Chapter Text
The bookstore smelled of old paper, faint sweat, and perfume that’s too sweet, too intense - clearly chosen without regard for the atmosphere or other people. Shelves crammed to the brim with volumes seemed ready to collapse at the slightest sigh, yet they held firm. There was a crowd forming at the hall: impatient, yet respectful of the occasion - awe in their eyes and giggles are evident to anyone who bothers to pay enough attention. The warm glow of incandescent bulbs fell softly on book covers, on faces, on stacks bearing the bold title “Interview with the Vampire” - the new hit by veteran journalist Daniel Molloy, from whom no one had expected anything remarkable in what feels like years or even decades. That only made its success all the more dazzling, of course.
The air hummed with whispers, laughter, the rustle of pages, and anticipation. Someone was dressed as Claudia - in a costume surprisingly accurate, though perhaps not that surprisingly - both Louis and the author described it well on the pages of this new awful bestseller. Still, such dedication was almost admirable, even if he was certain Louis would’ve burst into tears and killed someone if he’d been here tonight. Well. Good thing he wasn’t Louis, then.
Armand sat at the very back of the room, nearly by the door, in a chair clearly meant for someone far shorter. His long legs stretched out before him, hands resting loosely on the armrests, and his gaze, hidden behind dark sunglasses, glided over the crowd. He hadn’t come for any of this. He’d come for one person and one person only.
But for now, he allowed himself to simply observe people around - nearly invisible, nearly forgotten. As always. Not quite an actor, but more like a director standing just behind the curtain. This role suited him like a second skin.
The thoughts swirling around him were as transparent - and as dull - as glass. Someone was thrilled at the prospect of meeting their favorite writer, perhaps a bit too enamored with the book. Someone else smirked inwardly, betting the author would be canceled at least three times tonight for another reckless joke or something of the sort. Others saw him as an old troll whose gag had gone too far - and someone chuckled to themselves, thinking the old man had truly lost his mind, believing he’d interviewed a real vampire instead of hallucinating at life’s twilight from illness or drugs. There were also people whose thoughts were occupied by the characters, some favored Louis, some Lestat, some Claudia. No one thought of him.
Of course. That was to be expected.
Armand sighed, his shoulders rising and falling theatrically - and then, finally, he appeared: the very man he’d come for. No, not merely come - he’d flown all the way from Dubai in his private jet just for this.
Daniel Molloy.
What an intriguing little thing.
He emerged unexpectedly - no announcement, no fanfare. He simply stepped out from behind the curtain as though stepping out of his own shadow. Gray curls, dark sunglasses, a leather jacket, black T-shirt. Hands steady, calm, betraying none of the tremors of age. What strange impulse had seized Louis to grant this man eternal life? Armand knew they’d met before, back in the seventies - the book mentioned it. Why wait fifty years to do something so drastic? And why turn someone only to let them wander freely afterward? He was here, and Louis was on the other side of the country with his husband. Or hold on, had they not yet reconciled after that dramatic fight on Tuesday? Was it Friday already? They’d probably made up by now. Not that it mattered.
Armand refrained from reading his thoughts, not wanting to be noticed too soon. Instead, he simply watched from the sidelines, his eyes never leaving the vampire, scrutinizing, intense. Daniel read aloud to the audience a passage from his book - one of many sharp, biting, yet astonishingly truthful excerpts about Louis and his relationship with Lestat. A few people laughed at certain lines; others merely smiled or whispered among themselves. Armand sat with one leg crossed over the other, one elegant hand resting on his knee, recalling how he himself had read this very book less than a month ago.
What a month it had been.
Having first learned of the book through an insistent iPad ad - and only later through vampire radio - he’d immediately ordered a copy online and had it delivered to his doorstep that same evening.
After thanking Rashid with a dismissive wave of his hand, he retreated to his room. Dressed in dark gray silk pajamas, with a glass of blood in hand, he sat inside his coffin and read the book sentence by sentence, chapter by chapter.
His fingers trembled as he turned certain pages. At one point, he drained the glass in a single gulp and let it shatter on the floor without even glancing away from a passage describing Paris. Louis had told this journalist everything, and Armand felt a seething fury, outrage, and emotions too tangled to name churn inside him. When he reached the page where Louis called him “boring as the suffocatingly beigest, softest pillow,” he tore it nearly in half, ripping it right out of the book. Bloody tears streamed down his tense, devoted face. Just three pages later - somewhere around Daniel’s musings about him - the book burst into flames in his hands and flew toward the window. He was furious.
