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They ride north in that old pink girl-coffin, their bodies scorched to the point that they can fit in with ease. There’s enough room left over to fit a pair of sloshing jugs, filled with the blood that Claudia forces them both to ration. Not that it’s hard; each gulp makes the clump of ash that counts as her stomach twist, repulsed by the reek of fucking Armand and fucking Lestat.
Stay with us, at least until you heal, Louis had said. Like the very fact he used "us" wasn’t a big goddamn problem, like Claudia didn’t have just enough eyeball left to see the way Lestat and Armand sizing each other up behind Louis’s back, ready to go at each other like randy tomcats. Like he hadn’t been avoiding her eyes on the stage when Lestat talked about her turning.
She’d said no. And Maddy had said no, with her mind if not her tongue, because Maddy hadn’t had a tongue. She’d been bones after the fire, held together with just the faintest strips of blackened muscle. Even now, Claudia has to hold her tight, terrified that she’ll shake apart with the next agonizing jolt of train wheels.
They’re traveling north, they have to. Louis knows where they were living, so does Armand, and no doubt Lestat will too. Claudia knows what happens if you stay still where the monsters can find you, where they can crawl back to the door and beg their way back into your heart.
Bad enough that they’re on the train at all, bad enough Lestat and Armand are only letting them go because Louis asked. She won’t give them any more than that.
Still, she makes the effort to answer Louis’s mental calls each time, if only so he won’t lose his mind and make one of Those Assholes chase them down. Alive, she assures him, over and over again. We’re alive. Anything more complicated is too much of a strain, and it’s not like she’s in any mood to ask him what he’s up to with Those Assholes right now.
Even if she wanted to consider any of that, she wouldn't. It’s enough mental energy to focus on muffling her own groans of pain as the train jars her regrown nerves, to keep track of their blood supply, to keep Maddy quiet and fed.
Maddy’s too weak to hold the jar, so Claudia drains for both of them and then lets Maddy drink from her wrist, opening the soft new flesh there again and again. It’s a familiar pain, at least, nothing like the grinding ache and stretch of the rest of her body rebuilding itself.
They fade in and out of sleep, the pair of them, from dreaming hell to waking purgatory. But they endure it together, and Claudia knows enough to be grateful for that. She cups the back of Maddy’s skull, tracing the fresh skin on her bare scalp (just like those awful memories in Maddy’s head, those men on the street) in time with the rumbling gears.
The farther they get from home, the more flesh that grows on her body to match the hair on her head, the more Claudia starts to feel stirrings of guilt. Because sure, Armand and Lestat and the Theatre were the real bastards, but Claudia was the one who brought Maddy back to Paris, wasn’t she?
Claudia was the one who had promised safety, just like Louis had promised her, and she’d lied. Maddy had chosen Claudia, burned because of Claudia, and Claudia hadn’t even been the one to save her, save either of them. A failure, a fuck-up, a—
“Stop that,” Maddy says. Her voice is raw, it must be painful to talk with a so recently regrown tongue. Claudia blinks, looking down at her; she hadn’t even realized that Maddy was awake, let alone that she was able to speak again.
“Stop blaming yourself,” Maddy repeats. That’s enough speaking for right now, apparently, because she switches to the Mind Gift: If I blamed you, I would tell you. But I make my own choices, Dia. I always have.
“Okay,” Claudia says. It’s the first time she’s spoken aloud since they left Paris, and her voice is as gravelly as Maddy’s is. But Maddy smiles away, all blackened gums and yellowed teeth, and the faintest sliver of new pink lips, the most beautiful thing Claudia has ever seen.
When the store of blood runs out, Claudia has enough strength left to pull herself out of the trunk and stalk the corridors. She finds a couple rutting and gorges herself, too hungry to think about sharing their pleasure. Afterwards, she breaks the window and leaves bloodied shards of glass in their hands, evidence of a lover’s quarrel gone wrong.
