I felt him before I saw him.
It wasn't cold this time.
It was weight—the way a room feels when someone important enters it, even if no one turns around.
The funeral procession moved slowly through the street, black coats and bowed heads flowing like a single organism. I walked near the back, my steps measured, my eyes lowered—until the sensation sharpened.
There, my mind said.
I lifted my gaze.
He wasn't close. He didn't need to be.
He walked apart from the others, just beyond the neat lines of grief, as if proximity were optional to him. His coat was dark, his posture relaxed in a way that spoke not of ease, but of certainty. The city seemed to give him space without being asked.
My breath caught.
There was no mistaking him.
Not because of beauty alone—though he had it in dangerous abundance—but because of presence. He didn't move like someone attending a funeral. He moved like someone observing a moment that belonged to him as much as it did to the dead.
Lestat, my mind said, clear as a bell.
And then—unguarded—wonder followed.
So this is you.
I studied him as I walked, careful to keep my distance, my eyes tracing details with the reverence of recognition. His hair caught the light just so. His expression was unreadable from here, but there was a looseness in his stride that spoke of someone who had learned to survive every judgment.
You're more real than I imagined, I thought.
Less monstrous. More... alive.
I didn't know—couldn't know—that thoughts like these did not stay private around him.
Lestat de Lioncourt felt the brush of her curiosity the way one feels a fingertip against the back of the neck.
Not invasive.
Not loud.
Interested.
His step slowed by half a beat.
I kept walking, my heart pounding now—not from fear, but from awe. From the strange intimacy of watching someone who had once been confined to pages and screens exist in the same air I breathed.
You loved him, I thought, the idea forming gently, without accusation.
Even when he couldn't love you back properly.
That thought—soft, empathetic—landed.
Lestat stopped.
Just for a moment.
The procession flowed on, unaware, but he turned his head slightly, his gaze cutting sideways—not toward my face, but toward the shape of my attention.
I felt it then.
The unmistakable sensation of being seen.
Not looked at.
Seen.
My breath hitched. I dropped my gaze instantly, my pulse roaring in my ears. Don't be stupid, I told myself. You're nobody. You're just—
Just a girl in a boy's clothes.
Just a misplaced mind.
Just another mourner.
I walked on, forcing my steps steady, forcing my thoughts down into something dull and ordinary.
But behind me, Lestat watched the retreating line of my shoulders with narrowed eyes—and a spark of something he hadn't felt in a very long time.
Recognition.
Not of a face.
But of a difference.
He smiled, slow and thoughtful, as the city closed around us both.
🩸
He slowed.
Not because the crowd thinned.
Not because the bells stopped ringing.
But because Louis was there—just ahead, speaking quietly to a relative, his back straight, his grief wrapped tight around him like armor.
I saw it happen before I understood it.
Lestat took a step forward.
Only one.
That was all it took.
I didn't think.
I didn't plan.
I just moved.
My hand closed around his sleeve.
It was a stupid thing to do.
A dangerous thing.
The moment my fingers touched him, I knew it.
Lestat stopped.
Slowly, he turned his head and looked down at my hand as if it were something curious, unexpected. Then his eyes lifted to my face.
Amused.
Bright.
Very awake.
"Well," he said lightly, "there you are."
My breath caught.
I released him at once, my heart racing, but the words spilled out anyway—soft, shocked, as if I couldn't believe I was saying them.
"No," I said. "Not now. Not today."
He blinked once.
The corner of his mouth lifted.
The little chicken finally showed her claws.
"And why," he asked pleasantly, "should I listen to you?"
His voice wasn't angry.
It wasn't cold.
It was entertained.
I swallowed. Every instinct screamed at me to run. Instead, I lifted my chin and looked straight into his eyes.
Because if I looked away now, I would never forgive myself.
"Because," I said, steadying my voice, "if you go to him tonight... you will ruin him."
The smile faded.
Not completely.