He bought a second copy within the hour. Rashid delivered it to his room at dawn without a word and left quickly, unwilling to become the next thing accidentally incinerated in that room.
This second copy fared better - well, it wasn’t destroyed by fire, that is. But it was certainly mangled: some pages had been ripped out and glued back in; aggressive marginalia in tiny handwriting bloomed across the margins: “To peer into another’s soul through someone else’s eyes and presume to judge me - that’s just tactless, Mr. Molloy!” and “FUCK HIM, he tasted like vermouth!” and much more. Whatever didn’t fit in the margins had been scrawled onto colorful sticky notes, meticulously pasted between pages like they’d been aligned with a ruler. Some sentences were underlined in black gel ink; others were blacked out entirely with a soulless marker, as if censored. Claw marks scarred the cover. Red droplets - tears from his eyes - stained certain pages. He’d read the book in a frenzy, by daylight, never leaving his room, ignoring everything else, just reading and pacing, smoking cigarette after cigarette. He’d ripped out pages, crumpled them, hurled them across the room - then sniffled, rubbed his face with his palm, picked them up, and glued them back into place.
He read every word to the very last period, ravenous, and he wanted more. He hated the author, yet he longed to meet him, to throw this book in his face and demand how he dared - then drain him dry like he did with the newborn vampires he’d encountered before. Daniel Molloy. The name rolled off his tongue like bullets from a revolver, heels clicking sharply against parquet. Daniel Molloy. Who are you? Why you? What made you so fascinating?
When the Q&A began, Armand didn’t move - not even blinked. He listened as Daniel answered with sarcasm, weary wisdom, defiance - and sometimes with pain carefully masked as a joke. Irritated that no one believed him, that they all thought him a senile old fool. Armand almost smiled at that, lowering his head briefly before refocusing all his attention on the journalist.
Then came the signing.
Armand rose slowly, unhurried. He joined the end of the line, book in hand, he's relaxed and composed. He removed his sunglasses and tucked them into his coat’s breast pocket, listening as Daniel alternated between flirting with readers and tossing off curt remarks.
By the time only a couple of people remained between them, Daniel already sounded bored or exhausted; Armand waited patiently, a faint flutter of anticipation in his chest, as though something momentous were about to happen - even if it wasn’t.
The person ahead of him had his book slammed shut with a loud bang, Daniel said his relaxed “fuck you” parting words of politeness, and didn’t even look up, checking his watch instead.
Armand stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and something fascinating. The book landed on the table with a thud, inevitably drawing the author’s full attention.
Daniel raised an eyebrow and smirked, clearly assessing the battered state of the volume. It looked as though it had survived several wars and natural disasters.
“Well, this looks really fucking personal,” Daniel remarked with dry humor, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. He opened the book and flipped through a few pages curiously, muttering, “Even Lestat’s copy didn’t look this tortured…”
At that, as if struck by a sudden thought, he paused - then, after a beat of silence, lifted his head and really looked at Armand.
And - well. There it was.
He knows. Louis did his effort to describe him well enough, after all. And he didn’t put in his human-like contact lenses, so his eyes were disturbingly yellow. Hard to miss all the clues, and Daniel was a lot of things, but not dumb.
Armand met his gaze calmly. “Are you going to sign it?” he asked, his tone businesslike as their eyes locked. Armand felt Daniel squint, trying to peer into his mind - but the elder vampire merely smiled faintly in amusement, tilting his head and replying directly into his thoughts: “Now, you don’t actually think I let any curious soul to look into my head, do you, boy?”
Daniel flinched almost imperceptibly. His jaw tightened, his eyes sharp behind his glasses.
He regained his composure in a moment and picked up the pen from the table. “Alright. Sure,” he said tersely, flipping through the pages until he reached the first. “Who should I sign it for, again?” he asked - but Armand was certain he already had a guess. He was just hesitating. Nervous. Probably suspected he’d come to kill him. Understandable. Armand was somewhat surprised he hadn’t been killed yet, this little fledgling. Especially when his maker is too busy fucking his ex-or-not-really-an-ex-boyfriend-slash-husband-anymore. Curious.
