Capturing Midnight: A Post Blood Canticle RP

[Jacksbonnielass]

Lestat had retired to his hiding place, laying down in the dark, his mind racing with the events of the night. He listened to the sounds that surrounded him, letting the sleep come over him as it always did, it finally engulfed him, fading to black


ooc: next night?

[alldrenched]

Stella knew too well the feeling Jacqueline was experiencing, she had felt others' thoughts her whole life, she grew up in a family where people responded just as often to thoughts as to words. She looked around, she would trust this girl if for no other reason that she had nothing to lose anymore. She watched as Jacqueline led Vittorio out and down the stairs, Vittorio looked like fine porcelain, his glassy nails, his hair, she wasn't shocked that he wouldn't bury himself in the dirt outside like so many did, like Louis so often did, under the floor boards of his little lean to. Stella's sleep deprivation was dragging on her, she sat on the floor, not even calling out to ask whether she would take a bed. She slept soundly for several hours, despite her mistrust, knowing that she was safe, secret weapons of her own to protect her. When she woke the sun was low, it was around 4 in the afternoon, she left a short note for Jacqueline and headed to Cafe du Monde. She sat on the patio sipping cafe au lait after cafe au lait, and dirtying her hands in the cinnamon and powdered sugar that coated the beignets while she watched the sun sink. Deep breaths of moist New Orleans air and the constant stream of milked down coffee brought her slowly back to life, all grogginess leaving again.


Michael slept, waking and rolling over only to nod again and wake once more. The flight landed three hours later, he spent a few minutes meeting Pieter, shaking hands with him and helping him with his bags, despite Pieter's attempts to refuse. He felt the same warmth emanate from him as he had from Aaron so many years ago, and from Sterling later. The Talamasca would always be part of his family now, he knew this, despite Marklin and his ilk. Pieter looked to be in his forties, he had a charm that came easily, his accent faded between weak French and the non-accent of people who have traveled so often they have lost their native tongue. Pieter wore a very English deep brown suit, and starched white shirt under a long deep khaki coloured coat. His hair was a light brown, frizzled and light at the tips with peroxide damage. It swung into his face when he looked down at the papers he hand brought.


Pieter watched Michael, he seemed strong despite his obvious illness, Pieter could feel Micheal's weakened heart as he shook his hand. Micheal was surprisingly handsome, in a way that men rarely are; he was strong, broad shouldered, but boyish despite his age. His tragedies had worked on him, and in him, beautifully. His eyes were a deeper blue than any man's he had seen before, the deep blue he had only found in babies eyes, his hair was spotted with gray, and his skin was smooth, aside from crows feet in the corners of his eyes and creases around his mouth; these were the markings of a man who had, despite his sorrow and tragedies smiled often. His good humor seemed to hang in a cloud around him. Pieter felt at home immediately, everything about Michael read easy going, calm, and loving.

The jet had the luxuries Pieter was at this point immune to, but it was more comfortable than most private planes. Wine was poured and he discussed everything, including the old disruption, Lasher. They ate coq au vin and washed it down with more wine. Espresso and cookies were munched on the rest of the flight. Despite these slow sessions of constant eating, which may at a glance seem relaxed, tension filled the plane. Things went unspoken, because they needn't be, and Charles wouldn't look anyone in the eye when the talked about the possibilities. Underlying all of this was the question, was she even still alive? They danced around it, but never said anything near what they were all thinking.

When they finally landed, after brief naps and discussions, notepads were stacked with lists of things to do. Ryan was on the phone half the flight and the team of Mayfair and Mayfair were already on the tarmac.

As they were whisked away in a big town car, he glanced about at the oak trees and houses in this beautiful town to which Stella first introduced him.

