" did i rip him from your
arms, lestat? did i ? "

viii. bed wench
5539 words.

           LUCIENNE SAT IN THE HALF-LIGHT, her gaze fixed into the empty air before her, as if staring into a vast, unknowable void. The silence pressed around her, a silence that felt alive, as if it knew more than she did about the thing that clawed at the edges of her mind. Something was missing, out of reach.

She lowered her gaze, hands folded in her lap, her stillness heavy with unspoken thoughts. Finally, a slight, detached smile tugged at her lips, and she let out a soft, almost dismissive laugh. "Whatever," she murmured, the word hanging in the dim room like smoke.

She looked up, the distant glimmer of recollection shifting in her eyes. "The next thing I remember..." she began, her voice trailing off, as if sorting through fragments of half-formed memories. "I was with Ange. Just Ange, the next night." Her eyes wandered, tracing memories only she could see. "But... at one point, I couldn't find her." The words left her lips quietly, the faintest quiver beneath her calm.

For what felt like the hundredth time, she sank into the hazy recollections, grasping at memories that slipped through her fingers like water.

Lucienne moved down the cobbled street in a haze, confusion clinging to her like the damp New Orleans air. The night was alive with muffled laughter and the murmur of distant music, but it all blurred together, fading into the background of her restless thoughts. She had no clear plan, only the pull of her instincts guiding her back to the house.

As she approached, the sound of men's laughter and drunken singing grew louder, spilling out of the open windows like an unwelcome symphony. Lucienne stopped in the doorway, her dark eyes narrowing as she took in the scene. Soldiers filled the parlor, their boots scuffing against the wooden floors, their voices raucous. And at the center of it all was Lestat, perched at the piano, his fingers dancing over the keys with effortless grace, his voice rising above the chaos in a jaunty melody.

Her brows furrowed in utter disbelief. What in God's name is he doing? she thought, though the words slipped from her lips in a low mutter. "What the hell is he doin'?"

Lestat's voice soared, leading the soldiers in a rousing chorus. "When the drills began, they'd walk a hundred miles a day!" they sang, a drunken cheer punctuating the end of the line.

Lucienne's gaze darted around the room, her expression hardening as she caught sight of someone standing quietly in the corner. A woman. No—her. Ange.

"Ange?" The name escaped her lips, low and cautious, like a whisper meant only for herself. But there was no time for answers. The sound of the front door opening again pulled her attention, and her head turned just in time to see Louis step inside. He moved quickly, his eyes dark with unspoken anger as he ascended the steps toward Lestat.

Lucienne followed, weaving through the throng of men with a quiet ferocity, her jaw tight. Her sharp voice rose behind Louis. "Why is Angelene here, Lestat?" she demanded, though her words were nearly drowned out by the cacophony around them.

Lestat, ever the picture of theatrical indifference, barely glanced over his shoulder as he answered with a smirk. "Well," he said smoothly, "I thought we could have an orgy. You two could fuck them, and I could kill them." His hands framed Louis's face briefly, only to be swatted away.

Lucienne pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling through clenched teeth as the absurdity of the moment pressed against her temples.

"What about the coffin room?" Louis asked, his tone sharp.

"That would require curiosity and intelligence,"   he shot back, his voice carrying an edge of mockery. "All these murderous slobs want is more wine and a German on their bayonets!" His voice rose, drawing a cheer from one of the soldiers who stumbled past.

"Kill the Huns!" the man bellowed, raising his glass.

"Kill the Huns!" Lestat echoed, raising his hand in exaggerated camaraderie.

Lucienne's patience, already worn thin, snapped. "Is this some sort of sick joke?" she asked, her voice low but cutting as she stepped closer to the two men. Her words were deliberate, each one laced with simmering anger. "Forget the brainless brutes downstairs. I don't care about them. What I care about is why Ange is here, Lestat." Her tone softened to a razor's edge, quiet but heavy with threat.

Lestat finally turned to her, his expression unreadable. "I brought them back after they cut the electricity at the Azalea," he said, his nonchalance grating. He produced a piece of paper and handed it over without ceremony. "Miss Bricktop wanted you to have this."

