After Paradise

[alldrenched]

Stella pressed a bit on the pedal, the gas flooded the chambers of the engine and the car roared to life.

Pieter stubbed out his cigarette and glanced at her, I get the drift, he thought. He hugged Sterling briefly and then let go as he saw Michael come down the stairs with Henri following, peering over their bags, all stacked up in his arms. Michael was arguing with him, Michael, high prole that he was, would never be used to having servants, and it made Pieter regret a bit that he was so comfortable with it all.

Stella sighed and turned off the car when she realised there would be no escaping without a one of their trademarked Mayfair goodbyes, all drawn out with hugs and kisses as you edged towards the door. She slipped open the door and walked up the dangerously cracked sidewalk to the group. Aunt Jean, Mary Jane, Bea, Sterling, Ryan, Pierce and her parents were at the door now, the rest of the brood still eating their three hour Sunday lunch. First Street was gorgeous, it was the kind of day that made her feel mad for ever thinking of leaving New Orleans; everything was bright and summery despite the constant rain, and everything smelled moist and fragrant, like wet dirt and newly opened flowers. If there had been no disappearance, no marvelous intrigue to drag her away she would have stayed and laid out in the garden all day, ruining her lovely dress in the mud and the grass like a child.

Pieter nodded along with what Ryan was saying though he wasn't listening, he watched as Stella opened the gate and walked up the path to the house, her loose curls bouncing with her steps. She wore a light cotton sundress, it was a deep magenta with small gold embroidered details and teal sneakers. She was never dressed like this now, not since she became their queen, the Designee, with that obscene emerald swinging around her neck. The dress was expensive enough, that was clear, but as of late it had been all silk and heels, which she joked just appeared in her closet (something he found out happened to anyone who stayed more than a few nights, he thought as he look down at this new Brooks Brothers suit.)

"Oh Sweetheart, I really wish you leave this search up to the professionals," I am a professional,"Ryan has teams of private investigators and.." Bea was rattling off again, worry worry worry for Stella, for Michael, for their new friend Pieter, for Rowan, for the family. Stella had become immune to it. She released Bea with a kiss on the cheek and then turned to Uncle Ryan who hugged her tightly, and whispered a quiet, "Be safe, Dear."

She was relieved, there would be no keep in touch, though something told her this had all been drilled into poor Pieter and Michael. Hugs and kisses, and hugs, and kisses, and then her parents. Her mother smiled widely and said "Have fun," so quietly. Susan seemed to know what this was, that it pained the family, and thus Stella, but that much more than that; this was an escape, out of the fold as it were, the family that swallowed her, that wanted her ever at the head of the table, ever at the weddings and the meetings and the birthdays, trotted out like the good china. Stella had felt a bit like a pretty fixture, and at times, a sacrificial lamb. The witch, there had to be a witch, the Designee, at the heart of the family.

And last was her father, her father, so like his brother, Ryan, her father was in a lovely suit and tie, so Mayfair and Mayfair, yes, through and through. She was wrapped in his arms and she pressed her face into his chest like she was a little girl, this is always how they hugged, a bear hug. "Call me, do not go out on your own, please Stel?" he implored.

"I won't," she hoped it wasn't a lie, she didn't want to lie, though one often does to a parent.

"Love you, Honey," he said, then he kissed forehead and let her go.

The loaded into the car, all still saying "Goodbye, Goodbye, Goodbye," like it was a chant, waving a bit as they went, and blowing kisses back to Susan and Bea.

A slow sigh of relief seemed to fill the car as they drove off, all nestled in for their journey. Stella pushed a button and the car filled with music, soft and low. 89.7 glowed on the dashboard and Vivaldi filled the car.

Michael glanced around the car, he smirked, the little Mercedes SUV had been decked out for a road trip. There was a bag in the seat across from Pieter in the back that was filled with all sorts of delicious junk: Elmer's Chee-Wees, Zapps, candies of all varieties, and in particular Stella's favourites, all sour and fruity. And the pockets next to all the seats were filled with ice, soda, and water. You would have thought they were driving to Daytona Beach for spring break, he thought, a bit too bitterly.

[Jacksbonnielass]

~San Francisco 6:45 pm~

Lestat awoke from his hotel room. He'd gotten it so he could sleep during the day without getting hit by the rays of the sun. Conflicts with Rowans glass house above the water. It wasn't very vampire-safe. He pulled the curtains back from his suite at the Ritz-Carlton. The outer architecture of the building had caught his eye with the stark white exterior and roman-esque look. It reminded him of Marius, so he'd gotten a room there in his old friends honor. He recounted the exploits of the last couple of days. Him and Rowan had ran off together, after a few run-ins with the Mayfairs it was no surprise to him that Oncle Julien was driving him mad. He headed to the elevators, taking the trip down to the lobby. He left a tip for the bell-hop at the assistant's desk who'd gotten aholt of black out curtains for him and walked out into the San Franciscan air. He pulled his now blue sunglasses down over his absorbant eyes, although the weather was comfortable he wore a grey jacket over a white dress shirt, a pair of matching grey slacks accentuated his hips and went straight down,pooling about his boots that made a "tmp tmp" noise against the sidewalks.