Rowan woke again as the sun was setting, she stood and went down the long curling stairs with their decorative pineapple balusters, a sign of wealth and welcome in the deep, old south. She made here way to the kitchen where coffee sat, still hot though no one was about, and prosciutto and figs were laid out for her to eat. It was ghostly, how this always happened, some servant must have come in and done this she assumed. It was odd too that it was different every night but just what she wanted. Next to the platter of figs and prosciutto a bottle of chardonnay was chilling in a silver ice bucket. She sipped the still wonderfully hot coffee. Had it been just a few minutes later it would no longer burn her wonderfully, it would be ruined and lukewarm. She slowly ate the figs and prosciutto, but left the bottle chilling.

It was rare for her to sleep so late and so long, she had done 48 hour rounds with only six hours of rest before a second bought for all her life she felt, and sleeping more than seven hours had long been impossible for her. She settled on the porch, the sun was sinking slowly, and the sky was exploding into the summer colours of twilight. Ribbony purple stretched between eerie green and a deep pinkish red. She sipped at her second cup of coffee and watched in silence, awaiting his arrival.

When he came she would tell him of her plan to leave New Orleans, she couldn't stand it, she felt too close to Michael here, she felt as though staying here was hurting him worse. No that wasn't it, it was killing her, tormenting her, as she should be tormented, but she would not go through it any longer. She had decided, San Francisco would be perfect, her cold glass mansion on the water, and a hospital nearby that they could have access too, she had grabbed the tests, his blood was sitting in the refrigerator now, awaiting scanning.

[boo radley]

The sun had completely set and I waited for Vittorio to come up. Jacqueline slept soundly like a child, like an infant, in her bed through the day. How we vampires kept her awake!
Stella was not here. She was at le Cafe du Monde, as her note to Jacqueline said. Vittorio must be one of those who was terrified of the sun, too afraid to come out when the sky was still pink. I decided to sit at Jacqueline's bedside. She woke up as I touched her golden curls.
How they reminded me of Claudia. I shut my eyes.

"Louis?" I asked uncertainly. "Oh, it's only..." I saw his pain. "Claudia?" I immediately wished I hadn't asked.

"Oui," I said. "Good evening." I turned and left to go find Vittorio.

[alldrenched]

Stella watched as the sugar coated tourists weaved around the boulevard. The street lights had come up and everything was sparkling, even the filthy waters of the Mississippi. She stood, dropping a few bills onto the table, and slipping her purse back on. She wandered the streets, finding a Neiman Marcus that was still open, and buying herself more clothing, though she could have easily just picked them up from First Street. The light was dim enough now that she knew Louis would soon be up, she returned, after a slow walk back, to Jacqueline's apartments. She rose in the cold steel elevator to the seventh floor. She walked along the corridors which were lined in reproductions of modern paintings. The thick industrially patterned carpet ate her new heels with every step.


Pieter was in Stella's room, the mixture of wine, coffee, and a night of very little sleep was turning his stomach. He was sitting on a velvety sapphire chaise longue, and staring about. He saw her journal laying on a desk but he couldn't bring himself to open it. He stood, sending out his own thoughts, Stella? Where are you now? He caught a glimpse of her arms, as though through her eyes, and he felt a shock that ran down her back, then it was cut off, cold and silent. His mind raced, where was that, where was that. It had been in a hallway, like one in a nice apartment or a hotel, patterned, dark carpet and beige walls with modern art framed in simple black wood. There was a beige, microfiber cloth bench on which she was sitting, outside of a doorway but looking down, so he could see no number. She could be anywhere, in one of a million buildings.


Stella stood up straight, she gasped, someone was in her it seem, briefly but there, hoovering next to or inside of her. She felt compressed, but lightly, she felt trapped in her body suddenly as she filled it again. She started shaking, a scent hung on her now that was so familiar but what was it from.

Pieter, she thought suddenly.

Michael was back at Mayfair Medical, after having discussed things with Pieter and setting him up in a room next to Stella's. Aaron's old room, or Bea's room, until she moved into the house on Amelia Street, where she took care of Ancient Evelyn, along with a team of nurses and regular staff.