Lucienne rolled her eyes, snatching the paper from his hands before thrusting it into Louis's. He unfolded it, scanning the words as a frown deepened across his face.

It's a closure notice.

"I think she's onto us," Lestat added, almost cheerfully.

Lucienne's head shook, her mind spinning. Everything felt like it was moving too fast, or perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps it was all unraveling too slowly, like a cruel trick of perception. "I want Ange gone," she said flatly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Louis nodded in agreement. "Get 'em out of here."

Lestat tilted his head, a faint smile curling at his lips. "Now that I know you two have a type, I thought you'd be pleased," he said airily.

Lucienne's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Pleased?" she repeated, her voice like ice. "You thought I'd be pleased? That's like me bringing home every colored person I lay eyes on just because it suits you, Lestat."

Lestat's smile didn't waver, but there was a spark of something sharper behind his eyes. "Your type wasn't easy to find, Luci. One of a kind, really. I can see why you're so obsessed with her." His words cut, every syllable dripping with calculated cruelty. "So I thought, why not bring the real thing to you?"

Lucienne's face twisted in disgust, anger simmering beneath her composed exterior. Her hands itched to strike him, to silence that insufferable smirk.

"Lestat!" Louis's voice rose, filled with the same frustration Lucienne felt.

Lestat looked between them, an amused glint in his eye, before raising a hand to his temple. The soldiers stilled almost instantly, setting down their drinks and stumbling toward the door like puppets on strings. Lucienne watched as they filed out, her gaze lingering on Ange as she disappeared into the night.

She hated this.

When the room was finally empty, Lestat sauntered to a chair and sat, breaking into a low hum that spilled into a soft, mocking melody. "Oh, joy, oh, boy, where do we go from here?" he sang, his voice lilting with theatrical flair.

"Not funny," Louis snapped, his tone biting.

"If I were alive," Lucienne muttered, closing her eyes in exhaustion, "I'd have had a heart attack already."

Lestat chuckled softly. "What can I say? I'm a lot," he said, his voice calm and unbothered. "I'm not perfect."

   Lucienne stood frozen, her gaze flicking between the two men as the tension thickened in the room. Lestat's smile, a flicker of amusement that never quite reached his eyes, grated against the silence between them, only amplifying the weight of his unspoken words.

Louis's sharp intake of breath broke the stillness, his voice cutting through the murky air like a blade. "I knew it. I knew you were there," he declared, the accusation hanging between them like a specter.

Lucienne blinked, momentarily disoriented by the unexpected shift. "What?" she asked, her voice low and tinged with confusion, her eyes darting between them, trying to make sense of the scene unfolding before her.

nLestat, ever the enigma, responded with a quiet, almost bored, "Yes."

Her face twisted in revulsion, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of her lips. But then, a thought lodged itself in her mind like a splinter. If he'd been watching Louis—how did he know about Angelene? How did he know where she was? A knot of dread curled in her stomach, tightening as the realization struck her like a cold slap. She should've stayed away. She should've kept her distance from Angelene. She had no place in this tangled mess of jealousy and obsession.

"You're jealous?" Louis's voice broke the silence, incredulous, yet soft, as though the words themselves were foreign to him.

"Yes." Lestat's admission was so matter-of-fact, so calm, it almost felt like a confession of something far darker. "I don't like sharing," he continued, as though discussing the weather or the day's trivialities.

Lucienne's lips parted, but the sarcasm came before the words could form. "Yeah, clearly." Her eyes narrowed, the bite of her tone matching the sharpness in her chest. A flicker of something darker danced in her gaze, but she suppressed it, knowing all too well what that look could cost her.

Louis, frustrated beyond measure, clenched his fists at his sides, his voice rising again. "What about Antoinette?" he demanded, throwing the name like a challenge into the growing storm between them.

Lestat paused, as if weighing the question before responding with the kind of blunt simplicity that only he could manage. "It's different."

"How the hell is that any different, Lestat?" Lucienne's voice was low, deadly, tinged with a thread of fury that was barely contained. "What makes this any different?"

