Work Text:
On the screen, a series of talking heads appear, each asking the same question: "Who is The Vampire Lestat?"
"A rock star or a myth come to life?" the narrator muses.
The screen flickers through a rapid sequence of clips:
A man performing, clad in black skin-tight jeans, his top half bare except for a silver rosary hanging from his neck. His blonde, shoulder-length hair moves like a lion’s mane, partially hiding his face as he loses himself to the song. He commands the stage with feline grace, riling up his manic, adoring crowds.
Then, glimpses of the man on a late-night talk show – his arm draped lazily over the couch, hips slanted forward as he charms the host.
Then, videos of the man posing provocatively for a photo shoot, wearing a corset and thigh-high boots in one scene and a full tuxedo in another, cropped to reveal his svelte abdomen.
As these clips flit across the screen, voices continue to narrate: "In just a few short months, The Vampire Lestat has taken the world by storm. But who is this enigmatic figure, and what is the secret behind his meteoric rise to fame?"
It cuts a news anchor desk. One of the anchors continues, "Lestat de Lioncourt. The name and persona are both inspired by one of the characters in Daniel Malloy’s New York Times Bestselling novel ‘The Interview with the Vampire.’ His sudden ascent has captivated fans and media alike.”
What follows are videos of fans lining up outside concert venues, holding posters and memorabilia, rainbow flags, many dressed as vampires, some even toting well-loved copies of the book.
Another anchor chimes in, "While the book is officially deemed a work of fiction, it has garnered a cult following that fervently believes in its truth.”
In a vertical video from TMZ, paparazzi swarm Lestat as he gets into a black SUV. One of them shouts, “Lestat, tell us - what’s your agenda here?”
The question makes the man in question pause. He stops to turn with a wicked smile. It’s the first time we see his handsome face on full display.
“My agenda?” he asks, his otherworldly blue eyes gleaming against the flashing cameras. “Isn’t it obvious? To provoke. To reveal. I have no shame in my true nature, no matter how devilish that may be. I'd rather wear it proudly, let the whole world see than hide it for one second longer. That's why I'm here. To tell the truth."
“The Vampire Lestat has just begun his record-breaking World Tour, selling out stadiums around the globe,” the anchor goes on. “The highly anticipated finale will take place here in San Francisco at Levi’s Stadium this summer..”
(-)
Daniel Malloy sits back against the couch, the TV casting a blue glow over the room as the special on Lestat comes to a close.
“Riveting,” he remarks. “But it doesn’t look like you need me. You’ve already got the whole world talking about you."
Across from him, Lestat de Lioncourt lounges on a leather couch, a cigarette in hand. He’s a vision in leather pants and a purple velvet blouse, unbuttoned to reveal his lean, well-sculpted chest, while his eyes are lined tastefully with smoke and glitter. He smirks, leaning forward to tap his cigarette on the ashtray on the mahogany coffee table. Extending his hand, a book from the bookshelf flies across the room through the air and into his palm. He places it on the table, his black-painted nails tapping the frayed cover. The title reads ‘Interview with the Vampire’ by Daniel Malloy.
"I think you owe me a favour,” he purrs.
Daniel remains unphased. "I don’t owe you anything. I don’t know you."
"Ah! But you write as if you do, no?" Lestat exclaims, eyes gleaming.
"I conducted the interview. I merely recorded your ex-husband’s account of events and corroborated it with evidence. What is that phrase? Don’t shoot the messenger?"
"Daniel,” Lestat chuckles, uttering his name in an overfamiliar way. “I’m not here to shoot, as you say. Besides, you’re already dead."
Daniel gives him a dry look.
"In more ways than one, too, I see. Your lifelong journalistic career - over after claiming these outrageous fables as the truth. And, of course, the dark gift… Gifted from a mutual friend of ours, isn’t that right?"
Daniel tries to appear impassive but shifts imperceptibly in his seat. He takes his glasses off. "Was it the eyes that gave it away?” he asks, clipping his glasses on the neck of his vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt. “I’ll admit it took some time to get used to. The shades might make me look like a prick, but shit like that doesn’t really matter when your joints feel like butter, and you can see like a fucking hawk."
"The resemblance is uncanny, yes, but no,” Lestat says, gazing into Daniel’s copper eyes with a peculiar expression. “It’s not difficult to parse these things out, especially when they remain in the forefront of your mind."
Daniel's brow furrows. "Get out of my head."
Lestat’s mouth curls mischievously. "You need to get better at hiding your thoughts,” he replies, staring at him thoughtfully. “But I guess that would be difficult. Your Maker left before he could teach you all these things."
