Chapter Text
Three years ago
“Almighty Father in heaven, we commit your son, Jaques Cornelius de Pointe du Lac, to your holy hands. May he find eternal rest in the bosoms of our Lord,” Father Matthias recited in a loud but solemn voice over the freshly dug grave where a beautiful casket of gray oak sat inside.
A crowd of well-wishers surrounded him, dressed in black and armed with the proper accouterments of grief, like sunglasses for swollen eyes and handkerchiefs to dab their wet faces. It was a good turnout for a man well-known and admired by his community and extended family. A large portrait placed on an easel was placed inside a wreath of bluebells and stood inches from the open grave, depicting a handsome but serious-looking man in his sixties. That picture was taken a mere ten years ago when he still enjoyed good health and the sickness that tore him from the earth hadn’t made an appearance yet.
It was a beautiful service.
St. Augustine’s was Louis’s Daddy’s childhood church. He’d attended it almost every Sunday of his life right from when his Maman would take him and sit several rows behind his white father’s legitimate family, soulfully singing hymns with a child’s eagerness even though he stumbled on the Latin words. After he got into Tulane, a grand feat for a black man even in the seventies, he’d scrounge up change from his meager allowance for the bus fare to take her to mass every Sunday. After his father made a post-death acknowledgment of his black son by bequeathing him an inheritance and ownership of the family sugar business, Louis’s father donated a large portion to the congregation of St. Augustine’s.
The church was an intrinsic part of Jaques’ life, so it made sense that it played a large part after his death.
It was unfortunate that Louis wished they’d done it anywhere else.
He made a good show of propriety, but it tore him up to spend time within those walls, choked by the familiar glass paintings hovering above him depicting Mary and her divine Son bathing him in reflected red and blue light. The shame that was a staple of his boyhood years returned tenfold under the loving gaze of the one who knew all of his sins by name.
St. Augustine was the place where he said the words “I’m gay” to his mother for the first time.
Sitting in the well-polished pews, he recalled the harsh glee with which he spat out the words that morning, watching his mother’s face contort in horror but not surprise. He could never recall the argument that led up to it, but Louis would never forget the boiling rage that poured over after years bubbling in the fragile pot of his mind. Mass ended and Mama was saying something about how he was acting “in a way unbefitting of a gentleman”, that two girls from the neighborhood made comments to their mothers and it got back to her.
Paul and Grace had wandered off somewhere with the other children in their catechism class while Daddy was in Father Matthias’ office talking about some church business and whatnot.
It was just him and Mama in the empty pews with no one else but Mother Mary’s sunken gaze above them.
“Do you know how it reflects on me when you act that way?” She had fumed, lips pressed together as the only sign of her anger.
“Maybe it’s because I’m gay.” The words came out in careless abandon, deceptively casual despite the vehemence they carried.
Mama said nothing, her mouth open in shock for several long seconds.
There was no surprise in telling her what she already knew, but saying it out loud shattered her cocoon of denial. That was the true cause of her anger. When she slapped him, Louis was almost grateful for the pain. The hot sting of her ringed hand on his cheek sent a jolt of pain through him that pulsed throughout that day. Sometimes, he still feels the phantom throb when he thinks of her. It marked him in a place deep down, leaving a scar that persisted beneath intact flesh.
It was also the last time he ever set foot in a church until today.
“From ashes to ashes and from dust to dust,” recited Father Matthias. He dropped a handful of dirt on the coffin with a sharp splat that made Louis jerk slightly in place. Grace shot him a concerned look by his side, but he squeezed her hand in assurance.
They were in the cemetery, putting the body to rest.
Paul stood still and solemn in his position beside Mama. Her face was schooled in that serene expression Louis knew from his childhood. Her left hand clasped tight around Paul’s was the only hint of her grief.
She hadn’t spoken a word to Louis all day, using Grace as a reluctant go-between.