Lestat, unnervingly calm, gave a single, dismissive shrug. "I don't have feelings for her."

Silence hung heavily in the room. Lucienne's heart thudded against her ribs, the sharpness of his words a blade to her chest. It was as if the space between them was growing, his distance palpable, and she couldn't stand it—not anymore.

Louis, his temper finally reaching its breaking point, shouted, his voice ragged with emotion, "He did me some head, and I drove him home!" His hands trembled, but his words were a surge of pent-up frustration.

Suddenly, Lestat was on his feet, his hands raised in defiance, a wild spark in his eyes. "I heard your hearts dancing!" His words echoed, bouncing off the walls, making Lucienne flinch, though she refused to show it. She stepped away from the wall, drifting to the nearest table, her fingers trailing the surface, her eyes half-lidded as she watched the unraveling storm between the two men.

Louis was undeterred. "You watched the whole thing like some creeper!" he snapped, fury lacing every syllable.

"And then, I watched you pull over, drain the dog, and run down an alleyway for two more rats!" Lestat shouted back, his voice like a whip. "This... this is not a life, Louis!"

Louis recoiled, as if struck by the force of Lestat's words. "That's 'cause you took my life!" he shouted, his voice breaking at the seams. "I got nothing left! I've lost everything—my brother, my family—" His voice cracked, the sorrow in his words a stark contrast to the anger that had preceded them.

Lucienne could hear the pain in his voice, the hollow echo of someone who had once been whole, but she couldn't understand it. Not like Louis could. She had no history to lose. She had no life to mourn.

Except... Ange.

Louis tossed the paper onto the table, the closure notice that now felt like a death sentence, the final blow in a war he'd already lost. "'Bout to lose the last fucking thing I care about," he muttered, the weight of those words settling over them like a shroud.

Lucienne stood there, her eyes fixed on the paper. Everything had been moving so fast, but in this moment, the world felt as though it had come to a halt. Time, it seemed, had slowed to a crawl, each second stretching out in the thick, heavy air.

The room felt colder. The shadows seemed to deepen.

And yet, Lucienne remained silent.

  Lucienne watched in silence as Louis stormed past them, his figure a fleeting shadow in the dim hallway. The door slammed behind him with a finality that made the air in the room grow even thicker. She remained still, her gaze never leaving Lestat as the silence stretched between them like an abyss. It was a rare sight—Louis had given Lestat hell. A part of Lucienne was almost impressed. Well, too bad for Lestat. She would be doing the same.

She rose from her seat slowly, her movements deliberate and calm, drawing Lestat's attention. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes—surprise, perhaps, that she hadn't followed Louis's lead and had her own outburst. But Lucienne wasn't one for theatrics. Not this time.

Lestat turned away, clearly trying to cool his own simmering temper. His voice, when he spoke, was measured, but the bitterness lingered. "Losing her was the best thing you could've done for yourself."

Lucienne's lips curled into a smile that was cool, too calm, almost detached. "I knew you were out of your mind, Lestat, and that you'd never agree to seein' others. But if I'd known you'd watch it unfold like some sadistic play, I would've backed down," she breathed out, her eyes narrowing with disdain. "Not just because it's disturbing, but because I don't want you anywhere near Ange."

"Angelene," he corrected softly, the name dripping off his tongue.

The twitch in her eye was barely perceptible, but it was there. God, how he despised her. How he wanted her gone. He had chosen her not because of some misguided sense of affection, but because he believed she had nothing left to live for. It was clear now—that was why he had done it.

Her voice grew low, the tension in the room thickening like a storm about to break. "Lestat," she began, every syllable measured, deliberate. "When you fell for another man... when you fell for Louis, without my permission, did I ever make you fear for his safety?"

Lestat remained silent, but the air seemed to vibrate with unspoken answers. Lucienne's patience thinned, the sharp edge of her words cutting through the heavy quiet. "Did I follow him? Did I stalk him to his family's house? Did I threaten his life, Lestat? Answer me."

