Chapter Text
The tale of Olympe de Valmont did not start in New Orleans, nor in the shadowed halls of the Theatre des Vampires, or even in the loges of the Opera Garnier where she would often perform in the late 2020s. It happened in the quiet fields of Auvergne, where a young Lestat de Lioncourt, once a regular human boy, forged a strong friendship with Georges de Valmont, three years his senior, a marquis from the Berry. Georges was someone very simple, kind and caring, drawn to nature and poetry, a soul that resonated with Lestat's own artistic spirit. Their bond was a rare constant in Lestat's tumultuous life as a human. They were just two boys, two boys with different family lines, different expectations of adulthood.
Years later, their paths converged again in Revolutionary Paris, both now creatures of the night. Georges, turned by the ancient vampire Marius de Romanus right after the Fête de La Fédération, on July 14, 1790, carried the melancholic weight of his new existence and the loss of his human family. Lestat, having found his own dark gift by force, Magnus having abducted and trapped him away, reconnected with his old friend amidst the chaos, four years later. His connection with another powerful vampire, ancient enough to rule a bunch of undead folks like him, led to Lestat becoming the second leader of the French Coven. Before taking a secondary lead, the was composed of people in dusty clothes stolen from beggars, feeding on rats in a dusty place in the catacombs.
It was in clandestine world of Parisian maisons closes that Lestat encountered Joséphine Barrère. A woman of surprising humility and gentle spirit despite a life that had been mostly filled with the pain of being the illegitimate child of a fallen deputy, and the daughter of a whore. And this woman, one of many, had managed to catch his attention. Seeking a new companion after the tragic demise of Nicolas de Lenfent, Lestat granted Joséphine the dark gift, turning her in 1825. Joséphine, like many fledglings, initially succumbed to despair, but found solace and love in Georges de Valmont. Their monogamous looked like a deep anomaly amongst vampires prone to polyamory. It blossomed into a profound, exclusive bond Lestat had not been keen to observe much. There was no sheer romance involved between them; rather, Lestat, too fond of her, often treated her like a child, a younger sister he felt compelled to protect.
But even love could not shield them from the French Coven's ambition, fueled by their ancient leader, Armand. For decades, the coven had sought to create a « pureblood » vampire child, an undead being by birth, born directly of two vampires, a source of unparalleled power and a new, potent bloodline, something unnatural and impossible to achieve according to the laws no vampire wanted to break. Previous attempts had ended in tragedy, with the brief, agonising life of Aristide Lebrun, a pureblood boy who only lived for a few mere seconds before turning into a bunch of ashes, leading to the subsequent deaths of his parents.
And yet, Armand persisted. The idea of a pureblood child was of his making. Long ago, in the earliest days after his turning, Armand and Marius had spotted a very peculiar being, somewhere in eastern Europe. A woman, with hair red as fire, eyes white as snow, dressed in these fancy dresses of a forgotten fashion, parading in the night as an undead-born soul. This powerful woman people called Meera was what had triggered Armand’s interest, upon watching her being decapitated by nearby villagers. A child, born undead. A pureblood, created between two vampires. A powerful being. Something impossible, unthinkable. And yet, his studies, his experiments on several willing vampires, and his failures... all of that had shown that, with spells and a copious amount of chemicals, vampires could, indeed, reproduce. In the most unnatural way possible.
In 1834, Joséphine was chosen as the next bearer, and Georges, stepping in to protect his beloved wife from Armand's own intended participation, became the male donor. Lestat had opposed this procedure, declaring his fledgling would not undergo such a terrible treatment, knowing too well where this could potentially lead not only Joséphine, but Georges too, as chemicals would be injected into his veins too. Yet, Armand refused to let the second leader of the coven have his say on what he could or could not do with other vampires.. Joséphine had accepted it, eager to participate to what she was told to be the « greater good ». The creation of a Messiah, a powerful, stronger and smarter vampire who would be born with the wisdom of an ancient in the body of a small child.
- Worry not, Joséphine. Armand would say. This is for our kind. For us.
The process was brutal, a grotesque perversion of life. Chemicals were used to revive their undead reproductive systems, spells in reversed latin were chanted each time they tried conceiving, and Joséphine endured a horrifying cycle of hope and despair. For fifteen times. Fifteen pregnancies that lasted longer than a regular one, closer to twelve months, only for the child to vanish into ashes upon birth. Each miscarriage made her feel worse, even making her nearly commit suicide by exposing herself into the light. Her pain was silent torment witnessed by Georges, who believed he was the cause of all these failures.