It’d been that way since Louis came back to the city. When she spoke, her words came out clipped and abruptly, conveying nothing but empty pleasantries and trivial information. There was still that Southern politeness that coated her bitter words like honeyed poison on an ice cube. A twisted part of Louis missed it, a little tired of the East Coast bluntness disguised as cheerful teasing.
As they buried his daddy, he felt that throb again, but it traveled the entirety of his body and stopped at the base of his skull. Grace sniffled beside him, so he held her hand tighter as the well-wishers sang hymns to help guide Daddy’s soul to heaven. Or that’s what he hoped it would do.
“Amen.” The priest said.
It stamped an air of finality. Louis’s throat clenched.
Daddy was really gone. He was gone for good.
Louis had known this for a long time now. He’d known it three weeks ago when he woke up from a startling dream where Daddy drowned in a dark, murky lake and Louis couldn’t reach him no matter how much he tried. It wasn’t the first time he’d had dreams which revealed pockets of a distorted future, but that one was so vivid it sunk into his consciousness with sharp claws he couldn’t pretend to ignore. After that, he tried to call Daddy for the first time in months but didn’t get a reply, so Louis let it go despite his lingering unease.
Then a week after that Grace called him on his way to work in heaving sobs to say Daddy was in the ER. He immediately called off to book a flight to NOLA, but less than an hour later she confirmed he didn’t make it.
Some fluid buildup in his lungs caused by his underlying heart condition made it hard to breathe and then cut off his oxygen completely, the doctor said.
It was also known as dry drowning.
So yeah, Louis knew all this time that his father had long departed from the mortal coil. But seeing his casket bathed in dark soil was too heavy of a confirmation.
After the service, there was a reception at Louis’s childhood home. Mama was too distraught to be a proper hostess, so her sister Rochelle took over without prompting.
Rochelle was a forceful woman. She was domineering like Mama but had none of the charm to smoothen her authoritarian edges. Less than ten minutes after they arrived at the house, she had everyone setting up chairs in the large living room and unloading food in the kitchen.
“Grace, come help me get the chafing burners to keep the food warm,” she directed at Louis’s little sister.
“Yes, Aunty,” Grace replied, but contorted her face into a grimace the moment Aunt Rochelle’s back was turned. She turned to Louis with a pleading expression. “She’s gon keep me in the kitchen all night.”
Louis smiled at her annoyance. He patted her shoulder. “Help her a bit, then you can sneak away once she’s yelling at someone for overcooking the dirty rice or something.”
“That the feminist theory they taught you at Massachusetts? How to leave your sister behind in an oppressive, patriarchal system? She only asked me because I’m a girl, which is so sexist on so many levels.” Grace folded her arms across her chest, regarding him with an unimpressed look.
Louis grinned, shaking his head. “I studied Econ, remember? Not Women’s Studies. Sides, she only making you do one thing.”
“Grace! Go grab the sweet tea and ice from my car, too!” Aunt Rochelle called out behind them.
Grace’s miserable face was both humorous and sympathetic to behold.
She eventually left to do as she was told, leaving Louis alone to make his rounds. He gathered condolences and well wishes from everyone with a stiff nod and a clinical smile.
Father Matthias thanked him for the last donation with a pat on the shoulder and Louis told him it was no problem, despite knowing nothing about it. No doubt Mama had made it right before Daddy passed. Mr. Morris from the post office told him Daddy was a great man who loved his children, although Louis knew his father never exchanged words with the man.
It continued in that fashion until he reached Mama and Paul seated on a couch. Paul was mumbling something that sounded like Bible verses to her under his breath while she sat looking as serene as ever.
Untouchable, that was Florence de Pointe du Lac. Even in the face of tragedy, she remained poised as ever. Louis used to admire that about her, wondering how she maintained an impenetrable shield when he struggled not to let all his emotions come out at once. It took him well into adulthood to realize many things penetrated it, but she did a good job of pretending.
He swallowed hard, bracing himself for an uncomfortable interaction. “Do you need some water, Mama? Aunt Rochelle is setting up the food now so you can grab a bite.”
