Chapter Text
✦•✦•✦
The keys felt heavy in my hand as I turned the deadbolt, the rhythmic click of the lock usually bringing a sense of relief after a gruelling shift at the university media center. I pushed the door open, ready to drop my bag and collapse into the quiet safety of my apartment.
Instead, I froze.
The kitchen light was on, casting a warm, sharp glow across the hardwood floor. Sitting at my small dining table, bathed in the overhead light, was a man who didn't belong in my apartment—or in this decade.
Daniel Molloy didn’t look like the cynical, weary journalist my uncle had traded leads with back in the nineties. He’d aged physically, yes, but he seems changed. He sat terrifyingly still in the wooden chair, the harsh glare of his laptop screen bouncing off his eyes—eyes that now held a sharp, unnatural clarity beneath his glasses.
There was no tremor in his fingers anymore. No signs of the Parkinson’s he used to battle. Just a cold, predatory grace that he wore like a poorly fitted coat.
He closed the laptop with a soft click and looked up.
"Hey kid, long time no see," Daniel said, his voice still gritty and laced with that classic, abrasive Chicago candor, but carrying a new, resonant depth that vibrated right through the soles of my shoes. "Your Uncle doing okay?"
I closed the door behind me, letting the lock click back into place. I didn't run. I didn't scream. I just leaned my back against the wood, looking at the unnatural way his eyes caught the light, and let out a long, tired sigh.
"Uncle Leo called me the second he found out you were back in New York, Daniel," I said softly, my voice steady despite the adrenaline humming in my veins. "He told me everything. I know what you are, and what happened to you. An ancient vampire by the name of 'Armand' turned you, blah blah."
Daniel’s posture stiffened just a fraction, his gaze sharpening behind his lenses. He evaluated me, looking for the telltale signs of human terror—the spike in blood pressure, the frantic breathing. But he didn't find them.
"And you're still standing in the room?" Daniel asked, his voice dropping into a low, cautious register. "You read my book, Y/N. You know what I'm capable of now. You should be halfway down the fire escape."
"I'm not afraid of you," I said, finally stepping away from the door and letting my heavy bag slide off my shoulder onto the counter. I looked him dead in the eye. "You've been looking out for me since I was a kid. When my dad walked out, you were the one who made sure Uncle Leo and I had enough to cover rent. You bought me my first professional camera when I graduated. You’re the closest thing to a father I’ve ever had, Daniel. I don't care if you don't have a heartbeat anymore. You're still you."
A heavy, complex silence settled over the kitchen. For a second, the cold, immortal mask Daniel was wearing seemed to fracture, revealing the weary, fiercely protective journalist underneath. He looked away, a grim, self-deprecating smirk touching his lips as he rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"God, you're as stubborn as your uncle," he muttered, though the tension had bled out of his shoulders. He reached down and tossed a heavy, leather-bound folder onto the kitchen table. "If you're not going to run, then sit down. We have a problem, and I need the best media researcher I know to help me fix it."
I stepped into the kitchen and pulled out the chair opposite him, sitting down at my own table. "What kind of problem?"
"I’m directing a comprehensive documentary project. A real-time, definitive record on Lestat de Lioncourt," Daniel explained, leaning forward. "The rock star. The one plastering his face on billboards. He's the real deal, Y/N, but he's a performer. He lies, he exaggerates, he romanticizes. I need an assistant who can look at his theatricality and find the cold, hard reality underneath it. I need someone to help me draft the interview questions, run the backup cameras, look for the gaps in his story, and gather the physical research to back it up."
He tapped the folder, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that felt heavy, almost magnetic.
"A standard researcher would lose their mind working for me, let alone sitting across an interview table from Lestat. But you know the stakes out there. You can look at a monster and keep your finger on the record button. Six months. Double your current salary. Discretion is non-negotiable. You’ll be right there with me in the room, holding the mic, writing the questions, looking the bastard in the eye."
I reached out, my fingers hovering over the edge of the leather folder. "Double the university's rate, plus a budget for encrypted cloud storage and top-tier audio equipment. If I'm recording a vampire, I want to capture every single lie in high fidelity."
A genuine, sharp laugh broke from Daniel's chest—the most human thing about him since I'd walked through the door. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek black pen, sliding it across the table toward me.
A genuine, sharp laugh broke from Daniel's chest—the most human thing about him since I'd walked through the door. He reached into his jacket pocket, but instead of a pen, he pulled out a neatly folded, crisp document and slid it across the table toward me.
"Done," he said, tapping the pages. "There’s your contract. Take it, read it tomorrow morning when you've actually had some sleep, and sign it if you're in."
He stood up from the wooden chair in a single, fluid motion that didn't make a single sound. He grabbed his laptop, tucking it under his arm, and walked toward the apartment door with that new, effortless predatory grace. Before he reached for the handle, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips.
"Make sure to pack enough clothes for six months," Daniel said, his voice dropping into that familiar, protective rasp. "I'll see you in Detroit, kid."
✦•······················•✦•······················•✦
The echo of a heavy, suffocating darkness was the only thing grounding me to reality when I jolted awake, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs from a nightmare I couldn't quite shake. I sat at my kitchen table, nursing a lukewarm mug and staring at the crisp white pages of the contract Daniel had left behind. My signature wasn't on it yet, but the ink felt inevitable.
I reached for my phone, entirely out of habit, hoping the mindless hum of the internet would drown out reality.
Instead, I opened my phone, and the screen practically bled neon pink and gothic font. ‘The Vampire Lestat’.
I swiped onto my social media feed, and a sponsored video automatically started playing. It was a high-production, dizzying montage of stadium lights, screaming crowds, and heavy bass lines that vibrated through my tiny phone speaker. And there, right in the center of the chaos, was Lestat de Lioncourt. He was leaning into a microphone, his face cast in sharp, dramatic shadows, a shock of blond hair falling perfectly over his eyes as he bared a pair of elongated, gleaming fangs to a crowd that thought it was all just a brilliant marketing gimmick.
The caption read: THE NIGHT ISLAND TOUR. TICKETS SELLING OUT WORLDWIDE. DETROIT – N1 & N2.
I rolled my eyes, closed the app, and opened YouTube, looking for a video to calm my nerves before I had to start packing. It didn't matter. A five-second unskipping pre-roll ad slammed onto the screen. It was a close-up of Lestat’s face, his eyes shifting with an unsettling, glassy clarity under the harsh stage lights. He wasn't looking at the crowd; he was looking straight into the camera lens, an arrogant, breathtaking smirk cutting across his face.
"Are you ready to hear the truth, ma chère?" his voice purred, dripping with a thick, melodic French accent that sounded entirely too intimate for a public advertisement.
I locked my phone and tossed it face-down onto the table next to the contract. It was terrifying how seamlessly he had integrated into the modern world. He wasn't hiding in the dark corners of the French Quarter anymore; he was buying up baseline ad space, manipulating algorithms, and turning his immortal existence into a viral trend. He was daring the world to believe him, knowing they’d just buy a concert ticket instead.
Daniel was right. Lestat was a performer, a massive liability, and an ego waiting to burn the world down.
I pulled a black pen from my pocket, flipped to the final page of the contract, and signed my name on the dotted line. If I was going to lose my mind chasing the things that went bump in the night, at least I’d be doing it with the closest thing to a father I had left.
I stood up, drained the rest of my tea, and dragged my heavy suitcase out from the back of the closet.
Detroit was waiting.
✦•✦•✦