Back in the trunk, she lets Maddy drink from her greedily, head tucked to her breast instead of her wrist. It feels a bit like motherhood, like the love she was never supposed to have. She lets Maddy fall back into the discarded coffin, face slack, lids fluttering shut.
Claudia feels herself sleeping into her own dark afterward, air whistling gently through her tender throat. From far away, she hears Louis ask the familiar refrain: you okay?
Fine, Claudia mutters, rolling her new eyeballs before she lets into a deep sleep. For once, she doesn’t dream.
When she wakes up, it’s dark and still, a faint shuffle echoing as the last few passengers make their way off. End of the line. She hears the sound of a porter making his way to the baggage car, checking for abandoned luggage, and gives Madeleine’s shoulder a squeeze.
They leave the dead porter on the ground and keep on walking, slipping down the silent train corridor. With a combined effort, they're able to wrench the door open a crack, checking to make sure it's properly dark outside before they step out into the night.
It'd be a strain to carry the coffin, so they leave it, weighed down with ash and crumbled bone and bits of desiccated skin. They'll find shelter somewhere, sleep under the car if they have to. Or they'll burn, but if they do, there will be no watching eyes or cruel laughter, no tuneless music to mock their deaths.
Unencumbered, they step out of the train, making their way down the steps on careful, wincing feet. Maddy has to brace herself against the wall with one hand, shifting to Claudia's shoulder as they reach solid ground. Claudia can still feel the sharp bones of her hand, but there's much more flesh than there was in Paris.
There's a station a bit farther down the train, but they make for the forest instead, the pine needles scratching gently against their itching, peeling skin. Claudia holds up her hand, studying the new brown flesh there, pearlescent nails glinting with fresh life.
She doesn't even notice the cold until Maddy stops dead beside her, her grip tightening on Claudia's shoulder. Claudia shoots her an anxious look, but relaxes when she sees Maddy looking up, her hair falling off her face as her fragile lips split into a proud grin.
"Look," she breathes, and Claudia does. Pale dots swim before her eyes, and it's a heartbeat before she realizes what she's looking at. She hardly ever saw it in New Orleans, but she grew intimately familiar with it during their long European slog. It's never given the sense of wonder that she feels right now, though.
The first few flakes land on her lids like kisses, so reassuringly gentle and blissfully cool that it makes her want to sob. More land on her shoulders, her arms, sinking into the fabric of her filthy yellow dress. She tilts her head down so more can land on her aching scalp, dampening the soft strands of her regrown hair.
With each step, the snow grows heavier, until they just stand and let it cover them. The bright flakes remind Claudia of the ash, but their touch is cool instead of agonizing, pure in a way that even the blood hadn't been.
She doesn't need water anymore, but she still sticks her tongue out to feel the flakes dissolve on it. It's the slight pressure, the reminder that she has a tongue with which to taste, which sends her crashing to her knees with a sob.
Maddy goes down with her, holds her tight as Claudia's chest aches, her face stinging. She tries to hold the tears back, blood is still so precious, but a few escape anyway. They roll down her face and mix with the snow, a sweet red crust gathering on her lips.
She swallows them back as Maddy leans against her, soft red hairs pricking from her scalp to brush the side of Claudia's face. They breathe in and out together, exhaling the remaining soot out of their lungs and into the crisp northern night.
"We're alive," Maddy whispers into the silence, voice frail with wonder. "Are we alive?"
"Yeah." Claudia braces herself against the ground and pushes herself gingerly to her feet. She extends a hand to help Maddy up, keeping their fingers clasped as they move deeper into the woods. With every step, she swears she can feel them growing more solid, the snow forming a cocoon of glittering rebirth. "I think we are."
In the distance she can see a flicker of light, fire peeking through the windows of a small house, warm and tender and innocent. The snow keeps falling behind them, covering their tracks, heavy as wings on their shoulders and crowns on their heads. They keep moving, and do not look back.