Michael looked down, his chest was bare and dotted with white buttons, clamped onto the buttons were wires. He sipped his orange juice and stared off. Lovely rooms, all designed by Rowan, Mona, and Stella. This one was a sea-green,and hanging here were lithographs of Monets.The moldings were a warm, homey, white and the necessary biohazard trash bins were all hidden in a cream white desk. French Provincial style, this whole wing. Other items were in large glass jars, like they were candies rather than cotton swabs or needles.

He sipped his orange juice slowly, why always orange juice? orange juice and cookies. His thoughts trailed on, entertaining him in the silent room. A well worn copy of Great Expectations laid on the desk but he didn't feel like reading now. What he had heard from Mayfair and Mayfair today, and what Pieter had showed him scared him, but he didn't want to drift away just yet.

The door opened, surprising Michael as doors so often do when one is sitting a long time in a closed room alone.

The doctor smiled at him warmly. "Mr. Ma-Curry" he said correcting himself.

Doctors here always did that.

"I really like the way this is looking," he said reading the hills and valleys the machine recorded.


Charles Mayfair sat in his office, looking over xeroxed copies of the Talamasca's files. Vampires, he had to laugh, he had laughed when Stella said what she did for a living, too.

He had grown up in this rich family, he had known the rumors, but he had always thought they were just the eccentricities of an old moneyed family in New Orleans. Charles had always known when people were lying or concealing something from him, but that was just reading people; witches were just fairytale fodder.

After Lasher he had, like so many denied it, believed that the deadly miscarriages were freak accidents, linked with the poor genes incest had manufactured. The later blood tests seemed to prove to him that was just it, it was just bad genes, just some deformity caused by inbreeding.

Now in his office, reading words that were written by his own daughter his make believe word was falling apart, and the monster's of children's stories were coming to life before his very eyes.



(ooc: sorry about all of the excessively long posts, but I am RP happy)

[Jacksbonnielass]

Rowan woke again as the sun was setting, she stood and went down the long curling stairs with their decorative pineapple balusters, a sign of wealth and welcome in the deep, old south. She made here way to the kitchen where coffee sat, still hot though no one was about, and prosciutto and figs were laid out for her to eat. It was ghostly, how this always happened, some servant must have come in and done this she assumed. It was odd too that it was different every night but just what she wanted. Next to the platter of figs and prosciutto a bottle of chardonnay was chilling in a silver ice bucket. She sipped the still wonderfully hot coffee. Had it been just a few minutes later it would no longer burn her wonderfully, it would be ruined and lukewarm. She slowly ate the figs and prosciutto, but left the bottle chilling.

It was rare for her to sleep so late and so long, she had done 48 hour rounds with only six hours of rest before a second bought for all her life she felt, and sleeping more than seven hours had long been impossible for her. She settled on the porch, the sun was sinking slowly, and the sky was exploding into the summer colours of twilight. Ribbony purple stretched between eerie green and a deep pinkish red. She sipped at her second cup of coffee and watched in silence, awaiting his arrival.

When he came she would tell him of her plan to leave New Orleans, she couldn't stand it, she felt too close to Michael here, she felt as though staying here was hurting him worse. No that wasn't it, it was killing her, tormenting her, as she should be tormented, but she would not go through it any longer. She had decided, San Francisco would be perfect, her cold glass mansion on the water, and a hospital nearby that they could have access too, she had grabbed the tests, his blood was sitting in the refrigerator now, awaiting scanning.

ooc: is okay ^_^ I like long posts :hugs:

Lestat had snuck to his bedroom, sensing Rowan, but didn't know if she was still asleep, he would learn to penetrate her witch powers, he didn't like getting glimpses of her mind and not the full thing. His bedroom was very, him, and very unused, he kept his clothes in here, even a few things from when him and Louis, and Claudia lived together, he'd had them stored in bags and made anew. He stood in his room in a pair of grey cotton dress pants, sorting through his shirts looking for something to wear. He produced a plain white dress shirt, buttoning it up, he decided against his frock coat for once. He moved out of his room, seeing Rowan on the porch, he suck up behind her, "What's on your mind, cherie?" he asked.

