Chapter Text
Louis watched Daniel’s brow furrow as he leaned closer to his laptop.
It was his tell: narrowed eyes, a faint sigh. Louis knew something was bothering him before the words left his lips. “Forgive me, Louis,” He began, as he always did, “There seems to be a decade or so unaccounted for. Between Paris, 1949, and San Francisco, 1973.”
He glanced up expectantly, gesturing for clarification.
The words sat heavy on Louis’s tongue, refusing to form. His mind narrowed as he scoured his memories for some glimpse of the decade. He saw Théâtres des Vampires; Claudia. He found Lestat cowering in Magnus’s lair. He felt his heart ache as their faces haunted his thoughts, for two distinctly different reasons; or so he justified.
He saw Armand in San Francisco, standing beside him in the Polynesian Mary’s. He remembered Daniel—their first meeting—the outburst and interrogation that followed. The fourteen years between these events, however, were seemingly lost.
As Louis met Daniel’s gaze, a dry, humourless laugh escaped him. “Do you care to fill me in?” Daniel blinked, his lips pulled tight. Louis knew he was concerned, for he had seen this expression often over the past few sessions.
Still, Louis struggled against his mind. He shook his head once, the corner of his mouth pulled down. “I don’t remember.” His voice sounded more confident than he felt.
“How could you forget fourteen years, Louis?” Daniel pinched the bridge of his nose, his voice carrying through the cavernous dining hall. “It’s not like you’ve misplaced your phone. That’s a chunk of your life.”
“Yes. I realise, thank you, Mr Molloy.” Louis interrupted, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Had this been a less concerning scenario, he likely would have. Though, as it stood, the journalist’s unease was mutual.
It felt as though time had escaped him, as though fourteen years had been torn from his life without a trace. No lingering memory. No passing thought. Just an absence that he failed to justify.
“Think, Louis. Dig deep.” Daniel urged, sliding his laptop to the side. Louis had no doubt he was still recording. “You must remember something. Anything!”
He had experienced memory loss before, even during this interview. Though never like this. Previously, his thoughts had been fragmented and imperfect, requiring piecing together to form a coherent timeline. Now, he was blank.
Louis shook his head, his frown now fully formed. Nothing. Rain poured outside, the distant noise filling the silence between them. Daniel sighed, his eyes flickering closed for a moment, his hand shaking against the table.
Just as Louis was about to offer a rest—a break in the interview—a thought came. The scent of rain-soaked streets. The notes of bourbon and cigarette smoke. His brow deepened as he looked to Daniel. They both froze.
The smell was not of Dubai nor San Francisco.
Humid air wetting his skin. The distant sound of jazz drifted through the quarter. Streetlights reflected in puddles left by an evening shower. “I think I was in New Orleans.” Louis swallowed.
Daniel frowned, his head held at a slight tilt. “New Orleans?” He repeated with a final nod. “Okay. So, uh, why were you in New Orleans?”
“I don’t know.” The words left him before he could stop them. His mind, however, was elsewhere.
He avoided puddles as he crossed the street, his leather shoes recently shined. A wrought-iron balcony hung overhead; men spoke and laughed as women danced. And somewhere, several streets away, a piano played.
Suddenly, he was there.
He recognised the street. The bars had changed, the road resealed, but the street remained the same. Bourbon Street, the French Quarter. His feet carried him forward as a haze of men walked past. Their chatter was as distant as the music filtering into the evening air.
He followed a path already determined by some external force. The scent of bourbon and something metallic grew stronger as he walked; the noise faded further into the background. He turned several corners, travelled alleyways, without recollection of why.
His breath came in heavy gasps, his vision distorted. Perhaps he was drunk. He couldn’t remember buying a drink. His footsteps began to echo, heavy with an occasional splash. He coughed. Maybe he was smoking.
It wasn’t a long walk. No. He didn’t recall the rest of the walk.
He did recall, however, standing before a very familiar door. A green balcony jutted out above him, the space seemingly desolate of life. The door itself was of the same colour and shade, with the same iron detailing as the rails. Three steps led up to it.
Louis recalled standing on each for far longer than he’d intended.
“1132 Royal Street.” His voice, startling in its clarity, drew him from the memory. He took a sudden breath, eyes wide as he found himself back at his dining table. Back in Dubai.
Daniel typed rapidly beside him, a slight frown forming. “You went back to the townhouse?” He met Louis’s eye, his brow deepening. His voice, despite its judgmental tone, lacked judgment. Concern perhaps, or even doubt, but not judgment.
“Yes.” Louis swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. His eyes burned under the ceiling lights, his body feeling suddenly heavy. He closed his eyes for a moment as his head spun and nausea grew in his stomach.
