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The Vampire Lestat’s World Tour: The Comprehensive Documentary: Unfiltered was four filming sessions in, and Lestat had been nowhere to be found at the start of two of them, which did not exactly bode well for the rest. Or for Daniel’s sanity.
“It’s your turn to go drag him out,” Johnson said, when the titular rockstar was predictably MIA for the fifth.
“Don’t you have unpaid interns for this?” Daniel groused, but went anyway.
Lestat’s dressing room door was locked, and a telepathic Hey, everything okay in there? was thoroughly rebuffed. So Daniel had no choice but to wait outside twiddling his fucking thumbs for another ten minutes until the door swung open and out stepped Louis, looking tellingly ruffled. He blinked to see Daniel there.
Daniel squinted at him.
Louis appeared mildly chagrined.
Daniel squinted some more, then jabbed an accusatory finger at him. “Did you just fuck Lestat?”
“Technically Lestat fucked me,” Louis said, which. Way too much information. And way besides the point.
“You're back together?” It sounded inadvisable as fuck, but who was Daniel to get in the way of true love, or true obsession at the very least. Perhaps if Lestat were getting railed on a regular basis, he’d finally calm down enough for the documentary to progress with only the normal level of celebrity drama.
But these hopes were swiftly and brutally crushed when Louis said, “No. We’re friends.”
“Who fuck.”
“Yes. You of all people should understand, Daniel.” Like Daniel was still a fresh-faced twenty year old, leaving behind a string of jilted hookups, and not the spat-up end result of two divorces and whatever the fuck Armand’s current deal was. “We're keeping things…” Louis paused, thought, and settled on, “Casual.”
“Casual.”
“Yes.”
“You and Lestat.”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” Daniel said, not even trying to keep the abject skepticism out of his voice. “Does Lestat know that?”
“Of course. We've discussed it.”
God, what Daniel wouldn’t have given to be a fly on the wall for that particular conversation. “I sure hope so, as I’m the one who’s gotta deal with him for the next few hours. Is he decent?”
“Is he ever?” Louis said sardonically. “I have to leave now, but it was good seeing you, Daniel. Have fun.”
“I won’t, but thanks anyway,” Daniel said, then rapped again on the door. “Lestat, you'd better not have your dick out.”
“You should be honored to see it,” Lestat hollered, which wasn't exactly reassuring, but Daniel just braced himself and entered anyway.
Lestat’s dick was, fortunately, safely confined in his faux leather pants. Lestat was, unfortunately, in tears. The regular tears, not the sex kind, although beneath the crying, Lestat did rather exude the air of a guy who’d recently gotten the soul sucked out of him, in the fun way. Damn, Louis.
“So,” Daniel said. “How's casual working out for you?”
As he spent the next hour and a half dealing with the ensuing hysterics, and getting precisely zero usable soundbites for his trouble, Daniel reflected, for the first time in either of his lives, that it was perhaps time for him to learn how to think before he spoke.
Out on the prowl for dinner in the narrow Seoul alleys, Daniel sensed his maker lurking around, which wasn't particularly new. What was new was managing to get ahold of him before he could melt away back into the shadows – the way he did on all Daniel's hunts, and Lestat's tour so far, and the clusterfuck that had been Daniel’s own tour before that.
“Not gonna say hi?” Armand’s arm was startlingly slim, delicate, where Daniel had caught hold of it. But Daniel was under no illusions that Armand couldn’t snap him in half in a heartbeat – so the fact that he hadn’t yet meant he had something to say. Like all the infrequent other occasions he’d forgotten to make himself scarce. “Hey, my one and only fledgling, how’s the afterlife been? Anything fun going on? Any pretentious French popstars you’ve been babysitting?”
“Don’t be trite. I will not insult you by pretending not to have been…keeping up.” Armand’s fingers curled over Daniel’s, as if to peel them away. But instead he just…left his hand there, and Daniel suddenly felt less like he was keeping Armand from skittering away and more like he was clinging to him, hanging off him like arm candy. “What has possessed you to conduct another interview? With him?”
