Darkside - Part 7, 1995 (Finis)
© Gairid
stat1791@myway.com

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

March, 1995

In mid-February, Lestat and Louis received an invitation to a masquerade ball. After some discussion, they decided that they would attend and I set to work tracking down a costume designer from California that Lestat knew of. After a bit of negotiation, she and her entourage were engaged to come to New Orleans to work with Lestat and Louis on their chosen outfits. They've written about this and I know I put my two cents in as well, but I thought I'd add a few details this time around.

I remember thinking that their relationship had coalesced into something different. They exhibited a sort of bantering playfulness that was totally unlike the barbed, dagger-like thrusts of wit that they would trade when they argued. Even before the problems burgeoned, the repartee was different, though I would be hard pressed to explain exactly what that means; it's just something I felt. Since Christmas and whatever had happened in that cabin in Vermont, there was between them a quiet ebullience floating atop a deep well of contentment. It was evident in their teasing manner with the costumers and in the choice of their outfits. I saw it in the looks they exchanged and in a hand lingering upon the sleeve or the nape or the small of the back. Most of all, I felt it; the departure of the tension that had been so thick and oppressive.

On the evening of the party I settled myself in one of the wing chairs to watch Louis being dressed. Marge had taken Lestat off to the bedroom to work on him; as always, he wished to make an entrance. Louis dressed himself for the most part which was probably a good thing because Clive, who was supposed to be helping him, was a bundle of nerves. I thought I knew why and it was more than the fascinating sight of Louis wearing actual underwear.

It was Louis' skin. I don't understand how anyone can look at him as he is now and not see that he is not human. Even pinked with what must have been quite a meal, his pallor was unusual and never mind the smooth texture of his skin. Lestat had said in passing once that he often used the force of his mind to lull the mortals near him when he moved among them and so I assumed that Louis did something similar, though it seemed that his concentration slipped now and again and it was then that Clive exhibited nervous behavior.

He calmed as Louis' flesh was covered by the rich, beautiful fabrics. He helped Louis to fasten the shirt properly and tied the intricate bows at the bottom of the full pants, or whatever the hell they were called, just below Louis' knees. Louis slipped his feet into the high-heeled shoes and stepped gracefully from the platform. Clive's assistant, a young girl with a mousy little face attended to Louis' hair with a curling iron since he had chosen to eschew the towering periwig that was a part of his costume and when she finished she held Louis' jacket for him as he put his arms into the sleeves. He thanked her and she nodded, smiling at him. She was much less nervous than Clive was, that was certain.

Louis buckled a wide leather belt and scabbard about his hips and drew the short sword. The gems in on the handle winked in the light and the blade gleamed wickedly. He murmured something under his breath and sheathed the sword with a smooth, practiced motion. Clive handed him a large, plumed had, upswept on one side and Louis took it and held it at his side.

"What think you, Brian?" He asked.

"You look like you stepped out of a painting." I told him. "And a lot better than what I can recall about Louis XIV."

"Such things you say." Louis said with a sweep of lashes and turned to face Clive. "My thanks, monsieur. Beautiful work indeed." He inclined his head graciously.

There was a resounding crash from the guest bedroom where Lestat was being attended to, followed by a muffled shriek and a series of rapid-fire orders from the redoubtable Marge. Louis smiled.

"It would appear that Lestat is ready." He said, drawing himself up regally. There was a small commotion in the hall and then Lestat appeared in the doorway.

I wish I could describe Louis' expression, but I was too thunderstruck to even glance over at him. Lestat's transformation was so startling that it bordered on hallucinatory.

"Ma chére Louise." Louis murmured. Lestat dropped into a deep curtsey before Louis.

"Votre Majesté Royale." Lestat replied.

The gown was a shimmering royal blue and it fitted him perfectly. Lace frothed at the neckline, providing the appearance of a bosom. His hair was swept up off of his neck and secured with jeweled pins; soft, curled tendrils framed his face. Louis drew him up as I watched and I finally took a look at his face. He gazed with rapt fascination at Lestat.

"You are a vision, my love." Louis said.

They looked at one another with frank admiration, each enchanted with the different version of the other.

"Madame, your work is unparalleled." Lestat pronounced as Marge stepped up and adjusted Louis' jacket.