Within a couple of minutes (and shortcuts through alleyways and flight), he was standing in front of Rowan's home. It was quite an interesting building, too bad it wasn't sun-proof. Yet, he knew if he were mortal he'd want a view of the ocean. He willed the front door open and let himself in, he seated himself on the couch, hearing music somewhere off in the house. He decided to surprise her.

[alldrenched]

Rowan had spent the day enjoying every pleasure that existed for a human, all the pleasures she would give up to be with Lestat forever. She had watched as the sun came up this morning, not really believing that it was the last sunrise she would ever see. She couldn't make that sink in, it seemed like a lie, but she drank it up anyway.

She knew she would miss that time most, that silent still time when the city seemed so quiet, and so empty, all bathed in the blue-green light of early morning, the light that came before the sun actually peeked over the horizon. She, like so many doctors, and in particular, surgeons, had loved that time most of all; she felt so natural then, wandering the empty streets, with a coffee cup in hand, nodding to other members of this secret club, it seemed, this tiny group of people that woke before true dawn.

She had dined in Napa Valley at the famed French Laundry, and she ate all of the rich foods she had so long abstained from. Well, in New Orleans she would eat some of the rich creole meals the Mayfairs seemed to have permanently laid out for the family, but in general she was not one of the many doctors with a "do as I say not as I do" mentality.

Her body was her instrument then, and now she was treating it as such again. In the days before tonight she had been groomed to perfection, her nails had been manicured, her ashen hair cut to the perfect length, her skin bronzed in the sun, in hopes that this would let her retain a more natural color when she was turned.

She had prepared herself, almost ritualistically for this, and tonight she knew what would happen, she had prepared for all the messiness of this change.

At seven o clock she was upstairs, zipping up the skirt of one of her many silk suits. Beethoven's Piano Sonata No.14 was playing on her stereo, and was filling the house, through tiny speakers built into many of the walls. She slipped on some painfully tall high heels and made her way down the stairs from her third floor loft master bedroom.

She saw Lestat's brilliant blond mane from behind the couch and smiled.

She came up around the side of the couch and hugged him.


The group flew down the highway in their luxurious leather seats. The Superdome gave way to Metarie and Metarie gave way to the swamps, which were obscured by the mist. The beautiful evergreens and mist gave way to the bland highway, highway that could be anywhere, with large blue signs that name nearby fast food restaurants and gas stations.

They stopped in Shreveport to get gas and then blasted off again.
Stella didn't give up the drivers seat for anyone, though her back hurt from sitting so long. Michael slept while Pieter and Stella talked about sightings in different restaurants and hotels in a hushed voice.

Only when they arrived in Dallas much earlier than expected, at nine, did she realise she had been going nearly ninety miles an hour the whole time. They pulled into the Ritz Carlton's valet service, gathering up all the refuse from the drive. Stella had been in too much of a hurry to get her houses here prepared for them. She stepped out and looked at the dazzling Art Deco exterior, it looked like something out of 1920's New York. She let the bellhop take their bags and got settled into her room.

They weren't in Dallas, she could feel it, though they had been, perhaps they had stopped here at some point because there were eye witness reports.

Pieter collapsed on the bed, surprised, as always, how tiring riding in a car could be. He watched as their personal suite butler arranged his clothing in the drawers, and placed them on hangers in the closet. He picked up the phone and called down to make a reservation for Fearings, the main restaurant in the building.

Michael stared at the beautifully furnished room. If he had it in him he might have been looking at the wood work and the moldings, he might have been delighting in the perfect recreations of Art Deco classics, but he was in a waking dream, he didn't have the heart for anything. He smiled though as Stella bounded it, explaining they had reservations in thirty minutes and that after dinner they all had appointments with the massage therapist upstairs. He didn't like any delays, it was clear for Stella's manner that the led was cold here, so to speak. He wanted to leave immediately, to go to San Francisco, but he didn't want to fly either. He sighed and sat down, faking a smile and nodding along as she talking about bank records and eye witnesses and unexplained deaths popping up here and then in San Francisco.

Louis woke late, when the sun and all it's rays had completely vanished from the sky, and the only light was artificial light. It was almost eight when he woke, and he dug himself out of the ground, clawing quickly at the dirt that laid over him, and then pushing up the boards of his little lean to near the Lower Garden District. He lit a few candles and looked at his books, so many stolen or found, but all now read at least once. He couldn't sit and read now, like he wanted to, no, he felt his thirst grow painfully inside of him. He could smell the people in the streets and homes around him, he could feel his terrible lust grow to a fury. He had abstained yesterday and tonight, he looked gaunt already, lanky and sick, though he hadn't a mirror or window to see himself in.