Her voice grew more insistent, louder, until the words came in a near-shout. "Answer me, Lestat!" She repeated his name again and again, her tone a rhythmic drumbeat of anger. "Lestat. Lestat. Lestat." Her hand shot out, knocking a glass from the table with a single motion, the glass shattering on the floor, its contents spilling like blood in the dim light.

"Lucienne!" Lestat's voice cracked, a slight flush of red painting his face. The sudden eruption of noise startled him, but he could barely mask the rising tension in his own chest.

"Did I?" Lucienne shouted, her eyes burning with fury. "Did I threaten to slit Louis's throat in front of his family? Did I take him, and feed him to the rats like I wanted to? Did I? Did I rip him from your arms, Lestat? Did I?" Her breath came in sharp bursts, as though she might suffocate on her own rage.

Lestat's voice was defensive, shaking with frustration. "You are in love with her!"

"I am not!" Lucienne snarled back, her teeth gritted in a furious snarl. "I'm not in love with her! You wanted her hidden! You wanted her—away from me. You let your love for me blind you to everything else!" She was practically spitting with anger, her hands trembling as she grabbed another glass from the table. She let it fall to the ground, the sound of shattering glass an ugly punctuation to her words.

Lestat roared, his voice deep with emotion. "You wanted her hidden, from me! The difference is, Lucienne—I did not put my life into Antionette's hands, but you did to Angelene."

"No," Lucienne replied, her voice suddenly calm again, like the eye of a storm. "That's not the difference, Lestat." She raised the last glass in her hand, holding it for a moment, her fingers delicate as they traced the rim. Her eyes met his as she let it slip from her grasp. It shattered, the liquid spreading across the floor like a stain on the room's very soul. "You want to know why, Lestat? I'll tell you."

She stood before him now, her presence a force in the room, like the quiet before a thunderclap. "Because I put my life into your hands. And you crushed it. But I won't let you crush Angelene's." Her voice shook with rage, but the calmness, the clarity, burned through. "Your jealousy, your need to control, your way of living will not destroy her. Not while I'm here."

Lestat's face softened for a moment, a flicker of realization creeping into his eyes. "You can't live without her."

Lucienne stood still, her expression unreadable, as the words hung in the air between them. She stared at him for a moment, then turned on her heel, her presence like a shadow slipping away into the darkness. Without a word, she left the room, the door creaking as it closed behind her, leaving Lestat alone with the weight of her words.

   Daniel exhaled sharply, the weight of Lucienne's words still hanging in the room like smoke. He leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes narrowing as he regarded her with a calm, almost clinical detachment. "So you've always been... crazy?" His voice was measured.

   Louis, perched near the edge of his seat, tensed immediately. "Don't call her that." He interjected.

   Daniel raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk widening ever so slightly. "My apologies. Slightly unwell, then," he amended, his tone laced with sardonic humor, though his gaze never left Lucienne.

   Lucienne sat perfectly still, her posture regal, her expression carved from marble. For a moment, she said nothing, letting the silence stretch out, taut and unnerving. Then, with a calmness that cut sharper than any blade, she spoke.

   "Funny," she replied, her lips curving ever so slightly—not into a smile, but into something cooler, something sharper, like a crack in a frozen lake. Her tone was dry, distant, but her eyes, shadowed by the soft glow of the lamplight, gleamed with something unreadable. The stillness in her was unsettling, a quiet storm waiting just beneath the surface.

   Daniel shifted in his seat, suddenly aware of the weight in her gaze, but he didn't look away. Louis, however, did—his jaw tightening, his hands curling into fists at his sides, as though bracing himself for whatever Lucienne might say or do next.

   But she didn't move. Didn't raise her voice. Her stillness was louder than anything else in the room, and it spoke volumes. "Anyway," Lucienne said abruptly, her tone light, her expression shifting as though shaking off a lingering shadow. "A break. That's all I needed. Just a break... before I lost myself entirely." Her voice trailed off, and her eyes drifted to some indeterminate point across the room, her thoughts retreating inward.

   The tension in the room was palpable, humming like a taut string. She was acutely aware of the storm brewing between Louis and Lestat—the unspoken accusations, the way Louis's every move bristled with barely-contained frustration. Lucienne sat silently at the table, her chin resting lightly on her hand.

