Darkside - Part 2, 1991
© Gairid
stat1791@myway.com

Spoilers: Up to Memnoch the Devil
Rating: NC-17
Status: Complete
Characters: Lestat & Louis
Other Characters: OC (Brian Callahan)
Summary: A look into the lives of Louis and Lestat told by a third-party observer. Brian Callahan is my window into their world.

January, 1991

"If you are amenable, we think that it might be more convenient for all of us if you were a little closer to hand." Lestat said.

The 'we' did not ring very true, somehow. Louis sat across the room, remote and unmoving. Only the slight movement of his eyes betrayed any life in him at all.

"Closer?" I asked. I lived only blocks away, and it didn't take me long to get to Royal St. if they needed me.

"You have mentioned that you would like to be of some help in other ways, yes?"

I had, because I felt like I was being vastly overpaid for the occasional drive to the airport or a club or the movies. I nodded.

"Très bien. There is a small dwelling behind the townhouse here, across the courtyard. With a little work it would be habitable and near to hand. I would like to install a phone system so that you might take phone calls, since the world generally operates during the day. I find listening to endless messages tedious at best. Weed through the heaps of mail. Manage things, so to speak."

And so I took on these things and was given carte blanche to have the little house in the back remodeled within to my liking. The structure itself was sound, but it was made more spacious by the removal of a wall and the addition of a wider window. Lestat would come in the evening to inspect the work and give suggestions, some of which were outrageous (a marble tub that would have needed massive support from beneath) and others that were inspired, such as removing the plaster from walls to expose the mortar and brick beneath.

Louis often accompanied him on these little tours and it was obvious that his interest did not lay in what work was being done, but rather in the delight Lestat took in the proceedings. He remained aloof toward me, only addressing me occasionally. After a while I stopped fretting over what I might have done to offend him, treating him with a somewhat exaggerated courtesy to cover my own unease.

February, 1991

While the work was being done, I remained in my little flat on Iberville, packing what belongings I'd managed to collect before I started raking in what seemed to me to be an unbelievable amount of money. I sent some of what I was now making to my mother with the hope that they would use it to get out of Old Harbor. I put no conditions on what I sent, of course, and they remained right where they were. I mortified them to their Irish-Catholic souls, the gay son and all, but apparently not to the point that they considered refusing what I sent.

It was carnival season and Lestat and Louis had left New Orleans, preferring somewhere quieter. I guess they'd seen enough parades and crowds in their time. I had a phone number in Paris should I need to contact them and I went over to Royal St. daily to check on the work being done and to collect the mail and the phone messages. I spent the evenings roaming the crowds, caught up in my first New Orleans Mardi Gras. The frenzy of Bourbon St. was only part of it, a display of almost forced debauchery that did not reflect the scope of pageantry and love of flair that native New Orleanians possessed, but it was all new to me, an experience I swallowed whole, partying the nights away down on Bourbon and St. Ann's and doing my best to recover during the day. It was almost a relief when Ash Wednesday came and I had a little time to detoxify.

Lestat had not given a firm return date, so I was assiduous about checking my answering machine at home as well as the one in their flat. I also had a mobile phone that I carried with me wherever I went, though the reception on it was spotty much of the time. At any rate there was every possibility that Lestat had already misplaced the one he'd taken with him.

By the end of the month, I'd heard from Lestat only once, and that to say that they were enjoying Paris and had decided to stay on for a little longer. My new home was ready by the twenty-seventh and I'd spent the day moving my belongings in. The weather was good, cool and crisp, especially as evening came on and I took a beer with me out to the front porch that looked across the courtyard to the back of their townhouse.

"You are comfortable here, I see." Louis' voice was soft and inflectionless and it was within inches of my ear. I started violently, leaping to my feet as though I'd been zapped with a cattle prod.

"Monsieur! Vous m\'avez effrayé. Comment êtes-vous devenu à la maison?" I was babbling, partly from fear and partly from consternation at not having been ready to pick them up.

"It does not matter how I got here. You haven't missed a call; Lestat is still in Paris. Sit down, if you please. Try not to speak."

I was completely at a loss for words and my legs were rubbery with reaction so I simply did as he directed.

"A fortunate turn of events, is it not? You have, as they say, come up in the world somewhat. And now we have a little time to ourselves to get to know one another." Louis disengaged himself from the shadows and leaned against the porch rail. "You can tell me all about your life, your dreams and expectations. A traumatic childhood, perhaps? Is this not what mortals discuss to death these days? " His scornful voice was a cover for something darker simmering beneath; menace oozed from him and I tried desperately to think of something to say that might diffuse his antagonism.

