Lestat sought her out and her least attractive quality. Perhaps her talents would have been more appreciated as Louis’ other sort of employee, but she prided herself as being above that sort of thing. Ironic as that was. A whore’s a whore, he wanted to tell her, would she not have made a scene about it.
“He doesn’t deserve you,” she whispered into his ear, her body naked and still damp. “He doesn’t love you. I do, Lestat. I love you. I may be the only one who does.”
He ignored those last few senseless comments and focused on the former. Of course Louis didn’t deserve him, that was an undisputed fact and also, unfortunately, beside the point. “What would you know of love?”
She had no response for him but a wounded silence, which bothered him more than he could explain. Louis would have fought. Once, at least, he would have.
The silence tracked him home, lingered in the shadows of their house like a haunting. Most nights Claudia paid him more mind than Louis did, which was its own kind of torture. She was a terrible chess player, a worse pianist; a thankless student in all ways except for murder.
Most nights, more than anything, he missed Nicki and their endless conversations.
“Je t'adore à l'égal de la voûte nocturne, Ô vase de tristesse, ô grande taciturne.” He read the words aloud, tearing Louis from his absorption into—what was it now? Turgenev? Kafka? That pretentious new sorry-excuse-for-a-Frenchman Camus? Whoever it was, he was momentarily forgotten as Louis looked up at Lestat.
“Poetry?”
“I thought you might enjoy it. Et t'aime d'autant plus, belle, que tu me fuis…” He continued, letting his words pour into the silence. He found a soft cadence to the beat of Louis’ heart and watched Louis’ expression soften. He looked beautiful in the golden half-light—well, he always did, but the gentle glow from the lamp lent him a gloomy ethereal quality, as if Lestat’s own poem come to life. Louis blinked slowly, reluctantly charmed, and smiled.
Once the poem was finished, Lestat found his way to Louis’ side, kissed him and sought for the traces of fresh kill in his mouth. None remained. He tasted only of cigarettes and the faint sourness of rats.
“You lie to me,” he whispered against Louis’ lips. “Is that why you won’t go out with me? You leave on a hunt and terrorize the rat population of New Orleans?”
Louis wrestled himself free. “You saw me kill a guy last week. Now will you leave it the fuck alone?”
“Last week . Your darling sister-daughter drains two adults a night, and you think you can sustain yourself on a single emaciated criminal a week.”
“I’m doing just fine, aren’t I?” Louis’ eyes were cold, his shoulders squared in defense.
“Just fine. Ah, yes.” He imbued the words with as much disdain as Louis could muster on a good day. “You barely move from this couch, you do not speak, you spurn my every touch. I may as well converse with the walls. But yes, as long as you are happy.”
“And whose fault is that?” Louis’ voice had acquired a dangerous hardness. “ I didn’t break this, Lestat.”
“No, you are correct in that. That nightmare you used to call a daughter did.”
“Keep Claudia out of this.” This said with a slight raising of his voice; a final warning. Lestat would return home to a house where he was tolerated every night, but he drew the line at being lectured when he did.
“I turned her for you, as you asked. I killed Antoinette, again on your request. I do everything you ask, and what do I get in return? An ungrateful child commanding my house, and you. You, who have never loved me.”
Louis leaned back in his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not this again.”
“I teach her piano, I play chess with her, I indulge her whims. I have played nice. I have all but repented on my knees, as your god would have it. What else would you have me do?”
“I—” Louis looked pained. “I know that. I do.”
“Then, chéri,” he said in his sweetest tone, “why do you fight me?” He caressed Louis’ jaw, turning his face towards him. “Why do you let me waste away, when I am right here?”
Louis closed his eyes, his brows drawn. “I just need time, that’s all.”
“Time? Six years was not enough?” Trying to keep his voice level was an exercise in restraint—arguably a skill Lestat had honed over the course of their relationship. He leaned in for a kiss and watched Louis’ frown deepen. When he tried to press his lips against Louis’ anyway, he was met with Louis’ cheek.
“You’re right, let’s not fight,” Louis said, in a tone that felt more patronizing than truly placating. “I’m going to bed.”
Lestat watched him leave, simmering. He had been patient, surely. Immortal as they were, six years was not nothing. It had been six years of roaming a city that he discovered had little charm when experienced alone, six years of recalling a time before he’d met Louis when loneliness had been his only companion. And yet, what was this but more loneliness? Listening to the sounds of Louis’ feet on the stairs, the opening and closing of a door, Lestat tended the flames of his ire. And then he got up.
Louis did not acknowledge his presence beyond a quick glance while he changed.
“I was not finished,” Lestat said.
“Alright,” Louis said calmly.
Some unnamed emotion between anger and love propelled him forward, made him turn Louis’ head towards him so he would at least look at him, acknowledge Lestat’s presence in his own damn home. “I said I was not finished.”
“And I heard you.” Louis tilted his head as if to dislodge Lestat’s grasp, but made no other attempts to get away from him. “Say what you wanna say, then, so we can go to bed. I’m tired.”
This placid acquiescence was worse than mulish, punitive silence, far worse than outright antagonism. Bitter, hateful words rose up inside of him, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Not if the response would be Louis sighing indulgently and leading him to coffin, only for them to dance the same waltz again the coming evening. How was Lestat supposed to stand it? How did Louis stand it?
Instead he kissed Louis, the softest and barest of kisses, as if it was 1911 and they had barely scratched the surface of each other. Louis yielded for a moment, only for him to turn away entirely. “If you have nothing to say, then—”
“I’m saying I want you.”