Just enough.
Lestat studied me—really studied me now. Not my clothes. Not my face. Something deeper.
"You speak as if you know him," he said softly.
"I think I do," I answered. "And I know what this night will make him if you don't leave him alone."
The air tightened between us.
Louis laughed suddenly somewhere ahead—short, brittle, wrong. The sound cut through me like a warning.
I didn't look away.
"If you touch him now," I said, quieter, "he won't grieve. He'll break. He'll cling to you instead of facing it. And later, he'll hate you for it."
Lestat's eyes darkened.
"And you know this... how?"
I hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then I chose truth—not the whole truth, but the honest kind.
"Because he loves deeply," I said. "And when he's wounded, he doesn't know how to stop bleeding."
Silence.
Then Lestat laughed—low, surprised, not unkind.
"My," he murmured. "You are a bold little thing."
He leaned closer, just enough that I could smell him—something old, something clean, something dangerous.
"And what," he asked, "do you think I should do instead?"
My hands trembled, but I didn't step back.
"Walk away," I said. "Just for tonight."
Lestat straightened.
For a long moment, he looked past me—to Louis, to the family, to the coffin.
Then he exhaled.
"Very well," he said lightly. "Just tonight."
He stepped back.
My knees nearly gave out.
As he turned to leave, Lestat glanced at me over his shoulder, his eyes glittering.
"But," he added, "you and I are not finished."
And then he was gone—slipping into the city like he had never been there at all.
I stood frozen, my heart pounding, one thought ringing through my mind:
What have I done?
🩸
Lestat de Lioncourt did not go to Louis that night.
Or the next.
Or the one after.
He told himself it was patience.
He told himself it was restraint.
In truth, he was curious.
You know him, the girl had said.
You know what this night will make him.
So Lestat decided to test that claim.
Not with teeth.
Not with presence.
With distance.
🩸
The notes began to arrive at the de Pointe du Lac residence three days after the funeral.
I marked the time without meaning to. Three days felt deliberate. Long enough for silence to settle. Short enough that grief hadn't yet learned how to disguise itself.
Before the first one was sent, I stopped a servant in the hallway, my voice low and careful.
"If a note like this is delivered," I said, passing him a folded page, "I want to know if it is thrown away."
He nodded. Loyal. Discreet.
When the answer came back that evening—It was taken inside—I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
Not dismissed.
The first note read:
Grief is not a wound to be closed. It is something you learn to carry.
I told myself it was harmless.
Gentle.
Safe.
The second note took longer.
I stared at the paper for nearly an hour before folding it. My fingers hovered, uncertain.
What if this one angers him?
What if he thinks it cruel?
I almost burned it.
Instead, I sent it.
The next day, the servant returned again. "It was read," he said simply.
No more details.
My chest tightened.
The second note said:
You do not owe strength to anyone. You are allowed to break.
I imagined Louis reading it—his jaw tightening, his eyes darkening, his pride resisting the permission it offered. I wondered if I had gone too far.
The third note was the hardest.
I didn't send it through a servant.
I tucked it myself into a prayer book during a quiet moment, my heart pounding as if I were committing a crime.
Later that evening, I walked past the de Pointe du Lac residence.
I told myself I was only passing through. That the route was convenient. That I expected nothing.
I slowed anyway.
The windows were dark. Heavy curtains drawn. No sign of life.
Still, I paused.
In my mind, I could almost see him—Louis sitting alone, lamplight low, unfolding the paper with careful hands.
I didn't see him.
Of course I didn't.
But I imagined the moment clearly enough that my throat tightened.
The third note read:
What happened was not your fault. You loved him. That matters.
Louis read them alone.
He did not show them to anyone.
Louis de Pointe du Lac sat at his desk long after midnight, the paper warm in his hands, his breath finally uneven for the first time since the burial.
And somewhere in the city, Lestat felt the shift.
Not relief.
Not peace.
But movement.