"Thank you." She said, simply. She was clearly pleased with her efforts. "Those are earbobs for Madame." She said to Louis. He opened his hand and examined the little sapphire drops.

"Merci, madame." He said, stepping to Lestat. "If you allow me, my beauty?"

Lestat smiled and turned his head to present an ear. He caught sight of me. "You may close your mouth, Brian. Gaping does you no credit."

I shut my mouth with a snap, unaware that I'd been so foolishly gawping. "I can't believe it." I said, still stunned by how he looked. He snapped his fan open and fluttered it before his face.

"I'd forgotten about fans." Louis said. "How tiresome it all was. Darling, you must not hide your face from me."

Lestat closed the fan and released it, letting it dangle from his wrist.

"Are we ready to go?" I asked. "I'll go get the car."

"Not necessary." Lestat said. "We have engaged a larger car to come by shortly. Surely you were not thinking of attending the ball without a costume?"

"What?"

"Costume." He said imperiously. "You must change immediately."

"A little surprise, cher." Louis said helpfully. Marge had already taken my elbow to lead me from the room. "Happy Birthday, by the way."

And so I was dressed in my turn, put into clothing that I was unused to; breeches and heavy boots and a linen shirt with lace at the cuffs. Lace at my neck and a beautiful crimson jacket, flared at the hips and deep in the cuffs; the hem reached my knees. It was strange, looking in the mirror and seeing myself in such clothes. Clive settled a heavy, curled wig on my head and topped that off with a large hat.

"There! What do you think? You look very piratical." Marge said. Clive handed me a belt with a scabbard. "This should ride on your hips." He told me, fussing with the lace at my throat. "I think the cutlass is in the parlour with les messiuers"

"Cutlass?" I said, laughing.

"It's all about the details." Marge said. "How do the boots feel?"

"Fine. Heavy, but they fit well."

"Well, go on, then. They are very anxious to see you, you know."

I took the short walk down the hall feeling outrageously self-conscious and when I stepped into the parlour, I felt the tips of my ears burning as the flush rose to my face.

"Ah, the transformation! How marvelous!" Lestat said, clearly pleased. "You see, Louis? He wears the look very well, just as I said." He swept toward me and ran a bejeweled hand down the sleeve of my jacket.

"He does indeed." Louis agreed. "What do you think of our surprise, cher?"

"I feel like Captain Morgan." I said with a laugh.

"Who?" Louis asked.

"Never mind. Thank you both. This is amazing."

"And here is your cutlass, Brian, though I believe such weapons must be transported in the trunk of the car."

Clive presented the gleaming cutlass to me, handle first, He held the blade in the folds of a soft cloth. I took it, marveling at the workmanship on the handle and the deep red jewel winking from the pommel. It had heft and substance and the wickedly sharp edge glittered in deadly promise.

"It's quite sharp." Lestat said, as Clive took it back gingerly and swaddled it in the cloth. "You want to be careful with it. Still, you never know when such a thing proves useful."

"I'll keep it in the scabbard. I don't imagine we are going to this party to slaughter the guests."

Lestat leaned forward as Marge and the others went down the stairs. "Like I said. You never know!" Behind him, Louis smiled indulgently.

"There is the matter of your other gift to him, non?" Louis said.

"Ah, yes, of course. I left it in the refrigerator earlier, Brian. To fortify you." He said, with a significant lift of his fair brows. "I am told it will take will take me a little time to settle into the car so as not to crease this confection of a gown, so you have a little time to fetch it." He smiled winningly and my heart turned over.

I never knew when Lestat would offer me one of those tiny sips of his blood--there was no set time, no mood that gave me any sort of clue and so I assumed he gave it to me at his own whim. The only thing I had noticed was that there was usually a separation of weeks between these precious draughts. This time it had been just under a week.

A birthday present.

The little bottle was cold in my hand and I curled my fingers around it to warm it. Did it taste different when it pulsed, warm from his body? I shivered at the thought. I didn't have time to contemplate as I usually did; they waited for me. I drank.

I have described my little ritual and the effects of those little drinks. It's not easy to find the right words; analogies are never quite right. I know what I've said makes the experience sound like a drug and in a way it is like that but without the attendant distortions. There is an acute clarity that affects all the senses and there is the distinct and unmistakable feeling of something living and alien moving under my skin, mingling greedily with my blood.