“Okay. I’m saying I want to sleep. Tomorrow we can—”
The rage crested again, and this time Lestat did not stop himself from voicing it. “Tomorrow, tomorrow. If I wait for your tomorrow it will be a century! I gave you life, I gave you a home, a child, a business. I give you all of myself every night, and all I ask in return is a little gratitude.” He took Louis, motionless, in his arms. “I love you.”
Again, Lestat leaned in for a kiss, but Louis did not grant him the opportunity. It left Lestat with no other option than to push him up against the armoire. He grabbed him by the neck, pressing his lips to the delicate skin just above his fingers. “Do not turn from me, Louis.”
Louis had not moved an inch. “You better get your hands off of me right the fuck now,” he growled out.
“Or what? Will you fight me?”
For a moment, Louis did. He writhed in Lestat’s grip like a fish speared on a hook, yanking fruitlessly at the fingers latched around his throat. In retribution, Lestat slapped him, once, across the face with his free hand. Hard enough to draw blood which tasted sweet when he licked it off Louis’ lips.
“Bastard,” Louis cursed and struggled harder in Lestat’s embrace. Between the twin forces of the wall and Lestat’s own unmovable body, there was nowhere for him to go. His eyes had acquired a hint of panic—pure, animal fear, same as the human victims they claimed. Strange how that was one of the elements that survived in death.
Generously, Lestat let Louis pry himself free. He allowed him take two halting steps away from him before catching up. “Why do you always have to be the monster?” Louis asked. The anger had bled from his voice, leaving a miserable plea. “How could I ever love you?”
He gasped when Lestat sunk his teeth into his flesh, as if, despite his earlier words, he was surprised at the action. The blood had that sour flavor going down, diluted by animal feeding, and yet from the fount of Louis’ bountiful carotid artery, it tasted delicious. This was what love did. It took the bland derivative and turned it into something transcendent, iridescent. The twin beat of their hearts ran wild and free, and perhaps this was the only communication they needed. He could have remained suspended in the moment for eternity, captor and captive both.
Louis stumbled away when Lestat let him go. Disoriented, he grasped at the armoire to keep himself upright.
“You insist on making us both suffer,” Lestat told him, and pulled Louis into his body, cradling him before throwing him to the ground. Louis’ attempts to crawl away were thwarted as Lestat pinned him to the floor. His wrists felt thin and fragile beneath Lestat’s grip, as if he could shatter them with just the force of his hands.
“I hate you,” Louis murmured, again and again, in an endless stream. He kicked at Lestat’s legs and managed to gain a sliver of leverage, which he used to fling Lestat across the room. The armoire collapsed into a pile of dark wood and silk, sending dust up into the air like a cloud.
“Enough,” Lestat said. He wrestled Louis to the floor again, sending a lamp crashing down as well. Golden glass littered the floor, winking up at him in conspiracy. “Let me.” Louis struggled as Lestat flipped him onto his front, struggled as he slid his hand between his body and the ground to thumb at the button of his pants. He struggled as Lestat tucked his face into the warm hollow between his cheek and shoulder, where the blood was still wet and trickling in a steady hot stream. “Let me,” Lestat whispered against the mad fluttering of his pulse. Let me let me let me. And Louis said, “I hate you,” and Lestat felt the words like benediction.
When he pushed into Louis, the sensation he felt was not anger but tenderness. Tenderness for this delicate body within his embrace, belonging to the stubborn man who Lestat, beyond rhyme or reason, loved more than he had ever loved anything.
“Damn you,” this same man cried out, raking across the floor with nails that left deep grooves, then reaching back and digging those nails into Lestat’s cheek. “Damn you, ask me again if I love you after this.”
Lestat kissed the salty skin at the back of Louis’ neck, tasting the trickle of his own blood as he drove into Louis. A relentless pursuit of pleasure, attention, love. Somewhere along the line, Louis stopped struggling and went limp. It did not stop Lestat from chasing his own satisfaction, but this was just like Louis, wasn’t it? To realize his power, and deprive Lestat of the one thing he craved.
He sank his fangs into the bared throat, lapped at the blood and let the twin pleasures commingle. Bliss, agony. In the end, they were one and the same. The blood made him lightheaded, the sex grounded him, and when he came it was a wave of relief.
He let himself slump sideways, off Louis’ body, who blinked at him in a daze. Slowly, he watched the awareness steal over Louis’ exquisite face, darkening his expression. Lestat had, perhaps, overreached himself in his desire for Louis’ blood and drank too much in mindless passion—Louis’ movements were sluggish and unsteady.
“Get out,” Louis said in a low voice.
The words, accompanied by the carefully blank face, aroused in Lestat an emotion he could not name. He felt rather cold, and his anger, which had seemed abated just a moment before, stirred again at the thought.
I am this monster because I enjoy it. I am a devil, and I relish in it. You made me into this, but damn you, I will play this role with verve.
“Get out,” Louis repeated. “Get out. Right now. Get. Out.”
Lestat did. He went out into the hallway, opened the skylight and discovered night had become day, and for a moment he let the sunlight stream into the house, across the hardwood floors. Somewhere from below, he could hear the sounds of Claudia coming home from her hunt.
Yes, they would move. Perhaps he would find Gabrielle somewhere in the wildernesses and Louis could meet her, and it would be truth and family and love. It would be a new chapter to their romance, and they would be happy.
Indeed the more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a solution to all of their problems.