“Money. Boredom. Curiosity. And I’d say the last interview was pretty beneficial, no? I mean –” Daniel said pointedly, and spitefully, because not even death could stop him from testing the limits of Armand’s patience, and fuck if he wasn’t well within his rights to be pissed at him as well – “for me at least. And Louis. I'd say you got the short end of the stick.”
To his surprise, Armand just jerked his head, dismissive yet elegant, and said, “I don't care about that. But you are tempting fate. You might not be so fortunate a second time around.”
“What, is that a threat?”
“Of course not,” Armand said, and Daniel was surprised, once again, by his vehemence.
“Well in that case,” he found himself blurting, “I've got nothing to worry about – not when I've got you to protect me, maker.” And he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, not even when Armand’s amber eyes went wide, almost startled, and he slipped away and was gone seconds later, like smoke, like clouds over the moon.
Louis could feign casualness all he wanted, but he was still the one tapping on Daniel’s brain at ass o’ clock in the afternoon to say, “I take it you and Lestat will be discussing Magnus soon,” with the level of disdain most humans normally reserved for Republicans, or hair in their food.
“Geez, hold it, spoiler alert,” Daniel said, which wasn’t his best work, but to reiterate: it was five PM, and he was still exhausted from Lestat’s antics the night before. “Thought you weren’t getting involved with the interview.”
“I’m not. I’m just giving a word of advice. I remember your journalistic style well, Daniel, so I am asking you, this time, not to be…insensitive.”
There was a clear meaning to his words, a reminder. Daniel bristled at it. “Lestat’s a big boy. I think he can handle what I throw at him.”
“Regardless,” Louis said, very pleasantly. “You’re my friend, Daniel, but I will warn you just this once. Don’t be flippant. No trenchant commentary. No prying. Not about this.”
Daniel bristled still, but he acquiesced and behaved himself for the next session – not out of any real concern for Lestat, but because Louis was scary as fuck, even now that Daniel was well beyond death and illness and mindfuckery.
But he really needn’t have worried, because Lestat’s phone rang halfway into the subsequent session. He blushed, visible even through the ghastly foundation, said, “Do excuse me, I must take this,” and didn’t even have the decency to remove his mic before cooing, “Hello, my dove. Yes, the fledgling is behaving himself most impeccably, no need to flay him. What did you need to speak to me about, my soft darling lamb?”
Soft darling lamb, Daniel mouthed disbelievingly to himself, but that wasn’t even the worst of it: the next five minutes saw Lestat dropping all manner of increasingly appalling pet names, culminating in a saccharine, “I will miss you terribly – I’ll count the minutes until we speak again, my sweet syrup pie.” Lestat ended the call with a wistful sigh.
“What,” Daniel said, “is honey not loquacious enough for you?”
“Louis has permitted me the use of terms of endearment again,” Lestat said, still staring longingly at Louis’ contact photo. “But not mon cher. Or mon amour. Or mon Saint Louis. Or mon beau. Or –”
“Yeah, okay, I get the picture. Nothing French.”
“Yes,” Lestat gritted out. “So I am currently workshopping alternatives. As you saw.”
“Well, keep at it. Now, if we could finally get back to the dungeon that –”
“What do you think of: my luscious cinnamon bun?”
“Oh, please do invite me over when you try calling Louis cinnamon,” Daniel said, caught halfway between mortification and morbid curiosity. “That’ll go over so well.”
Needless to say, it was a long night. At the end of it, Daniel returned to his hotel ready to drink the shit out of a blood bag and fall right into bed, but found an unconscious white-collar type tied to the chair at his desk. The room was otherwise empty, everything exactly as he’d left it, but he called out, “Thanks, babe. Really appreciate it!” He’d been aiming for snide, but it landed embarrassingly close to sincerity.
Upon his now-habitual trek to Lestat’s dressing room, Daniel found him in there with some blond twink, who was suspiciously unruffled. “Do you actually want Louis to kill you again?”