After a few minutes, I went outside and was treated to the sight of Louis handing Lestat into the car with Marge already within arranging the voluminous folds of the gown. A pair of tourists stood to by the lamppost, gawking at the spectacle and snapping photographs. One of them spotted me and said, "Shirl, here's another one!" as though we were all part of a spectacle put on for their benefit which, in a way, I suppose we were. Shirl was polite, though, and asked if she could take a picture. Before I could answer, Louis straightened up from his crouch.

"You must certainly take Brian's picture." He said magnanimously. "It's his birthday, you know."

"Louis?" Lestat said from the darkness of the limo. The camera flashed in my face and I blinked. Everything seemed entirely too loud and frenetic.

"Happy birthday!" Shirl said pleasantly. "You all look fantastic!"

The man with her spoke up. "Hey! That's a guy in that dress! Shirl!"

Shirl poked him in the side with an elbow and gave an embarrassed smile. "He doesn't mean anything by that." I shrugged, slightly overwhelmed by the way the gaslight that hung from the underside of the balcony seemed to be throwing out arrows of light.

"Of course he doesn't." Louis said pleasantly, though his eyes had a mildly dangerous glint. "Come, Brian. We'll be late." I nodded and followed him into the back of the limo. There was plenty of room once I squeezed past Lestat and his gown. I sat near the back of the car and Louis took his place beside Lestat.

Marge stuck her head in. "You be careful when you get out, hear me?"

"I most certainly do." Lestat said, smiling. "I shall be very careful. Many thanks,Madame."

The driver looked in. "All set?"

"We are." Louis said. The driver nodded and closed the door and a moment later, we pulled smoothly away from the curb. They were quiet for the moment, both watching me. Lestat wore an amused expression, not at all unexpected for I was barely able to keep still. I glanced from his face to Louis' and watched, fascinated as his tongue twisted and curled in his half-opened mouth. He was, I realized with sudden sureness, drawing in the scent of Lestat's blood and even as I had the thought, he reached for Lestat's gloved hand, squeezing it hard enough so that Lestat made a sudden, surprised gasping sound.

"Where are we going, anyway?" I asked, still watching Louis' mouth with dazed fascination.

"Metairie." Lestat said. "Didn't I tell you? Marius is our host. Be easy, Brian. You'll have a good time. We shall see to that. And there will be other mortals in attendance. Marius always did have a wide array of friends."

And so we went and I had a good time that night and that stuff was all documented, more or less and those things that have not yet been told will no doubt come out eventually.

June, 1995

I had just finished watering the potted plants on the back patio when I heard the doorbell. I went into the blessed coolness and hurried to the front, thinking it was UPS or some other delivery service bringing God knows what for Lestat. He'd discovered online shopping and ever since there had been a steady stream of parcels showing up, usually in the late afternoon.

Not this time, though. The visitor was a black man holding a jacket over his arm. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a white beard and wrinkles at the corners of his turquoise eyes. When I opened the door, he took the cap he wore off his head, revealing a cap of short, iron gray hair. Behind him at the curb was one of the mule drawn carriages that you see taking the tourists around on tours of the Quarter.

"I'm Joseph Didier. Las' night Mr. Louis left his jacket." He jerked a calloused thumb at the carriage behind him. He handed the jacket to me.

"Thank you. I'll be sure and tell him that you found it. He's..."

"Still sleeping, him." He finished. I cocked my head.

"Why don't you come on in and have something cool to drink? Least I can do for your time and all." I looked over at his mule. "And some water for him while he waits, maybe?"

He relaxed then and smiled. "I'll get his bucket."

After the mule was given his water, Didier walked back to the kitchen with me.

"My name's Brian." I said, offering my hand. He took it in his and gave a warm squeeze in lieu of the usual handshake. We sat down at the table.

"Seen you around," He said after a while. "Livin' out back, you?"

"For a few years now, yeah." I took a swallow of the cool tea. "You know Mr. Louis, I take it?" I said as nonchalantly as I could. He didn't smile but the skin around his eyes crinkled just the smallest amount.

"Since I was a boy." He said, pretty much laying his cards on the table. "My father did work for him back then."

I wondered sometimes just how many people were aware of them. More than I would have thought at first. After all, they stayed here in this place for decades, unchanging while everyone around them grew older. It was inevitable that some people would notice.

"Back then he lived alone. Sometimes here, but mos'ly over on Toulouse."