He didn't want to leave, he didn't want to do this again, but the awful evil thing he was demanded it. He walked slowly outside, blinking in the sharp white light from the halogen street lamps. He wandered at a humans pace, slowly, with a long stride until he found a proper victim, a young run away girl who was sick. She was addicted to some drug, but she had none, and she was shivering in a pile of her own filth. The vomit in her hair reeked of sour bile, and the urine she sat in smelled salty and retched. She would die, likely, without any help from him, and she seemed the perfect victim.

He took her gently, pushing her stringy, dirty blond hair out of her face, he turned her head exposing the vein. That was all he needed, it was like instinct took over from there, and the when he woke from the pure ecstasy next she was a small dead body in his arms. It horrified him, the bodies of his victims, he dropped her and fled, not even closing up the wound, though with her it was unlikely that would matter. He raced through the streets away from the body, away from any person he ran into. He stopped finally blocks away, near Washington street. He turned, and walked, driven on by obsession, though he hated himself for it, to First Street. He climbed the magnolia tree as quietly as he could and came to her window, his Stella's window.

It was a foolish thing, for so many reasons. To love another Mayfair when the wound from his last love was so fresh, when the wounds from all his loves were so fresh. And to love a mortal, a mortal you might drive mad, mad like Babette, a mortal you would watch die, or do the unthinkable. But she had loved him in turn, she was in love with all of them, and she wasn't an innocent human, not really. She was a witch herself, and a Talamascan, she knew the danger, she loved the danger, and he couldn't drive her mad, her cousin Mona, turned by his own love, Lestat, came to her still, and she had chased down David, her old Superior General.

But this was rationalising, this was lies, she was innocent, all humans are innocent, she was a child teasing a tiger, she barely grasped what we were.

She wasn't there, and he knew why suddenly, she had gone to find her cousin, the original Designee to the Legacy, Rowan.

Lestat had run off with her, though Louis had plead, uselessly against this. Lestat had laughed at him in his usual mad way,the way he had always laughed before another foolish adventure, a roar of a laugh, and said he should take her, his precious Stella. Louis was horrified at the thought of it, and horrified at Lestat's incredible recklessness. Lestat, was of course, thrilled with Louis' shock. Despite all he had learned, all he had seen, Lestat was hopelessly, Lestat.

Louis stared at the darkened room, she was in San Francisco now, or would be soon. He let out a human sigh and dropped down from the tree. Stella had gone chasing Rowan, and in turn Lestat. Nothing good could come from this.

He cringed thinking of Stella coming between Lestat and Rowan, what would Lestat do? He thought for just a moment and a horrifying image came to mind; Stella, too pale, eyes glimmering and nails crystalline, dressed in a gown, a bow hanging at her waist.

Louis pushed the image away, choosing to believe that Lestat would not make the same terrible mistake twice.

He walked slowly up St Charles Street, in the shadows, to the French Quarter. There he made his way to Lestat's house, it was empty now that Lestat had left and Mona and Quinn had gone with Maharet. He used a key, and entered, turning off the alarm. He went to his room there, always stocked with fresh clothing that he rarely wore. He changed out of his muddy and old fashioned clothing into a sleek suit that Lestat had bought for him. It was perfectly tailored and retained some old fashioned charm without being antiquated, but Louis didn't really appreciate it, he wasn't really thinking about appearances. He took a credit card off the dressing table and left again. He made his way, at a preternatural sped, to the airport.

When he got there he used a mild dazzle, one of his few vampiric gifts, and easily slipped into a first class seat for the five hour flight to San Francisco.

[Jacksbonnielass]

Lestat hugged her back, placeing a kiss on her cheek, she was so warm to the touch. He pulled back at looked her over. Ever since she'd agreed to the turning, he knew she'd been getting 'ready', she looked gorgeous. Lestat himself had been getting ready, feeding more than he usually did, so he'd be fed and ready to work the Dark Trick. Right now he felt almost human, a slight pink tint to his skin and a warm feeling. He'd fed a bit before coming.

[alldrenched]

Rowan was surprised by his almost human warmth. His skin was plumped and soft, so unlike it's usual stone hard texture. He had glutted himself for tonight, that was clear. She kissed him softly on the cheek back, she pressed herself against him more, letting her jacket slid off her slowly then fall to the ground.

This teasing, revealing her neck, was something she never would have done before tonight, before being prepared for the Dark Gift. She turned her head, her loose silk blouse slipping off her shoulder. She pressed her lips against his slowly.


Stella smirked over the small vase of flowers on the pressed white table cloth. She picked up her fluted glass of champagne and drank it down, rolling the smooth, bursting bubbles over her tongue. A choreographed dance of waitress swept up her empty glass and refilled it, while placing their first courses before them.

Foie gras for Pieter, tuna for Michael, and a trio for Stella, tiny crab cakes with a miniature duck tamale and a lobster taco. In the middle, for all of them to share, Stella had ordered the lobster nachos, off of the bar menu.


Pieter slowly spread the foie gras on the toast and watched as Stella got drunker. Their entrees filed out next, and she dove into what she jokingly called the "heartattack duo," a fried lobster tail paired with a filet mignon and a spinach taquito, on spicy mashed potatoes.