“I do, yes. But why would he? Since we are so casual,” Lestat said, with a truly excruciating degree of faux-nonchalance, “he cares not one whit what I do, or whom I entertain. Such as Jerry here.”
“It's Jeff, and you didn’t do shit,” said the twink. “Just made me sit here and listen to you bitch about your ex.”
“And you've been such a good listener,” Lestat said. “But now we're done. Come, come, just one last thing.” He smeared his mouth with loudly purple lipstick, and smacked a kiss to Jeff’s clavicle. Then, after a moment’s deliberation, added a potent spritz of perfume straight to his face. “Et voila. Now, shoo. And make sure to use the side exit.”
“What, no NDA?”
“Trust me, darling, that will be the least of your problems.”
“What, that’s it?” Daniel asked, watching Jeff scurry off. “I gotta say, you’re not making the rockstar lifestyle look all that glamorous, blood notwithstanding.”
“I do not have much predilection for blonds, I'm afraid,” Lestat said, as if Daniel hadn't watched him preen and blow kisses at his own reflection on several occasions. Then he added, grinning wolfishly, “But Louis does. And he is visiting soon, so I suppose he will have a nice dinner on the way in.”
“You're sick,” Daniel said, impressed despite himself, trying not to think of the series of dinners that he’d also been the recipient of lately.
“Peut-être, peut-être.” Lestat waved a hand. “Come join us for a hunt some night. We will show you how real vampires feast. Putain de merde, where are my lash curlers!”
Louis appeared soon enough, eyes alight with fury, even as he delicately wiped away a trace of blood at the corner of his mouth. Daniel had a feeling he knew where it came from.
“Bonsoir, mon cher,” Lestat said. Clearly, the French ban had been dispensed with. “Did you enjoy the snack I sent?”
“Hey, Louis,” Daniel said.
“Hello, Daniel,” Louis said, not looking away from Lestat. “You might want to leave. Now.”
“But my interview isn’t over,” Lestat said, innocent as anything.
“It is now,” Daniel said, making a speedy exit, and motioning for the documentary crew to do the same.
The next time Louis was in town – suspiciously soon after the last – Daniel did end up taking Lestat up on his offer of a hunt, against his better judgement. Mainly to piss Armand off, if he was being honest, but he was curious as well.
They sat on benches under the waxy moon and watched prospective meals pass by – well, Daniel did. Louis and Lestat, sitting on the same bench, knees touching, heads angled together, clearly couldn’t care less. Apparently Lestat’s laughably transparent ploy had worked, which Daniel wasn’t sure said more about him, or Louis, or about Daniel himself, for failing to realize that he’d be third-wheeling on their fucking date night.
Louis’d brought his camera – an antique Rolleiflex, it seemed. Daniel knew he'd taken up photography again, but hadn't seen any of the results yet. That was not the case for Lestat, clearly – Louis handed him a small stack of photographs and he was sifting through them, very delicately, and commenting on each one, in such a way that indicated this was not the first time they’d done this.
To Daniel’s admitted surprise, Lestat offered gentle critique at points, although it was clear he barely knew what he was talking about. Even more surprising, Louis didn’t get huffy about it, or stab him. He just shrugged and said, “Yeah, I had a feeling the lighting there wouldn’t work out. Gotta keep practicing.”
“Oh, but it is stunning nonetheless,” Lestat gushed, because, naturally, the criticism was accompanied by heaps of effusive praise. As for the next photo: “Louis, what a marvelous effect! It looks just like une petite maison de poupée! Tell me, how on earth did you achieve this with just a camera?”
Even on an otherwise uncomplicated shot of what appeared to be a lamppost in New Orleans: “I can sense the emotion, Louis, even through the film. Like you are conveying its very soul. How do you do it?”
“It's nothing that elaborate,” Louis said, clearly pleased, even if he was more flustered than Daniel had ever seen him. “I just…try and capture my subjects like how I see them. That's all. Ain’t that what you said about your own music?”