"On second thought, I shall just say what I came to say. I think that would be better. I already know a good deal about you, you see." He tapped his teeth with a shining nail. "Lestat has taken a liking to you and so you are here at his largesse. I have no quarrel with his decision as such. There would be no point, you see, for he will always do just as he pleases. I would ask you why you wished to stay. You are not a craven man, nor do you seem to be a foolish one, yet you go against that very instinct that tells you that you are not safe. Why?"

I had come to some sort of point with him, some sort of crossroads, and the same instinct he had referred to was warning me now not to panic, but to answer carefully.

"It's because he is dangerous. Because I heard something in his voice. I want to see what he's like behind that." I raised my eyes nervously and looked at him, so smooth and white; so deadly and so focused.

"Do you suppose that you have some place in his life?"

"Maybe. I mean, because I work for him. For both of you."

"Please dispense with the flattery. It isn't necessary. I will be blunt. I do not trust you. I will not trust you until I see some reason that I should. Putting you in the back garden might incur some slight risk to his person and I tell you now that should you ever think to do him harm in any way, should you ever think to betray him for any reason you will have to answer to me."

The threat in his tone was implicit, though he had not promised any particular consequences.

"Fair enough." I said, gathering up what scraps of courage I could under the circumstances. "You have no reason to trust me, of course, but maybe you should know that I didn't agree to come here with the idea that keeping these—these secrets to myself was going to be easy. I didn't come here because of the money, either." He could read what he liked into what I said. I was scared, but his coldness pricked me. "I came here because I want to see what no one else sees in him and in you."

He reached and gripped me painfully around the bicep, pulling me to my feet.

"I don't care what your reasons are, mortal." He said, baring his teeth. His voice was utterly inhuman. "I care only that he is not harmed. Not the least hair of his head. Not so much as the wrong questions directed to him because of some inadvertent slip of your tongue when you have had too many drinks taken. Mark me. You will answer to me."

I nodded, mute with shock.

"I see now that we understand one another." He said and his voice was normal, almost friendly. He released my arm and plucked at the sleeve of my shirt as though to smooth it. "And now that we have got that bit of business taken care of, I shall be on my way back to Paris."

I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows and I tried again.

"Just let me get my shoes and I'll drive you to the airport." I croaked.

April, 1991

I punched in the code on the new electronic security lock on the carriageway gate and when the lock released I opened it up, pleased at the way the gate swung easily and soundlessly on the reinforced hinges. The gate itself was also reinforced steel, though you couldn't tell by looking at it; it had the look and feel of wrought iron. It was, in fact, an exact replica of the original gate, now installed in the wall between the courtyard behind their townhouse and the one next door, which they also owned.

It was with these mundane thoughts about the security system that let myself into the courtyard to walk through the garden to my little house. I closed the heavy cypress door behind me and locked it with the heavy, long-barreled key. Not state of the art, perhaps, but Lestat wouldn't hear of replacing it. A few steps into the garden, I heard a something, a low, guttural sound somewhere between a moan and a snarl and I froze in my tracks, the hair rising stiffly at the back of my neck.

I stood quite still, eyes straining and breath held. I saw only moving shadows, but I still heard sounds, panting gasps and a tight, urgent whisper. I pinpointed their position, relaxing somewhat as I realized what was going on. The fear was being rapidly replaced with the idea that it was probably a good idea if I just minded my own business and went on to my place. Another gasp and then a rising coughing snarl that grew louder and louder until I staggered back, stopping my ears.

I saw a streak of white, followed by another as they crashed through the vined lattice that screened their back patio. I was knocked backward, hitting my head against the bricks when someone's leg glanced off my calf as they rolled across the ground, clawing and struggling against one another. Lestat uttered a stream of obscenities as he grappled with Louis, nails digging red furrows into Louis' back. The litany was stemmed when their mouths met in a brutal clash.

The ferocity of the last few moments abated somewhat as they kissed and Louis ran his hands down Lestat's ribs, coming to rest at his hips. He rolled onto his back and Lestat rose up over him, scarlet lips torn and bleeding. His smile should have been ghastly, but somehow, it was not. I sat where I'd slumped with my back against the wall, still stunned from the blow to my head and I watched them, not six feet from me.

"And now, I claim that fine ass of yours, my love." Louis said lazily, his hands still on Lestat's hip bones. Lestat swiped his fangs across his palm and reached between his legs to slick Louis' cock. He shifted his legs somewhat and positioned himself over Louis, sinking down slowly and hissing as he took Louis into his body. Louis snatched at Lestat's bleeding hand and battened onto the wound even as he thrust his hips upward.