Michael slowly ate his halibut. He was happy to finally really be discussing something important. Stella had purchased them tickets for San Francisco, they would be leaving in four hours for the airport. By the time dessert was served it was settled, they wouldn't even have time to sleep. Stella had decided against using one of the Mayfairs private planes. She didn't want Ryan or her father keeping tabs on them.

Michael slowly ate his chocolate cake, it was rich, and it was good to eat something without the entire Mayfair clan leaning over his shoulder to see if it was heart healthy. In fact Stella seemed to have picked the least heart healthy things on the menu, she was rounding out the meal with a plate of cheeses.

[alldrenched]

(Double Post, very long I was just bored and rambly today)

Stella rolled onto the bed, her movements sluggish and drunken. She loved the feel of the soft, often washed bedding under her weight. She scrunched the turned down bedding up so it didn't dig into her back as she laid on top of the covers.

She stared up at the ceiling then cut her eyes across to Pieter who was opening the doors to the armoire. They slid open then disappeared into the sides of the furniture revealing a large television.

She watched it spring to life, with the usual hissing sound of active electronics, which fades into a hum when covered by the sounds of everyday life. Pieter flicked through the stations slowly, trying to get his bearings with no idea what channel would appear where. Stella watched this with mild interest before pushing herself up on her side, propping her head on her hand and digging her elbow into the pillow.

She grasped the phone loosely and brought it to her ear. She pressed her face against the receiver as she rolled back, letting the pillow prop the phone against her. The familiar dialtone was not there, instead there was a menu, she listened to the array of options before choosing, and stating loudly and clearly,"Operator," so it filled the room and startled Pieter.

She went through another list of options on another menu until a human voice finally responded.

"I would like to be connected to the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco, please," she asked being far too verbose in her inebriated state.

After the channels had been passed she began talking to the concierge. She set them up for a Buckingham suite then hung up the phone.

She laid back down into the cozy bed and snuggled into the pillows. Michael came through the door to the adjoining room and looked at her.

"We have reservations for the Fairmont. They have arranged transportation for us and we can check in when we arrive."

Pieter nudged her, "Don't get to comfortable we have to leave for the airport in three hours," he warned her softly.

"Then send for coffee," Stella mumbled into the pillow.

Michael sat in a chair across from her looking out the window at the city lights that swallowed the building and gave all of the night an eerie glow. The cars were still passing on the street below as though it were rush hour, and a trolley was crawling in between them. Trolleys.

He thought about that, the trolley right outside the window, the trolleys in New Orleans, bucking through the streets at all hours, and the trolleys in San Francisco, his one time home, which climbed the steep streets so efficiently day after day.

The buildings on the street below were new, stucco condominiums and across the way were beautiful cold and modern glass buildings. They were like sculptures themselves, twisted and turning, tearing at the cloudless sky above. One of the buildings was even lit by colourful ever changing lights, that ran down its front corners and reminded Michael of fish he once saw on some nature documentary, deep ocean fish that produced their own firework spectacular of lights and colours in the deep still darkness.


Stella watched Michael out of one eye, his distant sad expression was sobering. She sat up in bed, the daze of the champagne clinging to her lightly but the folds of drunkenness slipping off of her like the sheets.

There was a knock at the door, the coffee Pieter had ordered. She stood, the sheets still draped around her like she was a lover called too soon from bed and she answered the door, opening it slowly then nodding and smiling as she opened it wide enough for the cart to pass through. Three steaming pots and all their accouterments rolled in on white linen. She paid and tipped the butler out of hand rather than squint at the glaringly white receipt, then she shuffled with the cart, her feet catching on the blanket, to the dining table.

She poured a cup of dark coffee for Michael and passed it to him silently before pouring one for herself. She took a lemon peel and dropped it into the cup then grabbed a oatmeal cranberry cookie out of the assortment they sent up.

She drank the coffee down quickly and sent for their in house butler to get them packed while she handled other matters.



Louis took the bottle of water they passed out to him and shoved it in the pocket before his seat. He passed on the snacks they shuffled out with every fifteen minutes or so.

He took the headphones they offered and watched the movie they played, a comedy, very much like so many comedies through time; about two young lovers coming to terms with their relationship and new life after the girl becomes pregnant.

He liked these movies, regurgitation of old, classic tales. They helped him get a hold of this century, something he often lost when he sank into his books in that dingy shack he called home.

He took in every detail, the young men smoking drugs that made them elated, after which they ran around acting like children. This interested him, drugs he had never been privy to in life. Tobacco, that was mostly sold off from the Americas, though he had a pipe or two when at parties. Alcohol was what he had his most experience with, the mood altering that could do, when he drank til he was numb and his fingers were useless, drinking to kill himself when he didn't have the strength to it properly.

The premise of the movie made him think on this.

When the reckless comedy ended, tv shows came on. These interested him less, and he pressed the large silver buttons on his armrest until he found music he liked. It was peaceful, a mix of classical compositions and the tinkling of rain and such things.

He looked through the magazines left by others or used to sell products that the airlines had some vested interest in, but mostly what occupied him through the flight was people watching.

