Claudia's Music
by Delphine

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended on Anne Rice, Knopf, etc., etc., etc., [insert name here:]_____________, etc., etc.,...

Spoilers: I'd like to think that Memnoch never happened, because it's easier that way. So this can be after the Tale of the Body Thief, maybe before Merrick. But some things from Merrick are mentioned, like the music and the birds.

Rating: Rather tame, I think. I'll put slash in another, upcoming spec, promise!

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I walked in, finding his townhouse immaculately lit with fine beeswax candles upon crystal chandeliers and candelabras. I stared at the flames for a passing, fleeting moment, and was quickly distracted by harpsichord music. Sharp harpsichord music, and birds—vivid yellow canaries singing. I could hear them, and her perfect words uttered from cupid’s bow lips. I rushed in, soaking from the rain, to the parlor, hoping to find my beautiful love. And nothing was there. But I heard it! The music and the birds that David had so vividly described when he first entered our townhouse, changed after Lestat’s rape.

Instead I found Lestat, looking at me quizzically from his book. “Mon Dieu! Louis! Where have you been? And why are you so wet? And why do you look like so?”

“You don’t—don’t—hear that, heard it?” I sputtered, holding myself frightfully. “David’s heard it as well.”

“Heard what, Louis? Have you started feeding upon rats and chickens again, Louis?” he asked comically, raising one eyebrow and closing the book he was reading.

“Non, Lestat, mais, je les ai écouté! La musique, les oiseaux!” I cursed and fell onto the gilded Louis XVI chair.

I stared at him, so flawlessly dressed with a white linen shirt with billowed sleeves and ruffles upon the cuffs, and dark suede pants that seemed to be cut for his body. And on his fingers were ornate rings, large sparkling stones set upon gold and silver. And he looked very confused. I believe he thought me mad.

“I was out in the rain, hunting, and I found this exquisite young woman, no more than twenty mortal years. And she had golden ringlets that elegantly fell down to the small of her back, clear blue eyes, soft pink lips, and a perfectly angelic countenance. But before I realized all this, she was dying in my arms, my mouth latched upon her slender marble neck. I only saw her beauty after she was dead, lying in such an angle in the dark alleyway, much in the manner of a carelessly strewn paper doll. And she looked like…” I was unable to continue.

“Claudia?” Lestat finished.

I nodded, and continued. “And I ran home in the rain and mud, so much like the night I took her, only to hear the harpsichord music that she would play so often, and her birds she kept. The yellow canaries, I mean.”

He seemed to care, to be in deep thought. “You would think, Louis, that after almost one-hundred and fifty years, you would forget the pain. Come, let’s retire. It will be dawn in a few hours, and we’ve not spent much time together.”

I suppose he meant these words to comfort me, to soothe me, but they seemed so callous. I killed Claudia that night, over two centuries past, and she became a monster. But I loved her, adored her. And I killed her again this night, that woman, in the alley. And then the music came tonight! I had not heard it any time before, but it had to come tonight! I hated him, I hated Lestat at that moment. I found Claudia again, and I took her again, and Lestat cared not.

“Comment peux-tu être si dur?!” I spitted out, bolting up and running for the door.

“Louis, Louis, Louis,” he smiled, standing and walking slowly towards me. The lights suddenly seemed so harsh and made him into a monster. “She was but a mortal. A mortal that resembled what Claudia might have looked like if she survived past that night. A mortal, Louis. There is no meaning to it, come let’s retire,” he repeated.

“Non, il y a quelque chose d’avantage,” I said softly, and ran out back into the rain.

“Louis, come back! There is not something more! It was a coincidence! Stop running around with your agony and your pain. Tu veux le raison d’être? Le raison de vivre? Et le raison pour la fille? Il n’y a pas!”