[alldrenched]

Rowan turned, the moonlight and street lamps playing on her face, gaunt always, models starved themselves for this dramatic look. Her sharp jaw line and high cut cheek bones added to the beautifully androgynous look. A small smile, there he was again before her, it happened every night, but sometimes it seemed like a tiny miracle.
His light dress shirt hung on him beautifully, accentuating his chest perfectly. She took in a breath and turned her gaze back to the city that seemed to spread out before them. "I can't stay here any longer."

This was Michael's town, this was the Mayfairs' town, the Mayfairs who she had abandoned as well.

"I have ordered my old house on Tiburon to be refurbished and readied for us." She knew he went where the wind blew him, and that he landed here most often, she knew how he loved this city, she had too, once. She braced herself for anything that might happen, but her mind was set, she would be gone in a matter of days. Her icy gray eyes burned into him, watching for his reaction.



Pieter laid in bed, wrecked with food, there had been a trademarked Mayfair feast in First Street, it reminded him so of the first one he went to, the wake for Aaron; even down to the crying and laughter that broke together, in perfect violent harmony.
Aaron, there are too many pictures of him in this room. Aaron with Michael and Rowan, Aaron with Mona and Stella, Aaron with Stella and himself in front of the MET. He could almost smell Aaron here. This house will never be without ghosts, he thought.

After an hour of tossing, and twisting the thin lovely sheets around him he sat up. He dug into the closet where his clothing had been hung, as though he had always lived here, by the housekeeper, Eugenia.

Pieter slipped quietly out of the house, giving a nod to the guards before moving past the gate. The beautiful mansions seemed as though they were rooted to the very earth, as though they were luminous flowers to Pieter as they glowed, in an unearthly way, in the large lights rigged in their trees. Soon the towering Victorian mansions grew into tight old townhouses. The wild flowers were still manicured, wonderfully planned despite their overgrowth. He lit a cigarette before slowly wandering on. He made circles around the Quarter and downtown, where the luxury apartments were. He felt that she was here, that they were both here.



David woke just as the sun was hidden from sight, though the golden rays still blanketed everything. He had never taken to coffins, or the other methods vampires used to hide from the sun, he preferred a human bed, a room ornate and lined with lovely chairs and a desk, all in an English plantation fashion. The room was windowless, in the basement of this house, one of his many houses. He stood, showering like a human still, though dirt would not stick to his perpetually tanned body, and his hair laid perfectly against him always. Water seemed to bead off of him like it never had in life, or so he remembered. He dried off easily and dressed in one of his fine Brooks Brothers suits; his fine, tailored suits were something that he wore, even in this new body.

He stepped out finally as the blueish purple light of night engulfed the sky. He wanted to see one of his mortal loves, Pieter, or Stella, or Edmund. He had tired of Miami, where the last coven had formed, and where they still wandered from time to time. He took in a breath, and with just the thought to do it he rose into the sky, he searched for Pieter, finding him quickly by tuning into his open thoughts about New Orleans landscaping.



(yes, multi character explosion, David, Michael, Pieter, Rowan, Stella, and Charles, but they all seemed necessary for some reason, and I love all of them, we need all our favourite vamps involved! ;D)

[boo radley]

(I love super-long posts because I'm also in a very RP-happy mood hahah )

Vittorio pushed the door open - it was easily jammed, something that annoyed him. The sun had set, he knew it, he had spent enough days in this city to be able to count the hours of daylight. He stepped out into the night and breathed in.
How had he gotten this far?
He stretched and turned and saw none other than Louis. "Oh."

Louis smiled. "Hello." He waited for Vittorio's response, but there was none. "You know, the two of us both know Stella, do we not? And in such close relations. I suppose it is best for us to both accept each other as allies." Louis wouldn't trust Vittorio if Vittorio would not trust Louis.

"Where is she?"

"A la cafe, mon ami." He stretched. "I think it is best not to bother her now. I can tell if anything has happened to her, and so far nothing has."

"Where to, then?" Vittorio mused. Where indeed.