   She refused to look at either of them, instead letting her gaze wander over the room's dim corners, her mind elsewhere. Her silence was intentional, a refusal to engage. Yes, Lucienne Desmarais could hold a grudge like no other, and tonight, she indulged in that talent, tuning them out as if their words were background noise.

   "You think I'm gon' let that snake bite me and my people?" Louis's voice cut through her thoughts. His sharp drawl was laced with disdain as he scribbled furiously on a whiteboard in front of him.

   "You've got investments on Claiborne Avenue," Lestat replied coolly, his tone almost condescending.

   "What? Hats? Little grocery stores?" Louis shot back, his words harsh, disdain dripping from every syllable. "Nickels. Dimes. Quarters."

"So it is about the money," Lestat remarked.

   The tension thickened, the air practically crackling as Louis slammed the marker down. A knock at the door interrupted their sparring. Louis's head snapped up, his nerves frayed and showing. "What is it?" he barked, his voice sharp.

   Bricktop entered, exuding her usual no-nonsense energy. She didn't bother with pleasantries, glancing at the whiteboard before speaking. "I'm gon' speak for the girls and say, as minority owners, that's a stupid fucking business plan," she said bluntly.

   At this, Lucienne finally let out a laugh, her voice lilting and sharp as a blade. "No whites. Colored only," she repeated, her tone mocking as she pushed herself up from her chair. As she passed Bricktop and Louis, she tossed her final remark over her shoulder. "They're gonna burn us at the stake," she sung, slipping out of the room before anyone could respond.

   And burn, they nearly did. The sign went up, bold and defiant, and the consequences came swift and brutal. The cease-and-desist order arrived, escorted by a cadre of white policemen who stormed into their space like invaders. Tensions spilled into the streets, anger boiling over like a pot left too long on the fire. White men turned on the community with renewed fervor, their cruelty sharpened by their indignation, while the city itself seemed to groan under the weight of it all.

   One such evening, Lucienne walked alongside Louis under the flickering glow of gas lamps, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and distant river rot. The city felt restless, the streets tense and alive with unspoken threats. Lucienne kept her head down, her steps purposeful, but her mind wandered, the weight of everything pressing down on her chest.

   "This place is falling apart," she murmured, her voice quiet, nearly swallowed by the sounds of the night. Her gaze was unfocused, her attention elsewhere until the sharp jolt of someone bumping into her snapped her back.

   She stumbled slightly, turning to see an older white man, broad and rough-looking, who didn't even pause. "Watch yourself, bed wench," he muttered as he passed, his tone casual, as if the slur was no more significant than a greeting.

   Lucienne's eyes widened slightly, her body going rigid. She froze for a moment, the words sinking into her skin like thorns.

   "Aye—" Louis's voice was sharp, a warning in his tone as he turned toward the man, his body taut like a coiled spring.

   But before he could take a step, Lucienne's hands were on his chest, pressing gently but firmly. Her voice was low, urgent. "Louis, no. Let's go home. Now. Let's just go home, yeah?" Her tone was soft but left no room for argument, her eyes briefly flicking toward the man as if to assess the danger before she pulled her attention back to Louis.

   "Luci—" Louis began, his voice tight with protest.

   "Home," she interrupted, her tone leaving no room for further discussion. She turned, guiding him in the opposite direction, her grip steady on his arm as she led him away. Her pace was quick, her shoulders tense, but she didn't look back. Not even once.

   She knew the next step. It was inevitable.

   Lucienne didn't breathe a word of it to Lestat, not even a hint to Louis. But Louis didn't need her to say anything—her silence was deafening, her thoughts a tempest that he could hear as if she'd spoken aloud. Her anguish curled around him like smoke.

   "Bed wench." The words echoed in her mind, an endless loop that refused to fade, needling at her even as she wandered aimlessly through the night. She didn't go home. She couldn't. Not yet.

   That same night, after she had coaxed Louis back to the house like a restless child, she slipped out. Her mind was a haze, but one thing remained startlingly clear: the man's face. Vampires, after all, were creatures of memory—faces, scents, whispers in the dark. And this face? She would never forget it.