“It is, yes,” Lestat murmured, and then he reached the very last photo in the stack, and stilled. Fingers trembling slightly. “Is this…”
Louis stiffened. “‘s nothing,” he muttered. “Must’ve gotten mixed in by accident. Don't pay it any mind.”
Daniel leaned closer. It was an apparently candid photo of Lestat – hair unbrushed, minimal makeup. Looking at something off-camera, smiling with more gentleness than Daniel would’ve ever expected him to be capable of.
“That’s pretty good, Louis,” he said. It really was, even if it was the kind of parasocial shit that would’ve had Lestat’s fans dissolving into mass bouts of hysterics within five minutes of it being posted to Instagram. “You should join the team.” Lestat nodded enthusiastically. “You managed to make him look less terrible than every single promo shoot he’s done so far.”
“Well, I mean – it’s Lestat,” Louis said, not meeting either of their eyes. “That says more about the photographers he’s hiring than it does me.”
Lestat hadn’t looked away from Louis once, and there was so much overt hope in his gaze that Daniel shifted away. “You said – is this how you see me, Louis?” He grasped Louis’ sleeve gently, between his thumb and forefinger. Louis turned back, finally, and swallowed when their eyes caught. Lestat’s mouth opened on a gasp. Daniel gagged theatrically, which went completely ignored.
Just as he wondered despairingly if they were actually about to start necking right in front of him – which wouldn’t be terrible, mind, but he was hungry, and it was only a few hours to sunrise – Louis jerked his head away again and gathered up the photos.
“I said, it's nothing.” He shoved to his feet. “Think I’ll eat in after all. You two enjoy the hunt.”
Daniel watched him leave, then warned, “Don’t start weeping on me,” although Lestat's eyes were already welling up with tears. Then, because he was nothing if not a sap, he stayed with him till the theatrics ended. They did at least get a hunt out of it, even if it fell on Daniel to do most of the actual prowling and pouncing, especially when humans wandered, strangely absently, right into his path.
The next session went about as well as could be expected.
“Louis is ghosting me,” Lestat moaned. “Again.”
“Oh, is that why you're crying?” Daniel said. “Not the Pitchfork review?” Said review had been released the night before, to general online ire, although the asshole journalist in Daniel had to admire the way it had trashed Lestat's album with all the viciousness and efficiency of a rabid raccoon.
“What do I care?” Lestat said, with a rude gesture. “Journalistic tripe. My fans have assured me already that rag’s opinion isn't worth two francs.” He sniffled. “But Louis – oh, mon amour is so icy! So mercurial! He will not answer any of my texts! I do not understand why.”
Daniel did, but the last thing he wanted to do was get involved. “What’s not to understand? You guys are still casual, yeah?”
Lestat cast him a baleful look. “Yes, fledgling, we are – you would be an expert on that, I am sure. But –” another sniffle – “I fear I have been too excessive of late. Louis knows how I feel but – if he does not want this, if I am making him uncomfortable – then I must restrain myself, and be content solely with – why are you laughing!”
“No reason,” Daniel said, “just – the thought of you making Louis uncomfortable, of all things. Christ, after a century of vampirism, he’s still this repressed – okay, enough with the choking already!”
“You dare insult him!”
“It was barely an insult, and I said okay, so quit it! It’s not like you can actually kill me!”
“Oh yes, that privilege belongs only to Armand,” Lestat simpered, and Daniel had to repress the urge to hurl one of the clunky makeup palettes right at his aggravating blond head.
Lestat might not have cared about Pitchfork, but someone did – someone powerful, not his slavering hordes of fans – because soon enough, the offending editor found himself most unceremoniously jobless and blacklisted. Daniel psychically called Louis to ask, “Was this your doing?”
“It would’ve happened anyway,” was the cool response. “Since he is, clearly, totally clueless about music. I just lined a few pockets on his way out.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Daniel said. “I’m surprised you didn’t just eat him.”