Florence regarded through the brim of her hat, her red-rimmed eyes slanted in disinterest. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”
“Would you like a glass of water?”
She delicately placed her black lace hand fan on her lap. He remembered it was the one Daddy surprised her with for their anniversary years ago when he took her to Brazil. “No, thank you.”
Louis stood there for a second longer, wondering what more he could say. He wanted to say something, to break this strange membrane that enveloped them ever since he arrived. But the magic word to evaporate his mother’s resentment and the pain they endured from this loss did not make itself present on his tongue.
So he said nothing.
He nodded to Paul, who gave him a crooked smile in response and then turned on his heels. Behind him, he distantly heard Mama say something to Paul that sounded like, “Can you get me some water?”
The clattering of utensils and the gargling of boiling pot greeted him when he reentered the kitchen. He spotted Grace from the corner of his eye, pouring a jug of lemonade into glasses on a tray.
“Louweee,” said his other Aunty Veronique. Her accent was thicker than he remembered, the way she stretched the latter syllables. Something about it jolted him into a nostalgic haze after years of hearing his name from clipped New England tongues. Lewis. Louweis. Loueh.
“Yes, Aunty.”
Veronique was his aunt on his daddy’s side. She wasn’t as bossy as Aunty Rochelle, but had bullish tendencies of her own.
“Have you seen your cousin, Belmond? I sent him almost twenty minutes to get me a can of condensed milk from the corner store, but he ain’t back yet.”
Louis shook his head gracefully. “Not at all, ma’am. I’ll send him your way if I see him.”
Her thick brow raised in suspicion. “You not staying?”
“I am,” Louis assured. He noted how quickly she assumed he was ready to high tail and wondered if everyone had that assumption about him. He wondered how long Mama wailed to anyone who’d listen about her runaway firstborn who broke his parent’s heart by choosing a college out of state and then choosing to live far away from his family after graduation, effectively abandoning them. There was a kernel of truth in it, but is it running away when you have no choice? When to remain means letting the walls close in on him until he’s nothing but a stagnant cube of flesh? A shell of a man?
Louis didn’t think she added that part of the tale.
Aunty Veronique eyed him from head to tail as if he were a stranger whose image she wanted to commit to memory. This Louis might as well be a stranger to her.
“Make sure you grab a plate, child. You looking too thin.”
With that, she left him to go pour her attention on some other poor devil who was stirring the dirty rice all wrong while Louis stood unmoving, trying not to feel like a stranger in the house he’d spent eighteen years in.
After the reception died down and everyone was on their way home with a saran-wrapped plate in hand and lots more stuffed in the fridge, Louis made his way to Daddy’s study where the family lawyer, Carl Dupree, was waiting.
Carl was a short, plump man in his fifties with neatly barbed hair and a stiff bow tie. He looked no different from when Louis was a boy; in fact, it was a running joke between himself and Grace that Carl might be a vampire who just walked in the daylight. Unlike the ones on TV who wore tight leather and dyed their hair vibrant colors, his costume of choice was a tan suit, making him the most boring vampire in history.
Paul never liked those jokes. “We shouldn’t call a nice man like Mr. Dupree a vampire,” he’d always say, as if calling someone a vampire was the highest injustice there was. Louis wondered how all the actual vampires might feel about that. Vamp rights back then weren’t what they are now, but there were always the hardline activists who crucified people for implications like that even back then.
“Louis, my boy, good to see you again,” Carl nervously tapped a file on the large desk.
“Long time,” Louis said wearily, taking a seat. “You said you wanted to talk about the will?”
Carl cornered him before the funeral quickly, saying he wanted to talk about his daddy’s instructions once the day ended. He assumed it was about the will, but the reading wasn’t until tomorrow, and it would make no sense to exclude the rest of the family.
The lawyer adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses lens. “It’s not about that, although that will come into play. What you need to know is that the sugar factory is closing down.”
Louis’s eyes widened. “What? How?”