Armand gave a quiet hum, his eyes flickering over him. He remembered the fragments from the book, just a few sentences, where Daniel had written his thoughts about him, not merely quoting Louis. He recalled every word as if it were a piano melody he’d spent decades practicing, bruising his fingertips on the keys. Daniel had written:
“Louis speaks of Armand with the condescending pity of a rich man tossing a coin to a beggar - not out of compassion, no, because then he might have given him a hundred dollars, or a grand, or a penthouse overlooking the sea - but simply to feel generous. ‘He was so needy,’ Louis sighed, as though neediness were a crime against good taste. One of many crimes he’d committed, of course; the worst? Probably not being Lestat”.
Elsewhere, there was more:
“‘Companion,’ Armand wanted to call Louis. ‘I don’t know, I just don’t think we have to label it,’ Louis shrugged. ‘You’re both hilarious,’ Lestat’s hallucination laughed from the chaise lounge, tossing popcorn at them.
You know the type. One good kiss and they’re already imagining a happy life together in a big house with a summer porch, an obedient dog in the backyard, and a couple of joyful children running around.
I try to remain objective when discussing people I’ve never even met, but I must admit - Louis’s and Claudia’s versions align on this. Louis calls him boring and needy. Claudia writes that he’s demanding and obsessive. ‘He was mad in the dullest sense of the word,’ Louis tosses in amid stories of their romantic strolls through Paris. Dull nights, dull weeks. Dull.
Well, to be fair, I suppose we have to cut Armand some slacks here. After all, it would be hard for anyone to reach the necessary level of madness Lestat set for Louis since the day one of their happy little romance. It’s like trying to quit heroin by switching to weed. It might seem like progress, but you’ll only feel worse from the withdrawal and new side effects. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about”.
He also wrote:
“Louis says Armand is a walking cliché. Present tense, I note - it’s not like with Claudia, where the narrative tense from the very beginning spoils the shock of the ending. That makes me wonder, so I ask, ‘Is this Armand still alive by any chance?’
Louis shrugs, indifferent. ‘I wouldn’t know. Haven’t tried contacting him since the early sixties.’
He’s lying, of course. I can see it. He does that often, Louis. It makes me chuckle and fall silent for a moment, letting the lie echo in the room, before continuing.
‘It’s just… I believe it would be interesting to add someone else’s perspective to this story, don’t you think?’ I say, and Louis looks at me like I’m a naive fool. He remarks that vampire law forbids recording vampire history, and that Armand has lived - and probably continues to live - by those rules to this very day.
‘He’ll kill you if he sees you,’ Louis says. Something in the way he says it makes me believe I don’t want to meet this guy”.
Armand watched him with a faint, empty smile playing at the corner of his lips. “For someone you didn’t want to meet, Mr. Molloy,” he said, his unblinking gaze fixed on Daniel’s hand as it paused for a moment before swiftly and confidently scrawling something inside the cover and snapping the book shut.
Daniel looked up, handing it back, his expression calm behind his tinted lenses. “Glad you liked the book,” he said, ever the humorist. “Honestly - I don’t think I have a more meticulous fan here, and, well, you’ve seen them”.
He waited for Armand to take the book, unfazed by the elder vampire’s penetrating stare.
The silence was deafening - but only amused Daniel even more. “Come on. You’ve probably read it a dozen times, went to the trouble of finding sticky notes, gel pens, permanent markers - the whole freaking set. It’s the most obsessive, student-like approach to material I’ve ever seen. No, truly impressive. You liked it, didn’t you?” he tilted his head slightly, an innocent smirk on his face - as if he knew he’d done something wrong but would get away with it anyway. He was a pretty boy in his youth, Armand realizes. Pretty boys often grow up into confident assholes.
Armand stared at him with an intensity that would’ve dried the throat of any ordinary human - but Daniel just kept smiling, waiting for a reply that never came.
The vampire rolled his eyes, snatched the book from his hands, turned on his heel, and stalked out.
Night had long fallen. The rain had passed, leaving the air damp. Halfway down the sidewalk, Armand nearly hurled the book into a puddle - but curiosity burned through him, so he stopped and opened it instead.
In bold, defiant handwriting, it read:
For the vampire Armand, my biggest fan.
Wanna grab a bite sometime?
He wanted to snap his fucking neck.
He clicked his heels sharply against the pavement until he ducked into an alleyway. He stood in the middle of the cracked asphalt, glaring at a metal door until - after five humiliatingly long minutes - it finally creaked open. Daniel had clearly grown tired of the relentless “come to me” pulsing in his mind like water torture, and so decided to bestow him with his presence at last.
The boy tried to look relaxed. He stepped into the dim light, easily spotting Armand, and casually removed his sunglasses, glancing around.