“Don’t be crass. Besides, his review wasn’t completely irredeemable. It had its rare moments of perceptivity.”
Which must have been referring to the paragraph where the unfortunate editor admitted that: ‘Despite the self-proclaimed vampire’s abysmal lyricism, and his frankly incomprehensible grasp of metaphor, his affection for the subject of the more romantic songs manages to shine, as a coin through murky water. Which is more a testament to the depth of the affection, than to any latent musical capacities.’
“Does Lestat know about this?” Daniel asked. “I guess not, considering that, according to him, you’ve been ghosting him for the past two weeks?”
“That’s…I know Lestat wants things to be. More than casual between us.” Understatement of the century. Daniel was certain Lestat would marry Louis right this moment if he asked. “But I’m just not ready for that now. I don’t want to give him false hope.”
Daniel shrugged. “Look, that’s your prerogative. But you seem pretty invested already. The photos. The music. The eating anyone who looks at him twice.”
“You think he knows?” Louis asked, unaccountably anxiously.
He’d spent ten minutes the other day ignoring everyone in favour of rereading Louis’ chat history and sighing mournfully and wiping tears from his eyes, Daniel thought, but said instead, succinctly, “Probably not. On account of him being an idiot.”
“Don’t call him that,” Louis said immediately – the hypocrite – then sighed. “All the more reason for me to stay away for now. I’m…I can’t rely on a companion for my happiness. Not again.”
“I think you’ll do just fine without Lestat, honestly. But do you want to?”
“It’s not about what I want.”
Daniel cackled. “Louis, pal, you’re a hundred and fifty years old. You’re an undead creature of the night. I’d say you can do whatever the hell you want. Or whomever. You get my drift.”
“Yes,” Louis gritted out, and he still sounded unconvinced, so Daniel continued, “You don’t need to be with Lestat to be happy. Which is fine. But if he makes you happy anyways – why deny yourself?” Which was so soppy it made him wince, but the advice had come surprisingly easily, and he found himself thinking of – well. Of Armand, which wasn’t anything new, but in this context –
Louis was silent, which meant he was thinking too. He thought for a long time, and Daniel was certain he was about to say something like Thank you Daniel, my most astute friend, for the excellent advice! Now I am off to make out with my ex husband and hopefully fuck him into decent enough shape that he can get through the remainder of this accursed documentary without you wringing his scrawny overdramatic neck.
Instead: “Have you ever considered switching tracks from journalism to self help?”
“Low blow,” Daniel said, with great affront – because self help, for one, and for another, he was supposed to be the cynical bastard here.
Louis continued mercilessly, “You could write the next Eat Pray Love, perhaps.”
“What the hell would you know about Eat Pray Love?”
“Nothing,” Louis said instantly – clearly his literary tastes hadn’t gotten any more pedestrian since the 20s – “But Armand’s read it, so you should ask him about it.” And leaving Daniel with that to ruminate on, Louis gently but firmly ended the connection.
Practically speaking, blood bags were the far more convenient method of feeding. But Daniel still preferred hunting – the thrill of it, the rush of live blood straight from the source – even when he ended up covered in blood and viscera, and had to endure a supremely awkward walk back up to his hotel room for a shower. He switched on the light, drew back the shower curtain, and revealed a dark shape crouched in the corner of the tub.
“Jesus,” Daniel said, once his dead heart had stopped racing.
“I don’t care for him,” Armand said. He was tapping away at his iPad. “Tell me. Which word do you think would cause greater offense: vapid or insipid?”
“Insipid,” Daniel said immediately, then, taking a closer look at the screen, “Are you fucking review bombing Lestat’s album?”
“It’s something to do,” Armand sighed. As Daniel watched, he posted whatever he’d been writing, and immediately switched accounts.
“Got tired of spamming one-star ratings on my Goodreads page?” Daniel wasn’t particularly offended about that, especially since he knew Lestat had occupied himself the exact same way. But still. Lestat wasn’t his maker, so it was the principle of the thing. “Or finally got tired of avoiding me?”