"Back to the apartment. There's a lot to be done and so far, it seems Jacqueline has enough information to help us." Something tells me that Lestat might just come back to this part of the city. And if I ever see him again... why the more he is away from me, the more I long for him.

[alldrenched]

Stella had waited by the apartment door long enough, she refused to knock, she didn't want to be in there alone with Jacqueline. If she could avoid it, she would, it was always terrible, sitting there with awkward silence filling the room. She made her way down to the lobby and went out to wander the streets some more.

The night air broke over her body, she felt the power of it, it cooled her immediately as she stepped into the humid night air of summer. The wind brought with it the scent of cut grass, sweet ever blooming flowers, and the almost daily rain. Rain that would fall again soon, she thought as she looked to the skies, too dark for this early in the evening.

She set out into the Quarter nearby, where the tall buildings shrunk instantly into four story prewar (meaning before the Civil War, not as in the rest of the country, preWWI,) townhouses, some whose bottom floors were shops. A restaurant next to a perfumery next to a voodoo shop. Tourists flowed in and out of the Marie Laveau House of Voodoo, wearing their cheap cotton shirts and their khaki shorts. The beautiful oppressive heat and moisture that Stella bloomed in was killing them, she could tell, all of their foreheads were bubbling with drops of sweat. The tourists swung their heads between their knees and seemed sickened by the expensive floral scents that poured from the doors of the Parfumerie Devalier.

Stella smirked despite herself and turned off of Bourbon and onto Canal.

Pieter circled a cart from which a tall black man sold paintings. Pieter picked up a piece, one of St Charles Ave, he fell in loved with it immediately, the tiny strokes depicted the great mansions of the Garden District, and in the very corner was a tiny piece of First Street, in it's original violet colour. He gave the man twice what it was worth so that he would bring the rest of the series the next day. The man promised to, or at least Pieter thought he had, the man's heavy Haitian drawl had mixed with cajun speech patterns, making his voice a beautiful sing song that was nearly impossible to understand. Pieter turned, deciding to head up Canal to the River but he stopped in his path. A young Indian man stood across the street, at the turn in to St Charles Avenue, the street that lead to First Street; the man was staring at Pieter. A chill ran through him, DAVID.

David landed easily, blending in with the hoards of tourists and drunks. He watched with a smile as Pieter talked to the Haitian artist, he too had a piece by this man, Aaron had bought it and left it in his room at the Talamasca Motherhouse in London. He stood out of the range of the lights, wearing his lovely little rimless sunglasses to hide is jewel like brown eyes. His skin went unnoticed so this was all he had to do to blend easily with humans, his nails had not turned to clear glass yet, they now seemed only manicured and polished, like the nails of rich men often are.

He was engrossed in thoughts of Pieter's hair, of how lovely his ever circled eyes were and he did not notice that Pieter was looking right at him. He was jolted suddenly from his daydream, Pieter was crossing the street to him. David had never been seen when he had gone on these jaunts to watch Pieter, he had always hidden and watched him, taking great care not to interfere as he did with Stella. Stella was a different case all together, she would always be haunted, Louis was always there following her and she followed other vampires, she would never be and had never been like he had been, like Pieter was now, an innocent scholar. He felt his big booming heart race, he thought for a minute of taking to the sky again, but Pieter stopped him swiftly just by saying his name,

"DAVID!," Pieter shouted.

A warm hand pressed suddenly around his arm, David felt suddenly like a trapped beast, he took in a deep breath and calmed himself, "Pieter," he said softly.

Michael tossed and turned, his dreams were awful, they were torture, he and Rowan in bed together, he and Rowan with Yuri in France, hunting down the betrayers. He woke and gasped, the heat, he felt hot, burning up, and there was a tingling all over him, it was as though his whole body was numb and on fire. He sat up and reached the bedside table, a glass of water sat there, he drank it slowly, coughing it down. Could this be the prelude to another heart attack? his mind raced. He punched a button on the phone and in raced a nurse.