   The field stretched wide under the moonlight, the earth damp from a recent rain. Her dress brushed against the wet grass, the hem already stained with dirt, but she paid it no mind. Her head was down, her hair whipping in the night wind as she walked with purpose. She spotted him easily, his broad back turned, an ax resting in his calloused hands. A farmer, perhaps, or some other kind of laborer. None of it mattered.

   She moved silently, her steps like a shadow's, until her eyes landed on a shovel lying discarded in the field. Without hesitation, she bent to pick it up, the weight of it satisfying in her grip.

   The metallic scrape of the shovel against the ground followed her as she advanced, each step deliberate, unhurried. The man didn't turn, didn't notice her presence. Not until it was too late.

   In a single, fluid motion, she lifted the shovel high above her head and brought it crashing down with brutal force.

   The crack of metal against bone shattered the quiet night. The man collapsed forward with a grunt, sprawling in the dirt, but Lucienne didn't stop. She couldn't stop. Her breaths came fast and shallow as she swung again.

   And again.

   And again.

   The shovel connected with sickening thuds, each strike accompanied by her guttural grunts of exertion. Blood sprayed in all directions, staining the grass, her face, her dress. She wasn't feeding. She didn't want his blood. No, she wanted him dead.

   Dead and gone.

   The man's body was long still, his head a grotesque ruin of flesh and bone, but she kept swinging. The rage within her demanded it. Thirty strikes, perhaps more. By the time she stopped, the man's remains were unrecognizable, the blood pooling around her feet.

   She let the shovel fall from her hands, the clang of metal against the ground breaking the heavy silence. For a moment, she stood there, chest heaving, staring down at what was left of him. Then, without a word, she turned and began the long walk home.

   The streets were dark and empty, the lamps casting faint halos of light. Lucienne walked as though in a trance, her steps slow and measured. Her gown—once pale, soft, and elegant—was now soaked in red. The hem dragged behind her, tattered and filthy. Her hair clung to her face in wild tendrils, her eyes wide and unblinking. She looked less like a woman and more like a specter, haunting the night.

   When she reached the house, she stepped inside without pause. The door creaked as it shut behind her, and there stood Lestat, leaning casually against the frame, as if he had been waiting. His golden hair glinted in the dim light, his face unreadable as he took her in.

   Her gown, drenched in blood, hung heavily against her small frame. The original color was all but lost beneath the carnage. Her hair was disheveled, and her eyes—those eyes—held a madness he recognized all too well.

   She didn't acknowledge him, not even a glance. She merely walked past, her steps slow but steady, dragging her ruined dress behind her.

   Lestat said nothing. He watched her ascend the stairs, each step deliberate, her presence unsettling in its quiet intensity. When she reached the locked room, the one she rarely entered, she opened the door without hesitation and disappeared inside.

   The door clicked shut, and the house fell silent once more.

   Lucienne never saw the storm brewing—until it tore through New Orleans, leaving the streets in a bloody frenzy. The next morning, when she ventured out of the shadows of their home, she was met with the grisly sight of the old man's body. His legs and bottom were nothing more than a twisted heap of flesh, half of him severed and left to decay.

   A cruel joke had been played. There, beneath the mangled remains, lay a white sheet of paper with a "Whites Only" sign. The blood pooling around him was thick and dark, a grotesque testament to the madness that had gripped the city.

   Another symbol of the city's injustice—its violence, its anger, all now tied to her and Louis.

   And just as quickly, the fire consumed the Azalea—blazing across the neighborhood, sparking chaos, rage, and destruction. Lucienne stood in the house beside Louis and Lestat, her presence as silent and distant as the city outside. She hadn't spoken a word, eyes fixated on the wall, her mind lost somewhere far beyond the room. Lestat's voice broke through the tension, a peculiar satisfaction clinging to his words.

   "I must confess," Lestat's voice was smooth, like silk over jagged glass, "I'm very proud of you both. This—this act, it goes against so much of my teaching, but you've managed to execute it with such aplomb."