At this Armand finally set the iPad down, and blinked up at Daniel. Strange, how unnerving those eyes of his were, when they stared back at Daniel every day from every mirror.
No, unnerving wasn’t quite the word for it.
“I’ve not been avoiding you,” Armand said at last.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Fine. I have. But can you blame me? After what I have done to you – I thought it best to give you space. To process your emotions. To decide…to what capacity you want me in your life.” Maybe he had read Eat Pray Love after all.
“My hero,” Daniel deadpanned. “Look, if you’re worried about me hating you, I think we’re a little past that point. Have been for about fifty years.”
Armand continued to blink up at him silently and Daniel, with some resignation, braced for him to disappear into the night, as always. Instead, he shifted slightly, and patted the spot in the tub next to him. “Come, then. You can help me write.”
“My joints are nowhere near good enough for this,” Daniel said, even as he climbed right in.
“Your joints are good enough for anything,” Armand said dismissively. “I know. I made you that way.”
Which should not have sent heat licking up Daniel's spine the way it did, but here he was. He wasn’t sure whether to be thankful that he’d apparently skipped right over the self-loathing stage of vampirism and landed smack bang in the miserably horny period. Then again. It was Armand. What else was new.
“Stop staring, Daniel,” Armand said, the fucking hypocrite, and held out the iPad.
Daniel considered saying no. Not that he gave a shit about Lestat, really, or his fans, but that single review had seemed to rile Louis up terribly. But perhaps, in that case – it would be doing him a favour. Both of them.
“I have two Pulitzers, and decades of journalistic experience – but sure.” He took the iPad. “Sounds like a fun way to spend a night.”
“If you wish me to leave,” Armand said lowly, “just say so.”
“I don't. I was being serious, for once,” Daniel said, and was rather horrified by the extent to which he meant it. Spending the small morning hours cloistered in a hotel tub with this ancient, terrifyingly powerful creature who'd killed and remade him was, in fact, one of the most thrilling prospects he’d encountered in – years, now. Since that night in Dubai.
The review came easily enough. It was Daniel’s natural predilection to be a dick, after all, and despite what Louis insisted, Lestat’s music really brought it out in him. All he could hope – halfheartedly – was that this wouldn't backfire on him in the form of another hour-long tantrum.
Then again, he thought, watching the satisfied gleam in Armand’s eyes as he leaned over his shoulder to read – the slight curl of his lips – he could deal with it.
“Try to keep things brief,” Clare said, in between juggling about three separate phone conversations and soundly eviscerating PAs, “and civil, as Mr Lioncourt is currently dealing with something of an online hate campaign at the moment, and the last thing I need is you setting him off even more.”
As if set off wasn’t just Lestat’s default state. “How terrible,” Daniel said in dulcet tones, and tread the familiar path to the dressing room. He found Lestat sprawled in his makeup chair, as usual, only this time Louis was there too, in his lap. Their shirts (or what passed for a shirt, in Lestat’s case) unbuttoned enough to reveal very distinct bite marks. “Well, fellas. This looks awfully casual, yeah?”
“We’ve decided to move a bit beyond casual,” Louis said, as Lestat kissed his knuckles and gazed up at him like he’d hung the moon. Which was probably the calmest Daniel had seen him in a good month, so he’d take it.
“Was it the reviews?” Daniel asked, because he had to know.
“What reviews?” Lestat said distractedly, and Louis frowned and said, “I told Lestat to ignore them. His music is…good. Objectively.” Hardly a ringing endorsement, but he bit his lip, almost shyly, and by the way Lestat’s eyes went wide and shiny, it might as well have been an all-out proposal. “I figured I might as well be honest.”
This brought a wide, daffy smile to Lestat’s face, and he drew Louis closer by the waist. “Mon beau petit ange is the most tender, the most benevolent, n’est-ce-pas?”