Lestat, having fought against this cruel decision to play with both life and death all at once and unable to sway the ancient vampire from his terrible need to create such an monstrosity, fell into a deep despair. In 1835, unable to bear the suffering of both Joséphine and Georges, and believing his pleas futile, he retreated into a self-imposed slumber, a desperate escape from a world that had become too cruel. He would not awaken for nearly seventy years, he would not even think about it. The mere thought of having to witness both Joséphine and Georges in pain, and his helplessness towards it, was enough for him to refuse to come out of the crypt he had settled in, close to Giverny. He awoke fifteen times regardless, each time feeling and hearing Joséphine's pain, each time knowing he could do nothing to soothe her.
The world moved on, Armand’s research kept ongoing. Chemicals became more sophisticated with medical advancements, and crude knife cuts became precise scalpel wounds. But Joséphine kept suffering, so did Georges who, after each miscarriage, cried silently in the next room for a few minutes before coming to comfort his wife who, once again, had failed, and failed, and failed.
At the brink of the new century, oblivious to the silent agony within the Palais de Romanus, Joséphine, against all odds, gossips and even prophecies, conceived again in early 1901. This time, the pregnancy progressed and lasted long enough. No blood loss, no sudden death, nothing, just a baby moving in the womb until it was the right time for the child to see the world, the golden cage they were about to be locked into. After fifteen months of agonising gestation, on July 22, 1902, Olympe Elise de Valmont was born. Her cries, a miracle amidst the storm that raged outside the Chateau de Romanus in Saint-Cyr, were so loud and powerful that they stirred Lestat from his decades-long slumber. This was enough, he could no longer sleep. Something had changed. He could not feel Joséphine’s pain or agony. He could only feel her fear.
Her birth, so against nature, had triggered the worst storm which had raged in the entire area surrounding Saint-Cyr, Versailles included. Mother Nature was expressing its disapproval to have been a witness to the birth of an undead child, which was born in a great bath filled with blood. An anomaly, so small yet already plagued with so many burdens only grown vampires could be able to face. A child who would never, ever see the sun, who would never even understand what it was to be a human in the first place.
A child who, despite being freshly born, looked at least like a three month old. A girl, with auburn curls already visible, and icy blue eyes she kept open an hour or two after having been released to the world. Joséphine held her against her chest, happier than ever, yet exhausted by these events. And when Armand took the child into his arms, the girl gently touched his black curls with the softest sigh.
- You, sweet little child, are our promised miracle. Our pureblood. My daughter.
- Maître, she is not- Georges had started
- Silence. It took centuries for this child to be born. Centuries. I demand silence.
The event of Olympe’s birth was a celebration in the French coven, a feast was organised to already prepare the child for her future demise. And yet, not everyone enjoyed the festivities. Joséphine and Georges knew Olympe's fate if she remained here. Armand would claim her, exploit her, turn her into a living blood bank. She was powerful just at birth, she would become even more powerful as she would grow up. They devised a desperate plan to flee to the United States, a land they hoped was free of such ancient, predatory vampires. But Armand, ever vigilant, discovered their betrayal once, upon coming to visit the child in a room filled with tapestry and ancient paintings, found her cradle empty and the window wide open.
- Find them. he said to the coven. Find them. Bring the child to me.
To Armand, Olympe did not even have a name. She was « the child », nothing more than a nameless soul who, to his eyes, should not even bear a name. But he needed her. He wanted her back, and in that event, the entire coven was deployed around the area to follow the de Valmont’s tracks. Santiago, freshly turned in January 1902, was the one who felt them going West. He sensed Joséphine’s pained whimpers, he felt George’s slow heartbeat while they ran towards Le Havre, but the sun was going to rise soon. And before leaving, he informed the coven about their location.
- They are in Normandy.
- Find them. Armand repeated. Do as you wish to Joséphine and Georges, but bring me the girl.
He tracked them to Giverny, where Lestat had recently awakened and taken residence in a mansion that had been recently abandoned. As dawn approached, their escape was thwarted. And they could hear the sound of other vampires coming closer to them.
- Run ! Georges said to Joséphine while giving her the child. Run, to him !
Georges, protecting his wife, jumped forward to catch Celeste and Estelle’s attention while Joséphine ran away in the streets of Giverny, dodging any vampires coming her way, desperately trying to find Lestat’s location, but the sun was about to rise. Notice the church Sainte-Radegonde, she carefully placed her daughter on its doorstep, hidden in the shadows, kissing her on her forehead. Olympe was asleep, wrapped in countless blankets that shielded her from the wind, Joséphine took one of them to pretend she still had her in her arms.