"Ah, Louis mine." Lestat breathed, eyes closed as Louis let go of his hand and he leaned back to increase the angle of penetration, holding his body in a way that no human would have been able to.

The pain from the blow to my head was gone; all I could do was watch them, awash in a sort of lustful worship that made the blood and torn flesh and the increasingly savage way Louis pounded into Lestat all holy things, mysteries revealed to unwitting mortal eyes.

May, 1991

"If you don't have any plans, I should like to take you to dinner." Lestat said. "It's your birthday, oui?"

"Dinner?" I said, blinking stupidly.

"He does not mean that you will be the dinner." Louis said acerbically. He had warmed to me somewhat, though what I had done to earn it I could not tell.

"Where shall we go?" Lestat said.

"If you don't mind, I will stay here." Louis said.

"He doesn't care for the strong odors." Lestat confided to me, putting a friendly arm about my shoulders and giving a brief squeeze.

We ended up at Petunia's where the food was rich and delicious and Lestat kept the wine coming. Since he didn't drink wine, I took up the slack, attending to his glass as well as my own. The alcohol made me less nervous and more able to look at him for more than a minute or two without having to shift my gaze. It might have been that he was making a concentrated effort to appear very human.

He asked me questions about everything I tasted, pushing me to describe in detail the textures and tastes and seeming to take some satisfaction in my earnest answers. It was the first time I'd actually spent any sort of one-on-one time with him and I was seeing a side that I hadn't guessed at. His questions were almost wistful at times, and confounding at others and his passing remarks about the other people around us were intensely amusing.

The conversation turned to my position with them and he remarked that he was pleased at not having to deal directly with so many mundane details.

"I guess Louis must be pleased, too." I said, pushing my plate away. I was absolutely stuffed.

Lestat chuckled. "Louis has no interest in such matters. I suppose that he is pleased that I have passed the cup to you. What brought Louis to mind?"

I shifted in my chair, suddenly uncomfortable. The waiter stopped at our table for perhaps the tenth time to ask if we needed anything, directing his question rather fawningly at Lestat. Lestat waved him off absently, folding his beautiful hands on the table before him and leaning forward to hear my answer.

"It's just that he seems to have thawed a little where I am concerned."

"Ah. That was because of your reaction when you came upon us en flagrante that time."

Reaction?" I wondered what he meant, because my only reaction had been to rap my head and watch them in a sort of daze. "I didn't say anything. Did I?"

"You didn't have to." Lestat said. "He heard your thoughts. We can do that, you know. Now then. Dessert?"

"No, thank you. I'm full." I said. "You can read my mind?"

I said this last in a breathless sort of way, and my wine-fuzzed brain rattled on, wondering just what sort of nonsense they knew about me and how much of a fool I'd made of myself to date with my Lestat-inspired daydreaming.

"Relax. It's nothing as clear as you might think. More like picking up impressions. Sometimes it's more distinct. You were pretty transparent that night, though. This bothers you?"

"It's a little weird." I admitted.

"You don't know the half of it."

I suppose that was his way of trying to reassure me

"No, I guess I don't. Can I ask you something?"

"Please." He invited.

"How long, you know, how long have you been--"

"Ah. You really don't know. Two hundred and eleven years, shy a few months."

I stared at him.

