The days that followed did not give me time to think.
They swallowed me.
At seventeen, this body was already expected to keep pace with men who had decided boyhood was something to be endured, not preserved. Every night blurred into the next—lamplit rooms thick with cigar smoke, voices too loud, laughter sharpened by liquor and bravado.
"Drink," someone would say, clapping me on the back. "Don't be shy."
The glass was always shoved into my hand before I could refuse.
Whiskey burned like punishment.
I learned quickly how to fake it—how to tip the glass just enough, how to cough into my sleeve, how to laugh a second too late so no one noticed my grimace. But sometimes there was no escape. Sometimes eyes lingered too long, waiting.
So I drank.
My head would spin, my stomach turning traitorously as the room tilted. The body tolerated more than I ever could—its tolerance a cruel inheritance I hadn't asked for.
Every night, without fail, I excused myself the first moment I could.
Sometimes it was the garden.
Sometimes the alley.
Once—humiliatingly—it was a porcelain basin behind a locked door.
I would retch until tears blurred my vision, knuckles white against stone or porcelain or wrought iron, whispering, "I hate this, I hate this, I hate this," like a prayer.
Then I'd rinse my mouth, straighten my borrowed clothes, and go back inside.
Because that was what boys did.
Between the smoke and the drink and the endless talk of trade and inheritance and appearances, I listened.
I always listened.
"Louis de Pointe du Lac?" someone would scoff. "Shut himself away since the funeral."
"He's grieving," another would mutter. "Or going mad. Hard to tell."
"No, I heard he's changed. Quiet. Cold. Dangerous, even."
Dangerous, I thought, isn't the word yet.
I learned the rhythms of the city this way—through overheard remarks, servants' whispers, careless confidences spilled over brandy. I asked questions that sounded idle and harmless, always phrased like a young man's curiosity.
Too curious to be suspicious.
Too polite to be refused.
"Has Mr. de Pointe du Lac been seen lately?" I asked one afternoon, leaning against the study doorframe, pretending boredom.
The servant shook his head. "He keeps to the house, sir. No visitors. No disturbances."
"And... the other one?" I pressed, my heart stuttering despite myself.
"The tall man?" The servant frowned, searching his memory. "Hasn't come near."
I exhaled slowly.
Good.
Relief loosened something in my chest I hadn't realized I was holding.
Later that evening, I leaned back in my chair, council papers spread before me—schedules and meetings stacked until the days felt indistinguishable. A small, private smile touched my lips.
He listened, I thought.
He actually listened.
Maybe—just maybe—this time, things would unfold differently.
I buried myself in obligations, let routine smother my thoughts. Meetings bled into one another—smoke-stained rooms, endless voices, glasses refilled without asking. I endured it all, telling myself that absence meant safety.
That silence meant restraint.
I did not see Lestat anywhere.
Not at soirées.
Not at gatherings.
Not lurking at the edges of candlelight where monsters loved to preen.
And so I believed—foolishly—that the matter was done.
I did not know that Lestat had watched every step from the shadows.
Had watched me gag on liquor.
Had watched me ask the wrong questions.
Had smiled at the sound of my relief.
And patience, I would learn far too late, was Lestat de Lioncourt's favorite cruelty.
🩸
Lestat had seen the notes arrive.
Not once.
Not twice.
But every time.
On the third day, Lestat followed the pattern instead of the message.
He watched the servant leave the Aldrich house at dusk, the folded paper hidden carefully inside a coat. Watched the man walk the familiar route, slow and cautious, as if he knew the weight of what he carried.
Interesting, Lestat thought.
He followed the servant all the way to the de Pointe du Lac residence, stayed long enough to feel the moment the note changed hands, then returned—curiosity sharpened now into something darker.
This time, he did not leave.
He went back with the servant.
Not inside.
Never inside.
He lingered across the street from the Aldrich house, standing where shadows bent kindly around him. He watched a window on the second floor.
And there she was.
No coat. No hat. No disguise.
Just a girl standing in lamplight, sleeves rolled up, hair loose at the nape of her neck. Not a boy at all—not even trying to be.
Lestat smiled slowly.
Ah.
So that was it.
He leaned against the wall, arms folding loosely, eyes never leaving the window.
"She plays at being invisible," he murmured, amused. "But not to me."
The realization settled unpleasantly.
She wasn't warning him away from Louis.
She was circling.
Sending words.
Watching the house.
Lingering just long enough to imagine herself seen.
A gentler approach, perhaps. A smarter one.
And then the thought came—sharp, unwelcome.
If I expose her, he realized, she gains an excuse.
A scandal.
A reveal.
A reason to step out of shadows and into Louis' world openly, honestly—while he himself would still be the unspoken thing, the uninvited presence.
Lestat's jaw tightened.
No.
He would not hand her that advantage.
Not yet.
His amusement cooled into irritation. Then resentment. Then something sharper still.
"She thinks she understands him," he said quietly. "Because she sends him pretty words."
The lamplight flickered as Annie moved away from the window, unaware she had been measured, weighed, and misjudged.
Lestat straightened.
Not a protector.
Not an oracle.
A rival.
And rivals, he decided, did not deserve kindness.
"Well then," he murmured to the empty street, his smile thin now, dangerous. "How very interesting."
And for the first time since the funeral, his attention turned fully—
not to Louis—
but to Annie.
With something very close to hate taking root.
🩸
That night, I dreamed of my old life.
Not the dramatic parts.
Not the moments people would write about.
Just the ordinary silence.
A small room.
A desk cluttered with notes and books.
A laptop glowing past midnight.
No voice telling me to sleep.
No parent knocking on the door.
No one asking if I'd eaten.
I remembered studying until my eyes burned, chasing deadlines that only mattered to me. I remembered thinking—more than once—If I disappeared, would anyone even notice right away?
In the dream, the room stayed empty.
Days passed.
The world kept moving.
No funeral.
No gathering.
No name spoken with weight.
I woke with tears on my face and no surprise in my chest.
I lay still, staring at the ceiling of a room that was not mine, breathing in a century that had accepted me without question.
I fit here, I thought quietly.
Not because I was special.
But because I was... unclaimed.
My parents here doted on me conditionally.
My world before would be inconvenienced at most.
But grief?
No.
And somehow, that made me calm.
I sat up and swung my legs over the bed. The house was silent. Lamps glowed low. Ink and paper waited on the desk like they had been expecting me.
I didn't think long.
I picked up the pen and began to write.
Not carefully.
Not neatly.
As if the words had already been forming.
A letter.
To him.
I didn't know what I would say yet—not really. I only knew I needed to speak. To explain. To justify. To place myself somewhere in his understanding before he decided what I was to him.
Outside my window, the night was very still.
Too still.
A shadow rested just beyond the glass, unmoving, patient.
Lestat de Lioncourt stood in the dark, listening to the soft scratch of pen against paper, his expression unreadable.
He had already decided I was dangerous.
Already told himself I was a rival.
And tonight, he was weighing a simpler solution.
Inside, I wrote on, unaware, my heart steady for the first time since waking in this world.
If I am to stay, I thought as the ink dried, then I should at least be honest.
I did not know how close death stood to my window.
I only knew I was finally ready to be seen.