He felt as though he was watching a film, engrossed in the story but entirely detached from it. Even as he sat here, opposite Daniel, in his all too familiar home, he felt the weight of these memories flooding his mind.
“Why?” Daniel pressed, his voice suddenly darker. Louis had a feeling—no, Louis knew—that he was already theorising. The furrowed brow, narrowed eyes. The slight sigh he let out before the question.
Still, Louis didn’t have an answer. “I’m not sure.” He strained, shutting his eyes once more, fingertips rubbing at his temple. “I just… happened there.” He shrugged, “An old habit, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.” Came Daniel’s response. “Why did you hesitate to enter?” Louis could hear the implication practically rolling from his tongue. A part of him loathed the journalist for the mere thought of it.
“I didn’t.” Louis shook his head twice. He didn’t even believe his own words.
“You just told me you stood at each step for, and I quote, longer than intended.” Daniel huffed, crossing his arms across his chest, fingers tapping against his forearms. “You don’t remember walking an hour from the French Quarter, but you counted the exact steps you took between the street and the door.” His lips pulled tight, though his eyes softened, “Sounds like hesitation to me.”
Louis couldn’t argue, and he didn’t. He took three breaths, each deeper than the last. “I don’t know.”
“What were you expecting to find?” Daniel leaned back in his seat, his eyes never leaving Louis. Once again, Louis hesitated to answer, his words unformed, left heavy in the back of his throat.
“I wasn’t expecting anything…” He assured with little confidence, his eyes drifting closed once more. As the words left him, the iron door came back into view. ‘1132’ burned into a small copper plaque before him.
His hand remained on the handle for a long while. Perhaps the door was locked. However, he didn’t make an effort to find a key. Eventually, the door just opened. Still, he didn’t enter for several minutes.
The smell was not as bad as expected. An aged mixture of dust, rot, and blood. Most of their furniture had seemingly been removed; stolen or sold. The carpet was stained a rotten red, flesh still caught in its surface.
The entry was damp, the air thick with moisture. Several masquerade masks lay askew across the floor, coupled with various bloodied wigs. He couldn’t remember shutting the door before he walked upstairs.
The stairs creaked under his weight. At the top of the staircase stood a familiar grand piano, engulfed in debris. Louis was surprised that it was still standing among the ruins. He ran his fingers along its lidded surface, gathering a pile of dust in their wake. He let out a single breath as he revealed the reflective black surface.
He continued into the old coffin room, his feet carrying him before his mind could register. However, where two coffins once lay, there remained only one. It was a deep mahogany, with an intricate silver lining. The room sat in ruin—torn curtains and fractured walls—though the coffin remained untouched by such filth.
The lid was closed, and the shiny surface revealed fresh fingerprints along the edge. As Louis drew closer, his fingers ached to open its lid.
“Wait,” Daniel’s voice cut through the memory, tearing Louis back to the interview. This time, however, he found himself annoyed. “Why didn’t you explore downstairs?”
Louis blinked, regaining his composure with a few breaths. He rolled his shoulders, leaning forward, his forearms on the table. Daniel’s question didn’t register at first, though no clarity ever came in terms of an answer. “I must have.”
“Do you remember exploring downstairs?” The journalist pressed as Louis groaned. He pressed his eyes shut, his finger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose, forcing himself back into his thoughts.
Nothing. “I didn’t.” He opened his eyes to Daniel’s faint smile and curious look. Perhaps he was a gruff man, but he did not find this situation amusing in the slightest.
“So, why did you go straight to the coffin room?”
“I—” Louis could suddenly smell the death and decay again as he stood once more before the coffin. Perhaps he knew exactly who it belonged to. Maybe that was why he went straight to that room. Hope.
No. That couldn’t be it. Though as the seconds turned to minutes, as he stood frozen, he knew. He pulled the lid open, finding the same silk interior he’d spent so many nights against. It couldn’t be.
But why else would he have returned here? For Claudia, he decided. To reconnect and better understand his past, perhaps her life. He wasn’t kidding himself. Still, the coffin remained empty, the silk cold against skin.
Maybe he was too late.
The room chilled, or perhaps the blood drained from Louis’s head. Either way, dread pitted in his stomach. A new scent grew stronger around him, overwhelming his senses. He shook where he stood, his knees threatened to buckle.
There he was.
He couldn’t remember what caused him to turn. A creak? A breath? A “Mon cher,” Perhaps? Maybe that was what he’d wanted to believe. Maybe he’d let himself believe it.
It was not that he’d hoped to find him.
Lestat, that is.