I heard him yelling for blocks, blocks away from the Vieux Carré, still teeming with mortals at this hour. But eventually his voice seemed to vanish amidst the thousands of people in the city. Why did I have to slaughter her? Claudia? Was her name Claudia? I ran, and ran, no faster than any mortal can run, my mind swimming with the thoughts of Claudia in the filthy, dingy, soiled little room and her dead mother. How angelic she seemed in her mud-caked dress, and how the blood seemed to radiate from her young body. What if I hadn’t killed her? Would the plague have gotten her? But she was so strong! That terrible heartbeat!

I found myself at the same alleyway that I had killed the young woman. She was still lying there, eyes closed, but I knew they were blue. A perfect azure color. No one had found her yet, and nothing had touched her but the rain. She seemed to be sleeping upon the cardboard boxes and trash bags. I sat down upon a cracking wooden crate next to her.

Why her? Yes, I always took whomever crossed my path, but what was she doing in this alleyway in the middle of the night? And why did I feel so guilty?

I let the rain soak my body, already cold and shivering from the wet wool frock coat I was wearing, the water and mud having already passed through my boots. I stared at her and at the sky, how the rain seemed to be little daggers piercing the sky and falling so painfully.

I stood up and leaned over her frail body and picked it up. It was so light! And I took her, through the alleyways, where none could spot me, to an unknown catacomb of New Orleans, far below the famous cemeteries. And I laid her down on the cold stone floor. It seemed a proper chamber for her. I cared for her, cleaned her as best as I could and I left.

She could spend an eternity in peace now.


Perhaps hours later, I found myself at David’s home, a great Greek revival mansion off of St. Charles, and easily reading my mind, he said nothing and let me in.

“Do you want a room?” he asked gently.

“No, this will be fine,” I replied.

“It’s guarded from the sun. All the rooms are,” he stated.

I simply nodded, and he vanished.

I sat in front of the roaring fire of the den, and finding a blanket on an overstuffed chair, I stripped off my dirty clothes and wrapped myself in the blanket and watched the fire until the death sleep overtook me.

I dreamt of nothingness.


David came into the room the next night, and sat quietly on the sofa. “You heard the music, Louis, did you not? But something else is troubling you.”

“Yes. I found a victim, the mortal that Claudia would have been if she reached that age. And then I heard the harpsichords and birds,” I replied, still staring at the fire that seemed never to cease. I still hadn’t looked at David’s eyes.

Would have been? Or would have resembled? I had to ask myself. Which of the two?

It was silent, and David knew not to speak, knew to be tactful, unlike Lestat. Lestat, was he worried? No, no, he never worries. At least, regarding myself.

A knock at the door startled the both of us. David went silently and answered the door. I heard a hush of voices and finally, Lestat’s presence.

“Mon chère, la nuit précédente a eu une signification, mais tu la penses trop. What happened happened. It’s irrevocable, and I know I maybe have seemed callous, but I know Claudia’s dead. Nothing can bring her back,” Lestat said softly, more gentle than the night before. He walked over, behind me, dropped down, and kissed me. “She was a woman that resembled Claudia, nothing more. Not the woman that Claudia would have been. She was in that alley because she wanted to die—you gave her what she wanted.”

“And—and, the music? The birds?” I asked.

“Be glad you can hear them now,” he replied, placing his hands on my shoulders. They were warm; he must have fed.

“Je suis désolé, Lestat, I acted so stupidly last night,” I said, bringing my hand back to hold his.

“Come, let’s go home and let David have some peace,” Lestat offered, holding his hand out. “Allons-y.”

“D’accord, Lestat,” I whispered, getting dressed.

I leaned against him as we walked home in the cool breeze of the New Orleans springtime. The magnolia flowers were blossoming, and the air smelled of the thick, sweet flowers.

We walked up the three short steps to the door, and he opened the door, and it was home, with all the candles still brightly lit.

“You left them going?” I asked, pointing at all the candelabras and chandeliers. “What if it burnt down?”

“Eh, I can just rebuild this place. Besides, why are you worried? I’d think you want it to burn down, on account of the pyromaniac in you,” he laughed, his voice resonating off of the walls.

The music was back, vibrant and full of color. And the birds were singing.