- Maman t'aime, mon ange. she whispered. Je t'aime.
Joséphine ran until she felt a sudden emptiness, a connection severed, hearing Georges’ voice in her head one last time. He had been swiftly decapitated, his head taken as a grim trophy to Armand. Joséphine, with no other recourse, kept running in search of Lestat, whispering a silent prayer for her daughter’s survival, before surrendering to Santiago who caught her hiding away with a blanket in her arms. Without a word, he decided to bring her back to Paris. She probably knew where the child was. With Georges dead, Joséphine was the last witness who had seen the child alive. And her fate was already sealed.
Joséphine was brought back to Paris, condemned for stealing Armand's « miraculous creature. » Her execution was set to be on July 28th, a public spectacle of vampiric justice. Upon Joséphine being taken, Lestat suddenly left his place, wandering in the streets of Giverny right before sunrise, having heard the faint cries of a child. Of a newborn.
The weather was cold, the night had been quite rainy, judging by the ponds he found at several different places in the streets. The sky, orange, purple and blue, was beginning to lighten ever so subtly in the east, the sun was about to rise soon, and danger awaited. After so many decades slumbering, Lestat was still feeling dizzy, he was unable to understand what was going on, while adapting himself to the strange smells of a sweet industrialisation that had happened during his time underground. His senses, still adjusting to the modern world, suddenly felt the need to feed. And these screams, the screams of a young child, triggered him deeper than expected. He needed food. He needed blood. And whoever this newborn was, they were mostly left abandoned somewhere, nobody would come and claim them as their own.
He moved in the shadows, his bright blue eyes scanning the quiet street. There was no one outside, just him and his target. He made his way to Sainte-Radegonde, looking around until he saw it.
A small bundle, nestled on the cold stone steps. A faint cry of a child. A young child. An infant. Who kicked the blankets in fear.
Lestat paused, bowing slightly with curiosity and a sudden wave of fondness. He knelt, not bothering about his coat possibly getting wet in a nearby pond. It was a child. A beautiful little girl. She had been dressed in a lace dress, wearing a matching bonnet made of lace and silk, her small hands holding onto a piece of her gown. Her auburn curls, still short but silky at sight and touch, were giving her an eerie look, the one of a porcelain doll. And her eyes, icy blue, were partly closed as she cried tears of blood, a very distinctive sign that the girl was not a human, but a vampire.
- Oh. Lestat murmured, tilting his head with curiosity What have we here ?
He tried reaching out, but he could not move just yet. This infant looked small and fragile, he felt he could break her. He had never known how to deal with children, especially not babies, like this little girl. But suddenly she stopped crying once she felt someone was there with her.
- Bonjour, ma petite. Lestat cooed
The little girl merely blinked, her icy blue eyes tracking his movement. She was suddenly so calm, her cries had stopped fully. She not whimper. She simply watched him, scared, cold, hungry, needing comfort like any infant her age. She was no ordinary human child, just by the tears of blood that had run down her cheeks earlier on. He felt it, a faint, undeniable hum of power emanating from her, a resonance with his own undead nature.
- Abandoned, are we ? he mused, his gaze sweeping the empty street
There were no signs of a carriage, no footprints, not even the scent of anyone’s perfume, something which made Lestat shiver. This was a deliberate act, someone wanted him to find her. She was not abandoned to die, she was abandoned to survive. She had been given to him in a desperate act of love. And Lestat felt it. It was absolutely not a coincidence. It was a choice. There was even a small note, written by a trembling hand in black ink. « Please ». Not a punctuation mark, just a soft command to protect the child. From what ? Lestat knew. He knew too well this little girl was probably, at the time being, looked for by Armand himself. There were no undead children alive. She was the only one.
The sky was lightening faster now, the purple giving way to a pale rose. The first, faint rays of the sun would soon touch the horizon. He knew the danger. He knew what sunlight did to creatures like him. This infant who could not move yet, was in danger too, especially since she could not escape her blankets.
He reached out again, more purposefully this time, his large hand gently cupping her tiny, perfect cheek. Her skin was cool, smooth, peachy. She was an anomaly, something which should not exist. And from the tiny medallion that had been left around her neck, he could find she had a name. « Olympe de Valmont ». The pureblood. She child Armand had finally managed to create. The sun was already dangerous, but the French coven was even more of a threat. Her existence was already the subject to so many incidents, causes, troubles… but there was no way for him to leave her here. He felt Joséphine and Georges had left her to him willingly.
- The sun will be here soon. I’m taking you with me, sweet little thing.