After a brief pause, he took a step forward, then another. Stopped two feet away.
“Well?” Molloy asked expectantly. Waited for a bit or two but was met with silence. “Are you gonna kill me, or are you here to finally give me your honest review?”
Armand stared at him.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he sighed and theatrically dropped the book into the puddle at their feet.
Daniel didn’t flinch, just smiled faintly, still watching. Amused.
The elder vampire shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I found it outrageous,” he said at last, chin lifting slightly. “Full of lies, half-truths, omissions, and spiteful remarks that reflect poorly not only on the characters you write about - but on you as well. You painted me as a naive fool, a boy pretending to be something greater than his small soul allows. You don’t even know me, yet you write such things about-”
“Oh, relax, kid,” Daniel cut in with a smirk, stepping closer. Armand shut up with shock in his eyes from the boldness of this baby fledgling. “This book isn’t about you. It’s about Louis - and the only reason I wrote about you is because seeing how Louis views the people in his life helps the readers understand him better. Don’t take it personally. Every place there where I’ve written about you? That was about Louis. Same with everything about Lestat, Claudia, everyone else. Just mirrors of him - which you should’ve understood yourself, actually, now that we mentioned it,” he emphasized the last part, bending to retrieve the soggy book from the puddle and flipping through its wet pages without hesitation. “Since you went to such meticulous lengths studying my book. I mean, sticky notes, really?” he chuckled, skimming lines with his eyes. “Oh, look at this,” he turned the book toward Armand with a toothy grin, showing a page aggressively scribbled over with chaotic black lines. “Those ‘boring boy’ accusations really got to you, huh?”
Armand glared as Daniel kept flipping through the pages, amused.
Daniel shook his head, still smirking. “That’s adorable- actually, can I keep this? I mean, at this point I think I have to start collecting those, who knows who else can show up next,” he snapped the book shut and looked up.
Armand’s expression darkened, and he sharply reached out, claws digging into the cover - leaving dents, punctures.
He caught Daniel’s thought: “Oh, you really do get attached to things real fast, don’t you?”
That made him scowl and yank the book back. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped, clutching it close to his chest - unaware of the gesture’s symbolism.
Daniel shrugged, hands back in his pockets. “Just a thought. If you don’t like hearing things like that you should just probably stay the fuck out of my head, you know”.
Then, after a moment, he tilted his head slightly, squinting. Armand stared back.
“Why are you here, Armand?” he finally asked the obvious. “Run out of places to vent your frustration after reading your ex-lover’s opinion of you? Not enough margin space? I can give you another copy - maybe even personalize it while we’re at it, you know. Call it the ‘Armand Edition’ - black out everything except your name here and there”.
The vampire looked unamused but answered anyway. “I was curious”.
“About what?” Daniel asks. “Like, what kind of idiots read my book? What I really think about you? What do I taste like? It could be a lot of things, Armand - be specific”.
“I was curious why Louis chose you of all people,” Armand says, cutting him off on the last syllable, his tone edged with impatience. He glances briefly at the puddle between them, then lifts his burning yellow eyes back to Daniel’s. “For the interview. For giving you our rare gift. You didn’t write that part in your book, and I felt I wasn’t getting answers to the questions I truly care about,” his voice is deliberately calm. “I wanted to know what makes you so… fascinating”.
“I didn’t write about it because it would’ve made my life even more complicated than it already is,” Daniel snaps, as if it’s obvious. “Telling people I interviewed a vampire is one thing - but saying he took pity on me after all these years and decided to grant me eternal life? Yeah, no thanks. That’s basically inviting every lunatic with a magnifying glass and a death wish to roast me with a fucking sunbeam or something”.
Armand says nothing, giving no visible reaction. Then, quietly: “Why did he turn you?”
Daniel sighs. “Why do you even care?” he asks - but meets that intense, depthless gaze, and without even trying to read his thoughts, suddenly understands. “Oh, wait - this is still about that ‘boring’ thing, isn’t it? You’re pissed that Louis found me interesting enough to track down after fifty years, but never called you back after you begged for forgiveness on your trembling knees?”
“Why did he turn you, Mr. Molloy?” the same question, firmer this time.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake - because I was fucking dying, okay?” Daniel rolls his eyes, hands still in his pockets as he steps sideways, casually circling Armand to pull out a pack of cigarettes. “And because it’s Louis. He’s impulsive. Obsessive. Ran a bunch of medical tests, confirmed I wouldn’t live long enough to finish the book he wanted me to write. Or maybe it was just another penny tossed at a beggar - I don’t know. I never really got a chance to crawl inside that sick, theatrical head of his, because, well, you know - he's kind of my maker now, and he's not fucking here,” he slips a cigarette between his lips.