Carl adjusted his glasses again, opening the file he was fidgeting with earlier. It was as thick as a forearm. “Your Daddy took out another loan to keep operations going, but that only bought a few months’ worth of time before everything has to close. Almost all our supply contracts are terminated, leaving us with pounds of products we can’t do anything with. I proposed selling them for a quarter of the normal price just to free up the warehouse space.”
All the information came like a freight train. Louis took a seat to gather his thoughts. “How did it get this bad?”
Carl had a solemn look but tried to keep track of the documents he was showing Louis. “The last few years have been up and down in terms of profit, but your father always managed. The past few months, however, were the worst we’ve ever had.”
Louis scanned all the documents, trying to digest exactly what happened to his family’s business. He saw unpaid wages, interrupted production for a multitude of reasons, and denied loan applications. His entire world crumbled from just a few printed words on paper.
He always admired Daddy’s business sense. To Louis, he was the man to look up to in all things. His decision to study Economics at the University of Massachusets was in part to live up to his father’s expectations and perhaps exceed them. And yet, here was proof that his beloved father made mistakes that would cost his living family left behind.
Here was his father's legacy, staring him in the face.
It took hours to sort through everything Carl brought and to study the papers for himself.
“Where does this leave the family?” Louis asked roughly.
“Your daddy thankfully had a rainy day fund set aside. It’s enough to take care of Paul’s treatments for the next three years and manage the house upkeep for a few months.”
“What about Grace’s tuition?”
Carl pointed to a piece of paper on the table. “Her freshman year is all paid up for Tulane, but you might need to look at loans for the rest of her college career.”
Louis swallowed hard. “And Mama?”
“There’s enough to keep her in the lifestyle she’s accustomed to for a short while before a solution comes up, but with her normal spending habits, I’m afraid that might be gone in months instead.”
This was all too much. “Does she know about this?”
Carl looked ashamed at the question. He looked down at his hands. “Your daddy didn’t like to bother her with the details of business, so this will come as a shock.”
That was an understatement.
Louis held his head in both hands as if that might offset the sudden weight on his shoulders.
Daddy, what did you do?
Was it foolish to wish to talk to a dead man? Louis imagined millions of people had that same desire to get answers to questions they never even knew to ask. He wondered if all this happened because he wasn’t here, that if his father had a right-hand man to rely on apart from Carl, none of this would have happened. Louis would have spotted this. He would have a solution before things got this bad.
This might be the ramblings of hindsight, but he had nothing else to comfort him.
The silence in the study stifled him. Louis eventually got up and then wore his black suit jacket, straightening the creased edge. Carl looked at him, puzzled. “‘Where are you going?”
“To get a drink. I ain’t going to solve all this tonight and I’m sure it’ll still be staring me down tomorrow.”
The house rest of the house was silent. Louis wrongly assumed that everyone had gone to sleep but realized his error when he saw his mother standing in the foyer wearing her night robe. Her hands were crossed together and her expression was tight. Her footsteps had always been silent, which made it hard to get away with the devious activities in his room as a teen, like reading dirty magazines and listening to rap.
“Leaving already?” she asked, but it came off more like a flat declaration.
Louis sighed, praying for a peaceful exit for once. “I’m just stepping out for some air, Mama.”
Florence didn’t relent in her steel gaze. “That’s what you always do. Leave your family behind when it’s convenient.”
“Mama, please—”
“Your father was heartbroken because of you.” her voice broke and his heart went along with it. “That’s why he died. All that heartbreak compounding from his first child abandoning him finally did him in.”
Louis clenched his fist and then unclenched it. His mind was an airless fog, and he was grateful for it because that meant he didn’t have any processing power to intake the words his mother had just spoken. Instead, he cleared his throat and looked down at the hardwood floors of the foyer.
“I’m going to get some air.”
He walked past her, eyes locked on the door and nothing else, and then left the house, closing the door as gently as possible.
The French Quarter had changed little since Louis’s departure when he was eighteen. Not that he got to explore much in those days when curfew was tighter than a nail in wood.
