Lestat:

Pointe du Lac. 1792.

Ladies and gentlemen, cue the opening backdrop to this little tale; the now very famous Louisiana plantation house that you’ve heard described before like the grand palace out of a sensational eighteenth century fairy tale.

Tonight’s succulent little memory begins with the grand parlor laid out like a decadent feast.

It was a true vampire's room. I have never believed I should deny myself any luxury. Penance is for sinners, and what an unpardonable sin against my conscience it would be to starve my eyes. Let’s let loose with a little self-indulgent prose, shall we? Let's set this opulent little scene before we dive right on in.

The walls were hung with imported silks. This was the very best damask you understand, the absolute finest that adorned the high walls of chateaus and great European houses, and which took on a ruby luster here in the sultry New World, blood-rich in the light of the crystalline chandelier which itself sparkled up high from the immaculate Italianate ceiling.

There were protests at the prohibitive cost of these recent and outrageous acquisitions, and you can well imagine who from. I wasn’t the one footing the bill and the owner could well afford it. Besides, he knew better than to oppose me. In fact, I think he secretly loved it, don’t you, this feast for the immortal senses, but I’ll come to all that.

The air was always thick with verdant damp and there was a constant scratching song from the secretive creatures outside. The plantation houses were a refined splash of European magnificence right on the edges of the primal soup of the swamp and seemed all the more brilliant and fragile and precious for that.

And monsters masquerading as gentlemen would dance in these faux miniature palaces sunk in a savage wilderness. How gorgeously fitting! This room had once held such parties. It now opened up to admit a single fiend.

Above me I could see the trembling of glass pendants with the sudden motion from the door I had thrown open, and pricks of candlelit fire showered me with blue shards of light. It always made me smile, entering that sumptuous room. It delighted me to see it so brilliantly lit.

There was something marvellously ethereal about the tremulous candle light and the necklace of delicate crystal that hung below it in the saturated and primitive gloom. Just walking into a room like this felt exactly like tripping in starlight and shadow, and tonight I well might have danced my way inside and jigged my pleasure on the gallery under the one swinging lamp as I was feeling inordinately pleased with myself, but let’s not forget attention to descriptive detail!Around the yawning black mouth of the fireplace was a beautifully proportioned marble mantel, robust and square, and above that was an antique gilded mirror that stretched right to the ceiling. I’d glance into this mirror as I passed by; perhaps share a sharp smile with myself, and thence past the tall French windows which were now fastened for the night. Diaphanous drapes slipped about the glass in my wake like a liquid gloss.

Imagine the smooth boards creaking solidly beneath my booted feet and then a triumphant swish of brocaded coat tails. I sat at a little velvet-topped seat and drew it closer to the body of the waiting harpsichord. It was gone midnight by now and most of the slaves were in bed, in fact all as I recall but it wasn’t the servants I was waiting for. Louis would follow me in soon enough and then the real night’s entertainment would commence.

So I rested my hands in their froth of Valenciennes lace on the ebony keys to absorb the delicious coolness for a single heart beat, and then I began to play.

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Louis:

Cool rain pummelled the sleeping streets of New Orleans. All was still aside from the occasional muddy splash of the horses' hooves as they pulled the rattling carriages of endless strangers to crowded places that I dared not go myself. I was not one of them anymore. I had given my humanity and all the joy and sorrow that accompanied it over to that golden haired devil when he promised me damnation without pain. Yet the irony was that I felt it more desperately in this form than I ever had as a mortal man.

Young Ferniere's body had disappeared into the murky depths of the swamp only a few short nights ago and my heart had sunk with it. I was worn with worry for brave Babette and her foolish sisters. I found it nearly impossible to think of anything else. If only I had not been so foolish. If only I had not turned my back on Lestat at that crucial moment. I was the one to blame for Ferniere's death and I knew that I must find a way to atone.