Before he can even reach for his lighter, the tip ignites under Armand’s focused stare.
They lock eyes in silence for a few heartbeats. Then Daniel takes a drag and exhales smoke to the side. “I should ask again. Didn’t quite get a proper answer last time. Are you going to kill me?”
Armand’s gaze dips slightly as he considers it. “I don’t know yet,” he admits, honest.
Daniel studies him. Then: “Yeah. Sure. Fine. Whatever,” he says dismissively, taking another drag. “Well, let me know when you have this figured out”.
The vampire narrows his eyes slightly, tilts his head, and steps closer. “Louis wanted to tell his story,” he begins, fingers tightening slightly around the book. “I understand he chose you now because you’d already done it once before, spent a night listening to his endless vomit of words. And back in the seventies - he chose you simply because you offered. You were in the right place at the right time. He probably meant to fuck you and drink you dry afterward, but it didn’t happen. Why?”
Daniel exhales smoke to the side and shrugs. “I don’t know - maybe he thought I was too needy for his taste,” the joke slips out naturally, but he’s clearly still nervous, masking it with another drag.
The cold sunlight in the elder vampire’s eyes could scorch wheat fields. He steps even closer, too close, and lets his gaze trace Daniel’s face, down to his throat, then back to the cigarette between his lips.
Reaching out, he plucks it from Daniel’s mouth, flips open the book, and deftly thumbs to a specific page. Finding the line, he sighs softly before reciting:
“...I know he chose me that night just because I was an easy prey. No one would look for me. Just another junkie boy looking to trade his clever mouth for a free drink or a fix.
He meant to kill me that night, like he killed over a hundred boys like me that year in San Francisco. But somehow, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, fifty years later, I’m here, in his living room, listening to the same old nonsense he told me during that long, cocaine-and-blood-soaked night of September 1973.
Maybe it was something I said. I can’t be sure. Listening back to those tapes, I think I’d have killed me if I were him just for how many times I asked, ‘And then what?’ - because even now, the mere memory of it makes me cringe.
Still, maybe one of my bold little words struck a chord in his soul, or perhaps he was just too crushed by my honesty and cruelty. Depressed people eat less. That probably answers it”.
He finishes reciting - though he hadn’t really needed to read most of it; half the time he’d been staring into Daniel’s eyes, quoting flawlessly - and finally looks back down at the book. After a pause, he stubs the cigarette out on the corner of the page, then snaps the book shut with the smoldering butt trapped inside.
Molloy braces for another question or some fresh jab - and huffs slightly at being denied even the chance to finish his smoke. He’s so hungry.
Armand straightens, lowering the book to his side. “I’m curious. I have more questions for you - and you will answer them tonight,” he says as if Daniel has no choice. Daniel raises an eyebrow. “But,” Armand adds, glancing down, “for this conversation, I suppose we’d both be better off if your mind weren’t preoccupied with… hunger. Shall we get something to eat?” his eyes lifted again, relaxed and almost innocent.
“Wow, you’re just reading my mind, babe,” Daniel remarks with dry irony. “Literally,” he adds, pushing off the wall. “Fine. Is this the part where you say ‘I know a place,’ or are we just grabbing takeout?”
They end up in a bar. Daniel feels in his place, light, relaxed, acting as though the vampire who could end his life isn’t sitting inches away. They order two drinks for show; neither actually drinks. Daniel’s too hungry to wait long, scanning the room for someone suitable, nervously tapping a fingernail against the rim of his glass. Armand asks no questions - just sits directly across from him, eyes rarely leaving Daniel’s face.
Then, abruptly: “Do not even think about it”.
Daniel flinches and looks up, confusion in his eyes.
“That junkie over there,” Armand says calmly. “You’re not feeding on him tonight. I need your mind clear, Mr. Molloy”.
Molloy smirks. “Really? Or what?” he challenges, the words casual on his tongue. “You’ll kill me?”
“No,” Armand replies evenly, “because there won’t be an ‘or.’ You won’t feed tonight on anyone whose blood contains more than two martinies”.
That makes Daniel laugh - a short, sharp sound. “Oh yeah?” he sets his glass down and stands. “Well, watch me-”
He manages only one step toward the guy before something yanks him back with sudden, invisible force. He crashes into his chair, his legs refusing to obey, his body rigid as stone one moment - then utterly foreign the next.