He picked a random bar, some tourist trap with overdone jazz paraphernalia, and an in-house band that played all the popular Louis Armstrong joints. It was loud, and that was good. Louis needed the distraction to keep his thoughts at bay for a while. He’d have all of tomorrow to deal with them.
“Can I get a Johnnie Walker?” Louis asked the bartender before plopping himself onto a red stool top. There was no one on that side of the bar, which was a relief.
The bartender poured it with professional ease and then slid it to him. “That’ll be $10.25.”
Louis handed her his credit card. “Open a tab for me, please.”
After the current song ended, a light skin woman in a long suede black dress came on stage to grip the mike in both hands and started crooning an Ella Fitzgerald classic. Which one, Louis couldn’t remember. His head was already swimming in a haze of liquor. He didn’t drink much, preferring to keep a clear head with work. His coworkers didn’t understand why he never wanted to blow off steam with them in the bars after work, but he wasn’t a fan of their brand of fun.
Resting at home with a good book was his idea of debauchery, but he hadn’t even done that in weeks. His Kindle sat in his luggage in the hotel where it remained untouched since his arrival.
The singer hit a note that fetched her a few scattered claps from the audience. She was good, but jazz wasn’t really Louis’ thing.
“Lots of potential, but very scattered in execution. You can tell she takes the occasional smoke break, which is where that slight rasp comes from,” an unfamiliar voice said beside him. Louis didn’t realize someone had taken that spot.
He turned to see a white man with long blonde hair that curled at the tips in a white shirt and blue jeans. “Excuse me?”
The man gestured to the stage. “I was talking about the singer.” he had a European accent; some strange amalgamation of French and Italian, but heavier on the former.
Louis looked back at the stage. “Oh, right? I guess.”
“You disagree?”
It took him another few seconds to realize he was being coaxed into a conversation. Louis took a sip of his drink. “Not really my thing. If you don’t mind, I’m trying to drink alone.”
“Oh, pardon me. I did not mean to disturb you.”
“Thank you.”
Blessed silence for a few minutes. And then “Are you a native or just visiting?”
Louis exhaled, dropping his tumbler back on the bar top. “You were one of those kids in kindergarten that won’t rest until everyone’s part of the game, ain’t you?”
The man blinked. His eyes were a startling green. “I don’t understand what you mean. I did not do my schooling in America, I’m afraid.”
“It’s a universal phenomenon, I believe. You like to talk to a lot, is what I meant.”
The stranger wasn’t offended by Louis’ blunt tone. The corners of his mouth quirked up into a smile that lit up his entire face. Even in his mood, Louis could see he was a good-looking fella. More than that, even. “You’re not the first one to lodge such a complaint. I’ve been hearing that since I was much smaller.”
“And you didn’t think to change up?”
The stranger cocked his head sideways. “Why should I? Should a bird stop flapping its wings simply because the sound disturbs a few cretins in its surroundings?”
Louis raises both hands up in surrender. “Alright, my bad. I’m sorry if that came off rude.”
“I will forgive you on one condition. If you let me buy you a drink.”
Louis curled his bottom lip, glancing at his empty glass. “Depends. You gonna talk the whole time?”
Those green eyes sparkled. It reminded Louis of a Christmas bauble, all sparkly and big. “Of course.”
The strange man turned his stool, so he was facing Louis head-on. “You never answered my question.”
“I’m from here but on a visit. I live in Boston,” Louis replied.
“That’s quite a way,” the stranger remarked. “Are you happy to be home?”
That was an entire can of worms. Louis chuckled without mirth, playing with his second glass of whiskey. “It’s bittersweet. Came home for my dad’s funeral.”
Sympathy immediately clogged the atmosphere that made Louis regret even saying anything. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
He waved it off, unhappy with how thoughts of the previous hour were now creeping back. Louis took another gulp of whiskey to push them back to the periphery of his mind. “It’s fine. That’s life, isn’t it? You live and then you die. Sometimes, you also accumulate a shit ton of debt for your family, but that’s neither here nor there.”