"It's not long compared to some, but quite a lot has happened as you can imagine."

~~~~~~~

I woke up the next afternoon with a mother of a headache and when I got up to hunt down some aspirin I saw a book on the table beside my bed. It was titled The Vampire Lestat. There was a scrawled note tucked into it.

Read with a grain or two of salt.
LdL

October, 1991

Sometimes, when I let myself into the townhouse to go upstairs and attend to things in the office, I took a few minutes to look around. Their home is filled with beautiful things, of course, costly antiques that Lestat told me were similar to or the same as many of the items they had here in their early days together. I was learning just by being there, finding my interest piqued by things I would have otherwise never known anything about. Architectural details for one, and on that subject there were several books in the library on the first floor.

Nothing in that library about antiques, but I was learning about that, too; my current amour owned one of the many antique shops on Royal and in between some pretty good sex he was giving me a good education in his specialty, which happened to be eighteenth and nineteenth century furnishings.

I stood in the hallway at the top of the graceful staircase looking up at the portrait on the wall. Lestat had only recently unearthed it from storage and hung it and it was an object of fascination to me. In it, Louis sat in the foreground with his right hand clutching the arm of the straight backed chair he occupied, the left quiescent upon his thigh, fingers curled slightly in a relaxed manner. He wore a sober but elegant jacket of midnight blue, the sleeves and pocket flaps edged with narrow gold trim in a floral pattern; a small fall of lace graced his throat and brushed his hands. His waistcoat was burgundy embellished with leaves of gold and his breeches were black. He sat with one booted foot extended forward, the other with the heel touching the leg of the chair. His black hair hung loose and full over his shoulders and his expression was distant.
There was a fluted column on the far right and a portico that gave an outside view of a quarter moon sailing in a scud of ragged clouds.

Lestat stood behind him, his beringed right hand on Louis' left shoulder. His left hand rode negligently on his hip, pushing his jacket back in such a way that the long line of his thigh was accentuated. In contrast to Louis, Lestat's clothes were a study in exuberant excess. His jacket was a patterned peacock blue with deeply cuffed sleeves and the waistcoat he wore beneath was made from bright gold cloth, lavishly embroidered with seed pearls. Blindingly white lace frothed at his throat and fell from beneath the cuffs of his jacket to cover his knuckles. His breeches were a paler shade of gold, complimenting the waistcoat and he wore buckled shoes on his feet. His expression was one of repressed mirth, though the artist seemed to have caught something malignant in his eyes, focused and narrowed as they looked in the painting. A pair of crossed sabers hung on the wall to his left and beneath them hung a heraldic shield, presumably the Lioncourt crest. I could make out a rampant lion on the right bottom quarter and a trio of fleurs di lis on the top left.

A bar of sunlight crossed the mellow wood floor of the hallway, cast from the window in the parlor behind me, and the reflection of that light gave the colors in the painting a muted glow.
It was a shame that no one would ever see Lestat's hair touched by the sun except in a painting such as this, that no one would ever see Louis' face in the bright daylight.

I left off my contemplation of the portrait and went to the office, but I found myself unable to focus on the work I had to do, thinking instead of the expression in Lestat's eyes, captured in oils so long ago. The artist, whoever he was, had clearly seen something there. Was the malevolence directed at him or was this painting done after one of their more spectacular arguments?

By this time I had read Louis' book and the second one that Lestat had dictated to a ghost writer, marketing the books as novels and though I took them with the grains of salt as advised, there were also grains of truth to be seen in the books. Lestat's narrowed eyes and the covetous,
possessive hand that seemed to lie heavily upon Louis' shoulder as well as Louis' distant expression in the portrait seemed to reinforce this impression and I wondered what it was they had not said in their tales that had torn them apart when they so clearly belonged together.

November, 1991

"We're not going." Lestat said from upstairs in a peremptory tone when I let myself in the front door. I'd pulled the car around front already. The evening had been planned several months before; a fund-raiser for one of the endowment foundations they sponsored. Their presence was by no means mandatory, but it could be taken as a slight by some of the attendees. I'd learned very quickly that the very rich liked to be courted and coddled out of their money, tax deduction or not. I went upstairs.

Lestat paced the hallway restlessly, tension evident in the set of his shoulders and the clenched muscles of his jaw. "Louis has decided he has something else to do tonight and never mind that he's known about this for months."

I refrained from saying that Louis didn't keep track of such things when their lives were running smoothly, much less when they were not. The growing dissonance between them in the last several weeks was becoming difficult to ignore or to put down to some sort of misunderstanding. I didn't feel comfortable asking Lestat about it, especially when he was exhibiting his more predatory side. Like now, muttering to himself and occasionally snapping his jaws together as though he might trap some of his frustrated annoyance between them and bite it in two.

"What are you standing about for?" He snapped. "I told you we aren't going."

"Yes, I understand." I said carefully. "Do you want me to bring the check you were supposed to present over there? I can give it to Mr. Gibeault; he can take up the slack and soothe any ruffled feathers."

"Yes, that's fine. Do that." He waved dismissively toward the door.

I got the check from the office and wordlessly handed it to him with a pen for him to sign it with. He did so, leaning over the little table that stood beneath their portrait. I took it and put it carefully into the inner pocked of my jacket. "Right. I'm off. Will you need me for anything else?"

He grunted and I took that as a 'no'. I had my hand on the doorknob when he spoke from the top of the stairs.

"Whatever happens, I am depending on you to keep things in order here, Brian."

I saw only his shadow from where I stood. I wanted to ask him what he meant by that, why things might be different, but his shadow moved and I heard the door to the office snick shut.