He watched those around him out of the corner of his eye, for fear they would notice and begin looking at him. He had powdered himself with Lestat's bronzer, and he was wearing sunglasses until the plane lights were very dim but he always feared some particularly receptive person knowing somehow, as unlikely as that was.

There were young men with their laptops opened, typing away all flight, and a woman who drank heavily then dozed for the rest of the flight with her small fluffy dog in her lap. Others read cheap paper covered novels, mysteries mostly, the trashy and brutal stuff Lestat loved once, peopled with modern Sam Spades.

The flight landed sooner than he had expected, but then he had lost all his innate ability to track time a long while ago.

He filed off first and walked quickly to the nearest exit. He was glad to be away from the humans, who had pressed all around him before, making everything smell salty and warm and inviting.


An hour later the champagne had been attacked at all sides, it limped about a bit, dazing for a few minutes before collapsing completely under the barrage of caffeine.

Stella was onto her fourth cup of coffee, it was burning in her mouth still when she took a sip, and she was loving the shaky feeling the coffee was filling her with now.

Her mind skipped from Rowan to her house here and onto what to do about the car. Well, drive it up to the house here and put it in the garage then take a, valium, we will need valium for the flight, is the pharmacy open or will I need a, key, keys, do I have my house key? Or should I just call the housekeeper and see if I could, get these basket of food packed up for the flight, I'm already hungry, isn't that mad, after that big meal and I am already, ready to go, are we ready to go now?

She finally stood up, having exhausted herself, she had to do something or she would go mad thinking about it.

"I am going to take the car to my house, I can leave it in the garage there." She stated firmly, ticking off items on the constantly changing list in her head.

Michael looked up from his second cup of coffee,"I'll go with you," he wanted something to do, sitting and worrying was too terrible to continue.

Pieter looked at the pair, "I'll stay here and make sure all this is packed up," he said gesturing to the clothing and baskets of food.

They nodded and left, making there way downstairs where the car was waiting, Pieter having called for it while they rode down on the elevator and slowly strolled through the lobby.

They got in, Stella driving once again and they made there way over to her house, a large house on Swiss Avenue. It had been a coven house before it had been destroyed by Akasha and when she saw it she bought it and restored it immediately, expanding on her property here. She didn't have a key but the nice Irish housekeeper was there and answered the door groggily. "Stella Mayfair, saints alive," he said with a big gregarious smile as he greeted her.

She smiled, he was still sleeping in the servants quarters, a small house in the back, even when she wasn't there. She took the keys from him and drove the car into the garage before deciding she had time to explore the house a bit. The garden was flourishing, exploding with geraniums and pansies. The pond out back with the trickling fountain was still filled with koi, some as large as small dogs now.

New slate had been laid leading into the house, and the house smelled clean and freshly painted still when she opened the doors. She flipped on the light and the whole house woke up, the cinnamon brown hardwoods which were polished to shine and the neatly arranged books and knick knacks. She had done this all in a fully traditional style, replicating pictures she had seen of First Street when Julien had still been alive.

It was overdressed and wonderful.

Michael recognized the parlor, it was Juliens, and the dining room, and the kitchen table. Did she replicate it all here? Another First Street sitting out there in the world like it was still 1913, at time at which this house wasn't even built.
The craftmanship in the recreations and recovered items was astounding, he sat on the sofa and remembered the dreamy moments he had sat on it in the antic in First Street with Julien telling him his story.

He absorbed all the details, it was a lovely distraction.


Stella made her way upstairs, she opened the door to her bedroom, and stepped in, unable to find the light switch.

"Hello," an accentless voice came out of the dark.

Stella held her breath for a minute thinking she imagined it as the room went silent again. Perhaps she was still drunk. She stood still, her muscles tensing all over.

"Laughter, Stella. You are scared of me?" the masculine voice replied childishly. The air in the room moved violently like the window had opened and the wind had blown in.

[Jacksbonnielass]

Rowan was surprised by his almost human warmth. His skin was plumped and soft, so unlike it's usual stone hard texture. He had glutted himself for tonight, that was clear. She kissed him softly on the cheek back, she pressed herself against him more, letting her jacket slid off her slowly then fall to the ground.

This teasing, revealing her neck, was something she never would have done before tonight, before being prepared for the Dark Gift. She turned her head, her loose silk blouse slipping off her shoulder. She pressed her lips against his slowly.

Lestat pulled her to him, resting his hand on the small of his back and brushing what bit of her hair touched her neck back, he traced her jawline with the pad of his thumb, how surreal his skin looked against her's, even with what tan he had still from the desert, it was fading now with each sleep he took, causing the animal within to make himself known. He extended his fangs more, his mouth half open as she kissed him, he returned it, how odd it felt to not feel fangs on the other side, how long had it been? Oh he'd kissed his victims before killed, but those had meant nothing to him, just the predator admiring his prey.