Panic surges through him like electricity. He stares at Armand in terror. The vampire merely tilts his head, bored, claws idly scraping the surface of the old table.
“What the fuck are you doing to me?” Daniel whispers, voice trembling. This is nothing he’s ever felt before. Louis never did anything like this. He’d mentioned something vaguely similar - mind influence, crowd control - but this feels entirely new, alien. “I can’t feel my-”
“Body?” Armand finishes for him, tilting his head the other way, watching him with eerie calm. “Well, since you don’t seem to listen when spoken to, I suppose it won’t hurt to teach you some respect, boy,” he shrugs. “So that's the lesson”.
Daniel’s heart hammers wildly. This isn’t something you can prepare for - the total loss of bodily autonomy, worse even than when illness made his hands shake. It’s like being bound head to toe, able only to watch and tremble like a leaf in a storm - but not really.
Armand isn’t controlling where he looks, yet Daniel can’t look anywhere but into those eyes. Goosebumps prickle his neck. Makes an effort to move his finger, but to no avail. It’s like he can’t focus on any muscle in his body. All he feels is… some vibrations, maybe? Heat somewhere around him. A little suffocation.
For a moment, it seems as though Armand has plucked something specific from the chaotic storm of thoughts in Daniel’s mind - something that sparks genuine curiosity in him. His expression shifts subtly; he adjusts his posture in the chair.
“Hm,” he murmurs to himself. A faint smirk plays at the corner of his lips. “Interesting”.
“Get out of my head,” Daniel says, even though his body shudders under the weight of invisible, unbreakable ropes.
“No, no, it’s not about that,” Armand replies. “I just noticed something, that’s all”.
“What?” Daniel can see his own hands shaking on the table but can’t feel it.
“Two minutes have passed already, and you still haven’t asked me to stop,” Armand observes, watching him the way a cat watches a perfect new toy. Then, effortlessly slipping into his mind, his voice echoes inside the younger vampire’s thoughts: “Finding blessing in submission and humiliation. Is that what makes you so fascinating?”
“Okay,” Daniel exhales, tense. “Fine. I’m a freak, I’m a junkie, and I’m a journalist - and that should’ve already clued you in that curiosity is my cardinal sin. And hey, I appreciate new experiences, but I thought you wanted me to eat before answering your stupid questions”.
Armand holds that same gaze for what feels like an eternity but actually just ten seconds, and then blinks, releasing his hold.
Daniel’s body floods back with sensation, and it’s overwhelming. He's shaking.
Calmly, Armand takes a drag from his cigarette and lets his eyes drift over the crowd. Meanwhile, Daniel tests his fingers, touches his throat - exposed, vulnerable - feeling his pulse hammering loud and frantic beneath his skin. Fuck. That was… unusual.
“Go outside,” Armand says evenly, not even looking at him. “I’ll lure one out for you. Then we can go back to what matters,” he rises and glides toward a young man who’s already speechless - just from the sheer, angelic beauty of the creature addressing him.
Daniel briefly considers bolting. Call Louis. Hey, remember that pretty boy you had a fling with in France seventy years ago? The smoking hot, I mean, the boring one? Yeah, so, uh, he kinda showed up to kill me. Crazy, right? Perhaps a little help for your baby fledgling? No?
Yeah. That’s not happening.
Armand doesn’t even need to use his vampire powers on the man. His victim - a poor, naive kid who just wanted to fuck him and brag to his friends about it for years later - eagerly follows him into the alley behind the bar of his own free will.
Once outside, the vampire turns him around, tilts his head up with a smile, and lets a claw graze the boy’s neck, drawing a thin bead of blood. Then, with a gentle but firm shove of supernatural strength, he pins him against the wall, himself staying in place. A moment of confusion, a startled protest - Daniel watches skeptically as Armand simply waits, bored.
Finally, fledgling sighs, tired of the act, and in a blink appears right beside the boy, fangs sinking into his bleeding throat.
This might be his last meal, so he tries to savor it - but doesn’t kill him. He’s never been fond of blood on his hands; he prefers it inside him. He can almost hear Lestat calling him pussy for this kind of shit.
“Okay,” he breathes, letting the unconscious body slump to the ground. He tilts his head back, rolls his neck, wipes a smear of blood from his chin with his palm, then turns to Armand. “Fine. Let’s talk”.