In a savage irony, my desperate respect for life grew while my desire for human blood also sharpened unbearably. Surviving only on the thin blood of animals had already taken its toll on my body and mind. I had stopped in a filthy back alley tucked away in the plague stricken area of town. I can't now remember how I came to be there. Instinct had drawn me to a stranger who approached a ramshackle home. Perhaps she was some kind woman come to see the dying through the night as was often the custom but I didn’t dwell on such things as I remained caught up in the vigorous beauty of her dusky face. She smelled of lilacs and bitter herbs.

At the click of the lock I realised I had taken hold of her in one quick but fierce movement. My fangs were poised to pierce the tender flesh of her throat. Yet something I can’t account for made me meet her eyes. The large dark orbs that stared wildly up at me could have been Babette's. I saw the exact mix of terror and blind wonder I had seen as I told Babette Fernier of her brother's death. I could distinctly hear the woman's heart as her life's blood thundered through the warm flesh beneath my fingers, blood that I desired with all the pounding need of a famished vampire but I would not do it. In sudden shock I released my hold on her and watched in blank silence as she stumbled to the dirt road and ran into the blackened streets. A little more of my soul died with her declining footsteps.

Another sound broke the silence; the scurry of tiny clawed feet heralding the passing of my usual prey. I reached out quickly to snatch up the rat from the side of the road. It was such a thoughtless empty action to bring the vile creature to my lips and rip its thin and foul tasting flesh open with customary ease. A few gulps of hot blood followed by the sound of a small heart slowing to a stop and then nothing at all. I tossed the lifeless body aside and my arms fell to my sides. I was still cold and the dull flame of the thirst still burned.

I rode quickly out of the city and back to the plantation. It was always a mistake to come here. I had been defeated again. Even as the hatred for Lestat grew within me with each closing mile I knew I was a slave to fear and despair. The thought of leaving him had crossed my mind more than once since I stepped into this eternal night but there could never be any certainty that others of our kind even existed. I feared that we would be bound together until the ends of time.

The slaves were asleep so I stabled the horse myself. As I removed my gloves I caught the soft lilt of the harpsichord from the open door above. I would not be alone tonight. A lively melody filled the room as I moved closer, crossing the expanse of floor and taking my wary place in a nearby chair. His pale fingers danced over the keys and the music that he played mocked my dark mood almost perfectly. Could he know what I had just done? I prayed that he could not, or I would never hear the end of it.

"What are you playing, Lestat?" I asked. It seemed we were to destined to endure each other's company for the remaining hours until dawn so I made an attempt to make at least some pleasant conversation and push the night's events from my mind.

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Lestat:

The atmosphere darkened with a subtle shift. The little yellow flames tipping the candles ruffled like petals as the air was disturbed by a quiet movement. My gaze was unconsciously attracted by the brief dance of light then fell back to the keys. I gave no outward acknowledgment that I knew he was there. Then he spoke.

“What are you playing, Lestat?”

At the sound of his soft, cultured voice I drew a breath sharp with melodrama and looked up towards the shadowy corners of the ceiling though I didn’t focus on it. The music gathered pace at my racing finger tips, suddenly playing a little too fast and expertly to sharpen the atmosphere in the room.

“A requiem,” I announced in a clear voice to the roof with amused conviction, now aware of the somber weight of eyes on my back.

The music I played was anything but dreary. It was a light and rather frothy piece by Rambeau, and I played it with some inventiveness as my lips twitched into a smile. I watched my own hands dance upon the keys. Timing is everything.

“A requiem for the harpsichord maker…” I abruptly added over my shoulder in a careless gesture and in the same tone, and I left a suitable pause for Louis’ disapproving benefit as my words sank in. My fingers raced into a blur. I could feel the burn of that hypnotic green and the moment threatened to over take me in laughter.

“Alas, the poor creature did not have a strong heart,” I affected a frown for his benefit though he couldn’t see it. “The slightest tug and it simply refused to beat.”

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