He could almost feel the blood pulsing inside her veins, her heart pumping, the only thing keeping her alive and in his arms, such a small organ, yet of such great importance? He pulled back from the kiss and leaned down to her neck, Is this what you wish mon chere? he sent the thought as a last reminder, After tonight, you shall walk the Savage Garden with me, and many others of my kind, forever, nothing mortal shall touch you, disease and death but a memory,drink from me, and live forever.

Armand was in San Francisco, he'd left Daniel back at the hotel for a moment, he had gotten him away from Marius for awhile, he wasn't sure the train models were healthy for him, then again Daniel watching him putting a rat in a blender wasn't either. He walked silently through the throgs of people who headed into bars along the street, most would look over him, a pale 17 year old with auburn curls, and wondering eyes, if they only knew what those eyes had seen. He kept his hands stuffed inside the pockets of his jacket, his clothes were rather plain, a blue jeans jacket and a pair of ragged jeans, Armand treated clothes like nothing now a days, the jeans especially. He'd ripped them numerous times jumping fences and raking them against the tiles of rooftops. Tossel haired Bottecelli angel. He paused in the middle of a crowed, Armand tilted his head up and sniffed, he smelled another, a familar person, Lestat he thought, then turned down an alleyway. He scaled a fire escape to the roofs, if it had been any other roof escapade he would have stood about for awhile, instead he followed the presence, running inhumanly fast across the rooftops against a star scattered backgrohnd, leaping with ease over the gaps between houses. He ended up in front of a glass house. He let himself in, silently treading on the floors to make no footstep. He stood in the doorway, there he was the Brat Prince, with his mortal lover in his arms. Was he turning her? If so, Armand knew they would no longer share that intimate telepathic link.
"Let me do it Lestat" he spoke quietly, looking at them simply.

Lestat looked up, coming out of his stasis, "Armand..how?" he paused, understanding what he meant, he had forgotten, as he always did, "Rowan," he looked at her, "If I turn you, we would loose the ability to read each other's thoughts."

[alldrenched]

Rowan gave easily to his touch, letting him push her head to the side like a ragdoll. When they kissed she could feel his fangs, they pressed at his mouth and made the sides of his lips fuller and hard against hers. Be this, live forever, and be cold, and hungry for death always, though from the first dose of his blood she would not need to. She had accepted this from the day she decided to run off with him, she was not foolish enough to believe he would accept her refusal forever.

She felt his lips leave hers, someone was here, and for a moment she was terrified that it was Michael.

As she turned to see who it was, leaving the dreamy world that consisted solely of Lestat and herself she saw him, an angel in the doorway.

She knew him from his description only, in the books that she had poured over before deciding to give herself over to eternal life. It was Armand.

Let him do it.

She thought about it as she looked between them, how intimate it seemed just moments ago, as though it would be like that cold and foggy day she first had a boy, and now she didn't know.

Armand was a stranger to her; could she be his victim, his child, his lover?

"Yes, it should be him," she said. It was the only logical choice, all that she feared about it was emotional and senseless.

And when the hate came, as it surely would in the millenia that now laid before them, let her wrath be directed at this poor runaway angel, this beautiful statue of a boy.


He woke in darkness. Where he was, he wasn't sure, he wished he had a match to light but he had nothing. He felt himself, his limbs tingling and waking again.

He only a vague sense of his shape, he had a body, but not really, it was not structured at all. He could open himself up until he was so wide in the rich blackness.

This terrified him, he preferred to be this tight little shape, with four limbs, but he wasn't sure why.

What he was? He was less sure.

Slowly the room grew brighter. There was a large orb somewhere below him, he was drawn to it, something important was happening,something that meant very much to him.

He woke again, in a room. He knew himself, in fact, he did not know that he had just moments before not known himself, that he had been in darkness, and without a form.

He was Julien Mayfair, he was dead, and he had business to attend to.

He looked about the room, it was bright and clear, very modern, and in the center was his great great granddaughter, Rowan Mayfair. His purpose was clear to him, but he was trying hard to be seen, this was exhausting.

Rowan Mayfair couldn't be changed, not just because it was wrong, outside of the plan, the timeline laid out for her life, but because it would set off a chain reaction, and something terrible would happen.

His mind wasn't clear on what, that was the terrible thing about being a dead, he was like a sad shadow of himself, and he could only remember so much, particularly if he was being ignored.

[Jacksbonnielass]

Armand approached silently taking in Rowan, oh Lestat, your ability to fall in love with mortals, he thought to himself. If this had been long ago he'd never do this, but things had changed between him and his once enemy. He sat down in front of Rowan on his knees looking her over, then leaning forward, he brushed her hair away from her neck, he breathed in her scent, it had been so long since he'd turned someone, and yet he remembered exactly how to do it. He looked up into her eyes, then smiled innocently before extending his fangs into Rowans neck, he felt the wave of blood explode into his mouth, he drank, at the same time he showed her images of his past, the first time he met Marius in that dark place with the other boys, then painting in Venice, running the streets with Marius's other boys. He finally pulled back, running his tongue along his fangs. He paused before bringing his wrist to his mouth, biting a small bit from the inside and letting his own flow "Drink," he said softly, holding his wrist to her mouth, "If you wish to be with your precious Dark Prince forever."

