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Louis looked down at the Toronto skyline from his perch in the plush window seat and did his best to think of nothing at all. He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there, to that dark hotel room in Canada. Had he driven from Detroit? Swam through Lake Erie? Run straight across the international border?
His right leg was stretched out along the bench, pulsing faintly as the blood dripped down and stained the rich green fabric dark. Broken, he thought idly. His leg was broken. He most likely didn’t run from Michigan then. He tipped his head against the cool glass; the blood on his forehead painted the window red. Louis couldn’t hear anything beyond a faint buzzing in the back of his skull. That was bad, he reasoned. That was probably bad.
Louis closed his eyes.
He opened them again, what felt like seconds later, to two long, gentle hands cradling his face. Familiar blue eyes met his gaze, looking frantic, terrified.
Louis, Louis could see his name on Lestat’s lips, but he still couldn’t hear him through the buzz. Louis, Louis, what happened? Lestat was on his knees beside the window seat, his face covered in glitter. The show must be over then. Too bad, Louis would have liked to see it again.
Mon cher, who did this to you? Lestat’s beautiful mouth asked. Louis missed his voice. He blinked slowly and swallowed thickly, trying and failing to regain his sense.
Suddenly, Lestat was running his fingernail along the vein of his own wrist and all but shoving the wrist in Louis’ mouth once the blood began dripping.
Louis drank.
“Louis,” Lestat’s voice finally broke through. He was running a bloody finger on his free hand along the cuts on Louis’ face, healing them hastily. Louis finally pulled his mouth away from Lestat’s wrist, the little sip still singing through his veins. “What happened? Who did this?”
“Detroit coven,” Louis said slowly. He paused to lick at the blood on the front of his teeth.
Lestat’s eyes widened. “They targeted you, too?”
Louis shook his head, memories of the coven’s desperate final screams replacing the buzz.
“No. No, I targeted them. They’re dead now.”
Louis closed his eyes and tilted his head back into the wall. Lestat paused his ministrations. Louis heard him sit back on his heels.
“What do you mean, they’re dead now? All of them? There had to be dozens--,”
“Fifty-three,” Louis interrupted softly. “There were fifty-three of them.”
“An impressive feat, to be sure, cheri, and as glad as I am to see the ragtag Tooth Team behind us, why on earth would you attempt to eliminate an entire coven by yourself?”
A familiar anger was creeping in to Lestat’s tone; Louis could not help but smirk slightly at the sound.
“Succeed in eliminating,” Louis corrected quietly. Lestat growled.
Louis opened his eyes and looked at Lestat once more.
His shirt was a black netted thing, more suited to catching fish than wearing into decent society. His red leather pants were slung scandalously low on his hips; Louis wanted to open the zipper with his teeth. Lestat’s hair was a wild and magnificent golden mane of curls.
“Is it gonna rain?” Louis asked, reaching his hand out to pet Lestat’s head. “Your hair only gets like this when it’s humid.”
Anger and affection were raging quite the battle across the planes of Lestat’s beautiful face. Finally, Lestat took a deep breath, removed Louis’ hand from his hair and held it tightly with both his own.
“Louis, why did you go after the Detroit coven by yourself?”
“Request from the Talamasca.”
Lestat squeezed Louis’ hand painfully, and Louis knew the righteous anger was beginning to win.
“And why, pray tell, are we doing what those dim-witted, magically obtuse pencil-pushers request of us?”
Us. There hadn’t been an us when it came to them in a long, long time.
Louis shrugged, then hissed when something in his shoulder pulled. Lestat did not let go of his hand.
“They heard what I did in Paris, Dubai. Knew I’d be able to do it, and Detroit’s been a thorn in their side for a while, apparently.”
Lestat narrowed his eyes.
The unfortunate thing about being loved, about being known, was that, even at the end, even when the relationship was over and the home and family were gone, the knowledge remained.
“Ah, yes of course, Louis de Pointe du Lac dispatched the coven for the Talamasca simply out of the goodness of his sweet little heart. Be serious, cher. What did they give you? Ten million dollars? A painting you’d been hunting down for decades? Real estate, perhaps, another home in Sausalito--,”
“They didn’t give me nothing. They thought I’d like the chance, is all.”
Lestat simply looked at him for one breath, two…
“Who was the coven leader?”
“Called himself Killer. His given name was Bruce.”
Louis looked out the window. He didn’t need to watch the realization bloom and grow in those sad blue eyes with Lestat still holding his hand.
Eventually, Lestat untucked his legs from beneath him and sat parallel to Louis on the ground. He rested his head on the cushion of the window seat. Louis rested his free hand on top of Lestat’s head again, trying gently to untangle the messy curls.
“He’s dead?” Lestat finally asked. They would need to go to coffin soon; the sky was turning a dull pink along the horizon.
“His head is in that duffle by the door.”
“Claudia did always like her souvenirs.”
Claudia’s name broke the spell of the quiet night. Suddenly the buzzing in Louis’ head was gone and everything was loud and red tears were streaming down his cheeks. Because he had seen her, Louis had seen her in Bruce’s memories, her smile, her laugh, her shining eyes in the firelight. And he’d seen her horror, her anger and her deep, gut-wrenching fear, because Louis had failed that girl in every way he possibly ever could.
Yet the sick part of him could not regret it, could not regret the dread and disgust he had felt at watching the vile predator’s memories of his daughter because—because Louis had seen her again. He’d heard her voice outside his own memories. Here was a person, an evil, sadistic terrible vampire—but here was another person who remembered Claudia, who had known her, who talked to her and touched her and knew that Claudia, his beautiful tragic Claudia had existed.
Louis had never felt so wretched in all his life. He’d also never taken such pleasure in a kill. He was thinking of having Bruce’s head taxidermized. Or taking it to the ocean to be eaten by sharks.
Lestat was on his knees again, holding Louis’ head to his chest as his other arm wrapped around Louis’ torso and held him close.
“Sorry,” Louis breathed out. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I just—I just didn’t want to be alone.”
Lestat pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “You need never apologize for that.”
They sat like that for a few minutes more, Lestat holding him gently, Louis allowing himself to be held, his bloody tears staining Lestat’s chest through the ridiculous fishnet shirt.
“To coffin with us now, I think,” Lestat finally said, the sky turning pinker still out the window. Lestat sat back and helped Louis gingerly to his feet; his leg no longer broken, but still rather sore.
Louis knew he should put up a fight. He should offer to take the bed or the closet, to get himself another room, or perhaps sleep in the bathtub.
Instead, he let Lestat take his hand and lead him slowly to the sturdy black coffin in the corner of the room. Lestat lifted the lid and assisted Louis in settling along the bottom before climbing in himself and letting the lid lock them in the waiting darkness.
It felt new, and so very old that Louis wanted to weep afresh.
He wanted to apologize for the book again. He wanted to apologize for a lot of things.
He wanted Lestat to apologize for a lot of things, too.
Instead, Louis buried his face into the familiar hollow of Lestat’s neck and said, “I wish we could open the lid tomorrow and be home again. I wish we could have one more happy day together with her.”
It took Lestat so long to respond, Louis thought he’d fallen asleep.
“That’s what dreams are for, mon cheri,” he said thickly.
Louis remembered Claudia telling him she never dreamed, her lie to hide the nightmares from him she couldn’t keep at bay.
“Bonne nuit, Lestat.”
“Good night, Louis.”
Sweet dreams, Claudia, Louis thought to himself as the world faded away. The last thing Louis felt was Lestat's thumb softly brushing the tears off his cheek.
***