He finished his tea and I gestured to the pitcher. He nodded and I poured him some more. "Now you wondrin' why I'm tellin' you , eh? Simple enough. Just so you know there's others that do some lookin' out. I know what they are, me. Yeah. I know there's another side to all that. Mr. Louis always been good to my family." He stood up and I was struck again at his physical presence. We walked back out to the front. "Tell Mr. Louis I was by." He shook my hand this time. "Go on to Vaughn's some night. I'm buyin' the beer."

I watched him hook the bucket to the back of his rig and he climbed up on the high seat. "Come on, now, Clarence. Time for us to get back to work." He raised a hand as Clarence pulled the heavy carriage away from the curb. I watched them go down the street.

Later when they emerged from their room, I gave Louis the jacket and Joseph Didier's message.

"He said he's known you since he was a boy." I said carefully. Louis nodded.

"I've known generations of his family." He said. Lestat stepped up behind him and slid his hands around Louis' waist.

"Louis watches out for his extended family in his way." Lestat said, rubbing his cheek against the side of Louis' head. "Perhaps he will tell you about it sometime."

"Perhaps." Louis said in a very non-committal way. "Come, ‘Stat. We'll be late for the film."

And that was that. Such things happened often, and sometimes I would hear more on a subject and sometimes I wouldn't. It seemed more to do with timing and catching one or the other of them alone. When they were together, it was difficult to keep either of them focused on anything other than each other after any length of time had passed.

As for Didier himself, we became friends of a sort as years passed and although he seemed fine with the knowledge of what Louis and Lestat were, he retained a reverential awe about them that prevented his being at all comfortable on the premises, even during the day. Our contact was usually at Vaughn's as he had suggested that day and he and his wife asked me to their home for dinner several times a year. They had a small place over on St. Villiere in Tremé, neat and welcoming and I liked spending time with them .

Lestat's remark about extended family was not brought up again any time soon and I thought that Didier himself was unaware of any such link.

Then again, I could be wrong.

Conclusion

The masquerade ball was more or less where they began any narrative that included me and where I added my own perspective to what goes on in this corner of the world. It's time, then, for me to close my wandering additions to what happened before. Before I end this, though, there's a few things I'd like to say about New Orleans and my life to this point.

New Orleans is madness and color, sound and pageantry. Tastes burst upon the tongue, spicy and hot or intangibly sublime. Music is her heart and her soul and it's rooted in pain and joy, blood and life, sorrow and sweetness all bound up in African rhythms and the ingenuity and burgeoning life of a relatively new country. Louisiana's southern drawl is languid music, the almost Brooklynese accent of the working class New Orleanians in the Irish Channel and the Lower Ninth are pleasantly familliar to me and the Cajun flair for expression has its own bright cadence. It's an old city and a poor one on the American scale for such things, so it has more than it's fair share of crime and corruption, racism and grinding poverty. These elements color New Orleans and add to her complexity, adding an underlying cynical bitterness that belies the never-ending party the tourists believe in.

There are parties, though. Lots of them. There are parades and festivals and celebrations for ethnicity and music and culture; Mardi Gras Indians and second line dances, street theater and scam artists. Exuberant expressions in all imaginable artistic mediums; light and dark, deep or shallow but always expressive.

The humid air is redolent with scent. Sweet jasmine, crawfish boil, rotted fish, mule piss, beer, fresh fruit, fried oysters--and over it all is the thundery, wet, overpowering scent of the Mississippi and Ponchartrain and all the lakes and waterways, inlets and bayous that surround the city.

I am in love with this place; it is more my home than the place I was born ever was. I love the crumbling brick and the gracious old homes and the scrolled ironwork and I love the people that I live among. Most of all I love the dark side of my life here, the mysterious night and the two beings that illuminate it. I love their gilded, deadly continuity and I love the way they love each other and the odd, sometimes off-hand, sometimes intimate inclusion they have given me.

There are others in this city who share the secret. The amalgam of culture and tradition seem to demand the secret be kept and I see that others covet their knowledge much as I do. Those that do not hold their knowledge close disappear more often than not. For my part, my knowledge is held close out of my own love for them. I often say that I could not leave them and that is a simple truth. Neither could I leave this tropical, beautiful, raucous, dirty city.

I love the dark side.

fin

BC
March, 2005