"I think," he gasped, " I think, I'm... heart attack!" he ended abruptly. The nurse ran at him with the long rubber band he was so used to by now, she slipped her stethoscope back on.

Pump Pump Pump Pump Pump. Tightness over his arm, then hiss, the pressure slowly released.

"Mr. Curry, You are fine, your better than fine, this is the lowest I have seen your blood pressure in weeks." the nurse said cheerfully.

"No, no, I am dying. Maybe it is a stroke."

"Your body is just acclimating to this new lower blood pressure." the nurse said, handing him a glass of juice.

Orange juice again he thought before laying back and suddenly falling asleep.

Charles leaned over the papers, he felt like he couldn't breath suddenly, he felt like the room was spinning around him. The TV screen that sat on his long leather coated shelf of the armoire in the corner played the pictures side by side, the tall blond man with Rowan, leaving as Michael laid in the pool dying, and Stella crawling out her window, hanging in the branches of the magnolia tree with the dark haired man before they dropped down out of frame. On his desk laid two open novels, Interview with the Vampire and Queen of the Damned. He had called the publisher earlier and found out that "Anne Rice," her client's pseudonym would soon be releasing the "Witching Hour," a fictional book about the Mayfairs, a witch family in New Orleans. Next to the books laid two pictures, copied from Pieter, candid pictures on glossy 8 by 10 paper of Louis and Lestat, with their names written in huge print underneath, it like they were actors.

"Pierce!" Charles screamed to his nephew who was also still in the office. Jamais Vu.

(OOC: ten points to anyone who knows what Parfumerie Devalier is from, another novel I love set in New Orleans, partly, that seems to fit with Anne Rice's world perfectly somehow. Also, yes I am crazy and I have worked into this directions to get to First Street, the actual ones, I need to get to New Orleans again fast before I go completely nutso.)

[Jacksbonnielass]

Rowan turned, the moonlight and street lamps playing on her face, gaunt always, models starved themselves for this dramatic look. Her sharp jaw line and high cut cheek bones added to the beautifully androgynous look. A small smile, there he was again before her, it happened every night, but sometimes it seemed like a tiny miracle.
His light dress shirt hung on him beautifully, accentuating his chest perfectly. She took in a breath and turned her gaze back to the city that seemed to spread out before them. "I can't stay here any longer."

This was Michael's town, this was the Mayfairs' town, the Mayfairs who she had abandoned as well.

"I have ordered my old house on Tiburon to be refurbished and readied for us." She knew he went where the wind blew him, and that he landed here most often, she knew how he loved this city, she had too, once. She braced herself for anything that might happen, but her mind was set, she would be gone in a matter of days. Her icy gray eyes burned into him, watching for his reaction.

Lestat listen to her, it was nothing, he would of course go with her, apparently she knew that because she said us, you couldn't get rid of him so easily. Although he didn't like her not coming back to New Orleans, he himself would eventually start to miss the Louisiana city, and end up back here, he always did, although he kept his apartments here for both him and David, and whenever Louis decided to breeze in, the desk in the study was Louis of course, "So you do know I'll be attending to you there," he said, "I'm not easily gotten rid of." he said, "If it will help you, then do it, but I wish to acompany you."

ooc: you should go when I go ^_^. Which might be sometime next month, from the way my dad is talking.

[boo radley]

Vittorio and I were at the apartment. "Ma cherie," I said to Jacqueline quietly. "I am going to have to leave you. I have some...business... to attend to." I did not tell her that I was in search of Lestat, because I felt Rowan here. And Lestat would never leave Rowan unguarded, now, would he? If I did tell Jacqueline, why, she would up and away with me. And probably earn the rage of Lestat, and her own death.

"Erm. All right." I felt he was hiding something from me, as I could now feel the feelings of others. "Careful," I said stupidly. He was a vampire, he would be fine.

I smiled, turned, and ran off into the night. I knew he was here, and he surely was aware that I wanted to see him again. At least to talk to him, the way we old lovers did once. I decided the first place to look was our apartment. But first I stopped at the base of the building, breathing in softly to myself. So close.