A little personal for a five-minute introduction, but the stranger took it in stride. “I understand some of that. My father also squandered the family’s fortunes, leaving us in a difficult state for years.”
“So, what did you do? I wouldn’t mind some advice,” Louis grinned, half joking.
“I made my own wealth. A long process, but a rewarding one in the end.”
That got him a scoff. Louis traced the rim of his glass with his forefinger. “Of course, you’d say something like that, white boy. Did you have fairy godparents to help?”
“No, but several years to perfect the craft. I understand I’m lucky in that manner.” He took no offense to Louis’ teasing at all, answering him in earnest. It actually made Louis feel a little bad because he seemed like a nice guy, despite being a little strange.
“I’m Louis.”
“Lestat, pleased to make your acquaintance, Louis.” He seemed pleased to know Louis’ name. It rolled off his tongue sonorously.
They chatted for a while after that. Lestat had a repertoire of interesting stories, which he used to fascinate Louis into forgetting all his problems for a while. A bit odd but very refreshing, Louis found himself enjoying someone else’s company for the first time in a long time. That it was a handsome man’s company didn’t hurt either, although he got hints that Lestat might have some inclination toward men.
He didn’t take his eyes off Louis once during their conversation. It was a while since Louis tried to engage in anything romantic, years in fact, but he wasn’t blind to knowing where someone was interested in him. Not to mention that Lestat’s many compliments made it more obvious than a signboard propped in his face.
The bartender came back with another drink for Louis and addressed Lestat with a bored look. “Can I get you anything?”
“Yes, an O-negative NuBlood, please.”
That gave Louis a pause. Lestat was as calm as he’d been all night and the bartender took his order without so much as a flinch.
“You’re a vampire.” He was proud of how steady his voice remained.
“Yes.” Lestat’s eyes never left his. Pretty and luminescent, like the church windows at St Augustine’s. “I did say I’ve been here for quite some time.”
Louis let out a rough chuckle. “That’s an understatement.”
“Are you afraid of me?”
He allowed the question to wash over him with a pause. The pause let him dig deep for the truth this time. Lestat wasn’t the first vampire Louis has ever met in his life. Boston and other places away from the South had a more carefree attitude toward them than Louisiana—there was a vampire council member in the city council he volunteered at during undergrad, and his visiting Linguistics professor was an Argentinian nonbinary vampire who learned over 20 languages in the course of their hundred year existence. His former roommate at MassU dated one for a few weeks and once showed him an unhealed bite mark on his thigh that his fling enjoyed leaving.
Lestat was different, though. Just a mere minute with him was enough to ascertain that he wasn’t like all the others Louis has met so far. Maybe it was his carefree attitude that cloaked it for a bit, but he had the air of a predator about him.
His eyes never left Louis.
“I think I should be, but I’m not. Though I’d say you should take that with a grain of salt because today’s not my most coherent day if you catch my drift,” Louis finally said. “That being said, I’m not one of those anti-vamp nuts. Far from it.”
“I didn’t think you’d be,” Lestat said softly. His knee brushed Louis’s, sending a pleasant shiver through him. “If you are not afraid of me, then I should not be afraid to say I’ve wanted you since I laid eyes on you tonight.”
Louis felt his mouth go dry, but it wasn’t unpleasant. He exhaled through his nose, his heart rate speeding with each second ticking. There is recklessness in grief, he knows. But he doesn’t want to use that as an excuse for this. Or maybe it is. All Louis knows is that he wanted to know what Lestat’s lips on his would feel like.
“I got a hotel room a few blocks away,” he finally says.
Those were the magic words because Lestat sprung to his feet immediately.
“One condition though.”
“Anything,” Lestat said without hesitation. Louis saw the tip of his left fang peeking or was that his imagination? From what he could remember from a Nat Geo issue, vampires can’t talk properly with their fangs out.
He leaned forward to whisper in Lestat’s ear. “No biting.”