Lestat watched from an arm chair as Armand drank, afraid at times that he would kill her and leave him here alone with her body. He sighed inwardly when he pulled back and offered her his wrist, then smiled softly when he referred to him as a dark prince. He liked that nickname.

[alldrenched]

Rowan watched Armand, her hematite eyes burning into him coldly, with a confidence and fire that few held up until this point.

As he moved near her she could smell no scent from him, not even the almost human scents that hung on Lestat, usually the faint smell of dry cleaning chemicals or the powder he sometimes vainly wore to make his skin a bit more evenly bronzed. No, Armand seemed so outside of the real world, he seemed to cut through the familiar room, and it seemed to ripple around him, away from him.

Perhaps this sensation was just panic, perhaps it was just some witch's instinct, and fear, like the chill that moved through her now, from her tongue to her toes, as he dropped to his knees before her.

For a moment she thought he was going to pray, that perhaps he was praying, that giving her the Dark Gift would be some sort of ritual to him still.

And then he took her, and she knew that he thought it was slow and smooth but to her it was lurching and sudden, as though he was on the floor, staring at her, his eyes as cold as hers, ancient eyes behind the beautiful mask of an adolescent boy, and then his fangs were slipping into her.

If it hurt she didn't notice, though surely it must have, but it was instantly washed away. She didn't feel her body weaken, though her arms started to fight at him a bit against her will. No, no pain, she wanted this.

Never had she felt this helpless, not even with him, not even when she had been in the maw of Lasher's grip, dying in that filthy bed alone and dreaming of him, wishing he would come back, maybe feed her, even if he had to talk all the time, even if he had to hit her.

But even this brief memory was slipping away, slipping into something else; she was short, low and looking up at a man, not unlike Lestat, a man with gorgeous blond hair like his, but older, perhaps in his late thirties when turned. She saw him as Armand once saw him. "Amadeo," he was saying and leading her out of a small cell into the gilded wonder that was Renaissance Venice. He was beautiful, his face was so horribly perfect, each wrinkle as black as actor's grease paint on his linen white skin.

Armand had seen, as only a child could see, or perhaps she could have, what he was, that he was not human, and Armand had loved him, sin above sins for this poor religious boy.

The languid moments in his Master's bed, that evil delight as Marius' hand found it's way under his tight velvety clothing. There were long marble halls littered with jars of freshly mixed pigment, there was the horror of the Master painting, of the speed, of the talent, and the melancholy of the Master's trips away from him, how Amadeo had felt so abandoned, taking whores and leading the boys in their work.

What she gave over was embarrassingly personal, one of those memories that the blood drew out of people. She gave him, despite fighting to hide it, the full story, the painful horrible story.

Her fall, killing her own son, allowing Lasher's soul to replace his, helping Lasher grow. Then came the trip, growing sicker and sicker as they crossed the globe, the rape weakened her, the miscarriages coming. Then came Emaleth, her beautiful child, dying under the trees, where it was peaceful by the side of the road. How Rowan had surrendered to that, Emaleth's butterscotch scent hanging on her still, the weakness spreading in deliciously over her. For a moment she thought she was really there, that this dream of a gorgeous vampire, of an adolescent sucking her blood was some dream that she created on the brink of death. But no, when she had been laying on the grass dying there had been no time for dreams. Then with a shock she gave the darkest of her secrets, the one that had sent her into that terrible catatonic state, she gave him the scene, her in the bed, freshly woken from a coma, the gun in her hand, her poor fragile Emaleth, so delicate and sweet, broken into gummy red and grotesque splatters by her own hand.

But this was melting, Rowan was coming to herself.

She opened her eyes though it was so difficult and she looked across to Lestat. It was so hard to focus, her limbs were weak and there was a tight glove of numbness over all of them. She could hear something far off, something like music, music being played on an old Victrola.

She heard the words, for a moment she thought that perhaps this was some sort of test, to find his wrist now with her useless hands, though it was right above her. She grasped it with her cupped hands, her fingers too numb to work into a claw to truly grip, and she brought it to her lips.

For a moment she thought with a doctor's disgust about what she was doing, and when she concentrated as the ruby drops fell into her mouth she could taste what it truly was, it was salty, metallic and warm, like all blood. But in a rush above this it was something else, no, everything else.

It was burning, like a drug, as it filled her, and she could feel it, the pain and the pleasure of it as it flooded her veins, creeping from her now full stomach into her heart, and up, through her shoulder, into her arms, her fingers then back.

She gasped, releasing his arm for a moment as she felt everything wake instantly, the pins and needles and the tightness disappearing. Then she took his wrist again, her thirst burning in her still for she hadn't taken enough. She felt the cusp she was on, that she could still die now, and she drank on greedily.

No true thoughts came now, no, there wasn't clarity enough for that, just pleasure. And desperation. And evolution.