Losing his patience, Daniel pinches the bridge of his nose and leans forward. "What do you want, Lestat?"
"I already told you. I want you to help me write my autobiography."
"And get it published before your little finale in San Francisco. Yeah, I know. It’s a little over-ambitious, even for you."
Lestat leans forward with a graceful elegance to ash his cigarette, his movements embodying a captivating blend of femininity and masculinity, from the delicate dance of his fingers to the poised hunch of his broad shoulders.
"Did you not sell eight million copies of this?” He asks, waving to the book on the table. “Are they not begging you for a sequel? You might be doing me a favour, but you’d get one in return."
Daniel smirks. "I drove here in my new Porsche with the top down on the PCH. I’ve already paid off my daughters’ student loans and mortgages, and they still won’t talk to me. I’m not exactly in this for the money.”
"What are you in it for?” Lestat replies, tilting his head curiously. “Do you plan on sitting by, holding your tongue as the world makes its way around the sun? I doubt you’re capable of that, even in death."
"Well, I’m interested in stories that matter—"
"I matter, Daniel,” Lestat proclaims with an air of arrogance, opening his arms as if to say, Just look at me. “The world knows it. You know it. People want to know about me. You can give them that…Plus, I know you’re dying to know as well. You conducted two interviews with a vampire who whinged endlessly about Lestat de Lioncourt. And you were three-quarters of the way through the second before you realized both of your memories had been altered. Who knows what is or isn’t real? Don’t you want to know the truth? Figure out who I truly am?"
For a long moment, Daniel stares at him, eyes narrowed. “The truth. It’s funny… “ he muses. “It’s actually far less static than most people think. Even scientists don’t know the truth. Science is just the closest thing we can get to it. As for recollection, things happened as they did, and all we get is a memory. And as you probably know, seeing as you read my book, memory is quite the monster."
Lestat tilts his head, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Okay. So I cannot provide you with the whole truth. But I can get you closer."
Daniel shrugs apathetically. "Sure."
After taking a long drag from his cigarette, Lestat adds, "I can also tell you where he is."
A heavy silence fills the room. Daniel searches Lestat's gaze, waiting for the punchline, but it doesn’t come.
"You know where my Maker is,” he said, not as a question but as a statement.
Lestat nods. "I do. He hides well, that one. But when you’ve been around for as long as we have, the world becomes quite small. He cannot hide from me."
Daniel shifts again, unable to mask the flicker of emotion across his face.
Lestat seems to notice this, and for a moment, all bravado and mischief are replaced with a quiet solemnity. "It is cruel what he did to you—"
"You don’t know what happened."
Lestat smiles, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. "Mm. Yes, I don’t. Curious. But I’m not referring to him turning you but to how he left you."
Daniel's voice is steady but tinged with bitterness. "I lived seventy-two years without the gift. I’m not exactly a newborn calf trying to use its legs for the first time."
Lestat's expression turned serious. "It doesn’t matter how long your mortal life was. In the beginning, we are all infants of immortality. What he did was cruel and cowardly. I know firsthand of the ache you are feeling now, Daniel. I would not wish it upon anyone."
Daniel doesn’t agree, nor does he deny it.
A series of images flit across his mind - Louis leaving the penthouse, Armand crumpled against the concrete wall - the man who had, at one point, tortured him for five days, who had invaded his mind and altered his memories. Then, another image - of Daniel, for some inexplicable reason, extending his hand to that man—an olive branch, which Armand had examined with deep perplexity before tentatively accepting it.
Lestat’s eyes narrow curiously as the scene plays across Daniel’s mind. To block his thoughts, Daniel quickly glances down at his hand, now resting against the thigh of his jeans. The gift did not rewind the clock, but his skin is less textured, less lined, and just slightly less imperfect. His nails gleam like glass beneath the light of the chandelier, a detail of his new body he’s still not used to. It's just one more thing to give him the appearance of someone going through some sort of end-of-life crisis.
Daniel spent much of his mortal life chasing a high, first with drugs and sex and then from particular thrills that only come from poking bears, digging for things that don’t want to be found. The Dark Gift did nothing to temper these inclinations; instead, it magnified them, heightening his cravings and amplifying his desire for that chase.
“Okay.”
The word was out before Daniel decided to speak.
Lestat lifts a brow expectantly.
It was probably fate that he would accept his request, just as he had with Louis in San Francisco and then again in Dubai fifty years later. He says yes, like he’s digging his own grave. But this time, he’s already dead.
“Okay,” Daniel says again.
Lestat regards him carefully. “You will help me.”
A moment passes, and then Daniel gives him a reluctant nod.
And then he watches as a wolfish grin slowly spreads across Lestat’s face.
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