   Louis was quiet, staring out of the window, but when he finally spoke, his voice trembled, though only faintly. "I didn't do it for me." His words were cold, distant, yet heavy with a truth Lucienne already knew.

    "I did." Lucienne's voice was flat, tired—a worn-out thread of a person she'd once been. She didn't even glance up at them.

   "I did it for my city," Louis continued, turning toward them, his hands clenched in fists. "For my people. They destroy our businesses, buy up the land cheap, like vultures picking at a carcass. I see it, I know it, and I will stop it."

   Lestat's expression shifted from amusement to sharp disdain, his gaze hardening as he tossed the newspaper onto the table. "So that torturous death," he sneered, "was for your people? That grotesque display of his body? Is that for your people, Louis?"

   Lucienne rolled her eyes, the words seeping into her skull like venom. She didn't care. She didn't want to care. She turned her gaze away from them, refusing to acknowledge the venom spilling from Lestat's lips.

   "Did you smile when he begged for mercy?" Lestat's words cut through the stillness like a knife. His voice was almost playful, but his eyes betrayed him—there was something darker there. "Did you relish it as you carved him open? Did it feel good to see his blood, Louis?" His gaze flicked toward Lucienne then, dark and mocking. "Did it feel satisfying to deliver the killing blow? Was it cathartic for you, Lucienne? To see the life drain from him? To see his flesh fling?"

    Lucienne's stomach twisted in revolt. The memories—dark, horrifying—flooded her thoughts. She'd erased them, wiped them from her mind like an old stain. But now, with Lestat's words so blunt, so vile, she couldn't ignore it. The blood. The destruction. The violence. It was her doing. She had walked beside Louis, silent, complicit.

   "I didn't see this coming." Louis's voice was thick with guilt, regret, but it was too late now.

   "Save that lie for yourself," Lestat spat. His words were sharp, cruel. "Did you not get a little thrill when you saw him begging for his life? Did you not enjoy it when you broke him, piece by piece?"

   Lucienne stood slowly, her body stiff with tension. She moved toward the door, her wrist caught unexpectedly in Lestat's grip. He stood up, his face dark with the cruelty of their exchange.

   "Maybe you went quiet on purpose," Louis continued, accusing her, his voice rough with anger. "Maybe you knew, and you didn't stop us."

   Lestat's hand left Louis's chin, moving instead to Lucienne, his fingers brushing her cheek with unsettling gentleness. "You've finally embraced the darkness, haven't you? Companion of the dark gift, at last." His smile was wicked, dangerous.

   Lucienne's gaze piercing as she jerked away from Lestat's touch.

   Louis's eyes flicked toward the window, the city burning in the distance. "That out there—that's on me," he muttered, his voice distant, as if torn between guilt and defiance.

   Lestat, however, was not finished. He laughed low, cold. "Well, yes. You provided the excuse. All it took was a little push, didn't it?" He turned his eyes back on Lucienne, a cruel smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Toss them into the right circumstance, and they go for the throat."

   Louis's gaze narrowed, his expression hardening. "That's why we ain't never gonna work," he muttered, bitter and resigned. "That's why you're always going to be alone."

   The words stung more than Lucienne cared to admit, and before Lestat could speak, she turned and fled the room, her body shaking with a rage that had nowhere to go. She had to leave. She had to get away from them.

   She stumbled into the hallway, the bile rising in her throat, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The weight of what had happened, of what she had allowed, threatened to suffocate her. She reached the stairs before the world around her collapsed, and in an instant, she was vomiting blood, hot and thick, a reflection of the disgust she felt for herself.

   The room spun around her as she collapsed to the floor, choking on the poison of her own choices.

⛧

authors note: guys i'm gonna be so honest. i started writing this weeks ago and just now finished it. but uhm here you go (don't hate me) DONT GUYS wait cuz claudia's coming soon so everyone will be happy for about 2.1 seconds. Right now though, let's embrace Lucienne's mentally deranged ass. for now for now.

i'm still trying to figure out how Angelene will be turned so wait on that and yeahhh

i hope you guys enjoyed and hopefully ill get the next one out soon but lowk i need to work on my bridgerton fanfic. BYEE LOVE YOU