Evolution, this was a thought, that she was changing already, though of course these changes were minor probably. Evolution, evolution that came of the spirit bonded with the blood she drank, the spirit that seemed to light the world up now. She could see a chain, thousands of bright red lights, others, others she was now attached to permanently.

And the hot painful flood had stopped. Armand had his arm back, whether he had stopped her or she had she didn't know, but she felt like she had been slapped.

Everything in the room was nauseatingly bright and breathing, she closed her eyes to it, and felt as though she was falling.

"Lestat," she groaned, sitting up, pressing back against the legs of a nearby chair.

But the sickness was leaving her, this wasn't her death, no not yet, though in a few hours the pain and the nausea would come again.

She opened her eyes slowly, gazing around the room in wonder. Everything was so brilliant, everything had it's own life, everything was fragrant and fresh and luxurious. The thin rattan rug that she sat on felt like thick-piled carpet, the tight linen of the square framed, modern chair felt like velvet.

Lestat was glowing, his beauty was too much to focus on, and suddenly she was standing, she moved across the room, passing Armand without looking at him, he was a vessel, he had seen all, she couldn't meet his gaze. She needed to see the ocean, the cold, churning, dangerous ocean.


Julien watched in horror as Rowan fell to the floor with Armand, his rage brought him clearly into view to all who were present though Rowan did not look at him, would not look at him he felt.

Her bleeding out into the young boys mouth, this was what he saw and for a moment, as though he had been pushed, he fell back into invisibility. When he came through, and to,again she was there lapping at the blood like a kitten drinking it's cream. Then it was too late, too late for anything but further warnings, and torment, and pure wrath.

He turned to Lestat, his eyes narrowed, his cane rapping on the floor. He closed the door with that invisible, giant, black part of himself, that frighteningly large part of him that could unfurl into nothing, though he didn't know this, he thought it was just his old power strengthened in his anger, despite his death.

Let Rowan stare dreamily out at that ocean, the ocean Michael died in, the ocean he had pushed Michael into.

Folly, folly, all of this, everything he laid a hand on. The family, it hung by this fine thread, drawn in by the tragedies and captured by Rowan, Stella, and Michael.

And what would Michael be without Rowan? And Stella, how much had been stripped from her? How long would she live the way she did, eating strong pills like candy and washing it down with expensive poison, deadening some growing pain in her?

He looked between Lestat and Armand, locking the doors and clearing his throat gruffly. How had he ever even thought Lestat a gentlemen? Lestat was, and always would be, a vain selfish beast!

"Why!" he shouted.

Mona was going to die, Mona was half dead already, but Rowan, Rowan was fine, she had all of the bleeding cut out of her, she had healed, she was strong. She was something for all of them to know, the true Designee until Stella's youthful recklessness had left her.

His rage lit him on fire, in fact he made of the room a dreamy parlor, his old parlor in First Street. He transposed onto the sleek modern furniture ornate wooden legs, and vibrant florals began to crawl across the chic white of the couch and the chairs.

Two other figures were coming into view also, two brilliant, luxurious creatures.

Stella ran, she felt so foolish for it, for fleeing like a child from this horrendous boogey man but she did, and by the time she got to the bottom of the stairs and found Michael she was panting, her eyes wide.

Michael grabbed her, he looked into her eyes, and his saddened eyes shone back the warm comfort they always had. She laid into him. Looking into his eyes, and about the beautiful empty house, she thought that she must have dreamt it, it must have been the pills she took too often, or the champagne from dinner.

She shook it off, and went on, she left after a thorough check of the bedrooms, with Michael in toe. No one was there, and her bedroom was as it had been when she had last been there, down to a jacket thrown over a chair still, a jacket shoved onto a chair in when she had last slept in that bed, nearly seven months ago.

She called a towncar, it picked them up and took them to a drug store before they returned to the hotel. There they picked up Pieter, and the bags and made their way to DFW.

Now they were in the plane, Michael was asleep on one side of Stella, leaned up against the window. He slept so often now, the deep sleep of depression, the kind of blotto sleep that wasn't ever restful. Pieter, across the aisle, had fallen asleep too, he was leaned over in the deep first class seat, his hands still on his tiny laptop.

Stella had slept to, her hand open on Michael's to give her some assurance that she wasn't alone again, to shake the fear of Lasher that hung on her still.

She had taken a few Percocets and a Valium, and that had made the awful gnawing of her stomach stop, and had dulled her strong sense, a witch's sense which could not be fooled into believing Lasher had just been a hallucination or a dream.

Stella woke, making her chair lean back some more. She nuzzled into the soft pillow one of the stewards had given her but sleep would not return.

She had a sharp sense that she was filled with caffeine,that she had things to do, but she couldn't complete one before she forgot it and was on to something else.

Then came something else, a dream though she was sitting up now, a box of snacks opened on the tray table before her.

She dreamt she was a young man, in a beautiful city, and that she was painting. Then it came to her, this awful sense of falling, though it seemed there was no gravity acting on her, it was a terrible floating sensation.

Something was happening, something she couldn't process, but it was important, and terrible, and she was utterly incapable of stopping it.