Eugh. Daniel waited for Louis to tell him to shut the hell up. Or roll his eyes at the very least. But he just smiled back, clearly just as besotted, and tucked a lock of Lestat's hair behind his ear.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” Daniel said loudly. “And as fun as this has been to witness, we do still have a session to get through tonight.”
“Yes, thank you, Daniel, we're quite grateful,” Louis said. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He bent and kissed Lestat softly; Lestat trailed rather pathetically after him when he pulled away and got to his feet. “You'll manage without me, baby?” Which, predictably, brought a fresh round of tears to Lestat’s eyes.
“Your baby is nearly three hundred years old,” Daniel cut in. Lestat shot him a venomous look but, after a few more excruciating moments of goodbyes, followed him over to the confessional and permitted the sound guys to do their jobs with minimal bitching. “Can I expect less histrionics this time? Less property damage?”
“Of course,” Lestat said. Starting to smile again, stroking at the bite mark on his throat, which Daniel knew was well within his capacity to heal. “I am, after all, about to describe my journey to the New World – and the discovery of my city, and of Louis, the love of my life.”
Call Daniel a sap whose cold, dead (literally) heart still believed in true love – call him a professional who was happy to wrest a relatively tantrum-free interview from Lestat, for once – but all in all, he was feeling pretty damn good when he returned to his hotel room. Another swanky Wall Street type was awaiting his arrival, as expected. And this time, Daniel’s maker was waiting as well.
Daniel eyed him with as much flat suspicion as he could manage, even as as his pulse kicked up, as he felt light and nearly giddy. “Normal people just leave flowers, you know.”
“I don’t imagine normal is a descriptor that applies to either of us, but especially not to you. Drink up, Daniel.” Armand gestured airily towards the human, like this was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.
Still eyeing him, Daniel drank, and he waited for Armand to leave, or to enlist Daniel’s help for more bitchy Reddit posts, but Armand just watched him, mouth curving and eyes alight with something almost like – satisfaction.
“Lestat's been talking about you a lot in his interview,” Daniel said once he was done, just to break the silence. And to hide how weak his knees felt, despite the blood.
“I imagine he would.”
“All bad things, don't worry.”
“Again, that comes as no surprise. And I will reiterate – I still maintain this interview is a terrible idea.”
Daniel snorted. “Yeah? It’s worked out pretty well so far. How ‘bout when it’s over, I get one of you alone?”
“No.”
“I think there's a big demand for it. Did you know, you've got tons of fans from the first book? Apologists?”
“I do know,” Armand said, sounding entirely too smug for Daniel’s liking. “I’ve spoken to some, anonymously. I was thinking of starting a blog.”
“Wait, really?” Daniel said, sitting up straight.
“No,” Armand said. “You need to stop being so gullible, beloved.”
“I'll show you gullible,” Daniel said, too outraged to even react to the last part, which was definitely new.
He hadn’t even meant it as a line, but Armand clearly took it as such, because his eyes dropped to Daniel’s bloodstained mouth, and he leaned forward, intent, even as he said critically, “Your flirting could use some work.” He touched Daniel’s hand. His long slender fingers were cool, dead – Daniel flipped his hand over, and took them. “But no matter. We have eternity, after all, to work on it.”
“We do, thanks to you,” Daniel agreed, and dared to kiss him. He was half-afraid it would send Armand bolting straight out the window, but Armand just signed against his mouth, and melted against him.
“So about that blog,” he said later, when Armand still hadn't fled, and he was reasonably confident that he wouldn’t.
Armand sighed. “Haven't I said I was joking?”
“Hey, hey, I got it. But – it wouldn't be a terrible idea, now I think about it.”
“My life story, my point of view,” Armand mused, and there was a note in his voice that Daniel couldn’t quite read, and it scared him. He gripped Armand’s hand tighter. “Will you write it for me, then, Daniel?”
“So I’ll take that as a yes to the interview,” Daniel said, and then, quieter, “Would you want me to?”
Armand smiled. “I’d want no one else.”