The infant did not even move much anymore, she just gazed at Lestat, her eyes wide open, as if she knew who he was. As if she knew he was not a threat. Or merely the reflection of his own desperate need for connection. He didn't know the full story yet. He didn't know about Joséphine's motherly sacrifice, or Georges’ brutal execution. He only knew that this child, this miraculous, silent creature, had been left for him.
Tenderly, Lestat scooped her up into his arms with a care that was very uncommon for him to display. She weighed nothing, and still felt like the heaviest burden, a profound responsibility to Lestat’s mind. She made no sound, simply nestled against his chest, her small head resting against his shoulder. Her icy blue eyes closed as her little hand reached Lestat’s coat.
He looked back at the church, then at the rapidly brightening sky. The world was waking, but for them, the night was their domain, he brought her to his place where they remained for a week until Armand mentally spoke to him to inform him that Joséphine was scheduled to be executed on the next day, and why. This caused a major panic in the mansion as Lestat had to leave the girl in the care of someone else, knowing too well what would happen to her if he decided to bring her to Armand.
Lestat had tried to hire seven different nannies in urgency and only picked the youngest of them, drinking away the blood of the others he deemed too strict or too rough, but always made sure to drag enough of his blood in vials for Olympe to be fed correctly. A mixture that was slightly pink and possibly unnatural for a regular human eye, but he knew nobody would question that. He made sure of it.
It had taken just a week for him to understand that Olympe, as a vampire, indeed needed blood… but needed milk just like any other baby. He had even red a medical book which stated that cow’s milk was bad for infants. Lestat had purposefully renounced to his glamorous and extravagant manners for his newly adopted child, buying a few cans of goat milk at the nearest farm, storing them in the somewhere in the grand-kitchen, far away from his blood reserves he had gathered, initially for himself.
Before leaving when the sun was about to go down, Lestat instructed the nanny to keep Olympe away from the sun when it would rise, and from the moonlight too, as the child had strangely developed a peculiar aversion to it, her skin reddening and itching. It was probably Mother Nature’s cruel mockery of Armand’s choice, hurting this innocent soul who had done nothing but breath the air of the living, while being born undead.
- You may visit her in her cell, Lestat. Armand said upon Lestat’s arrival at the Theatre des Vampires. After all, she was your fledgling.
- Where is Georges ?
- I will tell you later.
In the underground, the cell of Joséphine was cold and uncomfortable. Lestat found Joséphine sitting on a bench there, staring into the void. She had bruises on her legs, bruises on her face, a sign of the torture she had to go through while being interrogated on where she had left the pureblood. And, out of protection for her child, she had told them nothing but lies.
- Joséphine. Lestat said, almost weakly
Joséphine looked up and offered Lestat a soft smile. She was not so surprised to see him, as Armand had possibly invited many to witness her death. A show, special for the occasion.
- Bonjour, Lestat. she whispered, her voice soft, almost ethereal.. You came to see the show, I suppose.
- They told me you stole something. A creature.
She nodded softly. At first sight, she looked like she was gazing at the crates in which rats were locked, but her mind was going beyond that. She was already dead and there was no way to stop the process that was leading her to her demise.
- My daughter. Olympe. She is safe. I left her. By a church. In Giverny. Everyone believes she is dead. I didn’t tell them. I didn’t tell them I left her to you.
Lestat's heart twisted. He had found the infant, just days ago, abandoned on a church doorstep in Giverny. The pureblood, left there for him. The child of Joséphine and Georges. His own newly adopted daughter he would treat as his own. He had known that before, but the sole voice of Joséphine confirming him she was hers only made it worse.
- Yes. A week ago. he confessed, his voice thick with emotion. I took her in. Safe. I did not tell anyone about it.
A sweet, radiant smile spread on Joséphine's face. A smile of relief. A mother’s peace. Her child was safe. Safe and sound. Even with the person she would have never expected her to be safe with.
- She lived longer than any other pureblood experiment. she turned her head to Lestat, her eyes filling with tears. Please. Protect her, Lestat. Shield her from him. You know what he did, you know what he could do to her.
He nodded, a silent vow.
- I will. I promise you.
The Theatre des Vampires was packed. Not with humans, but with vampires. For this occasion, Armand had requested only vampires to be a witness to the death of Joséphine de Valmont, traitor, thief, liar. All these vampires, dressed in black for a typical funeral, silent, expectant audience filling every velvet-lined seat, perched on balconies, clinging to the ornate pillars, watched the stage as Santiago explained their presence and thanked them for attending this « important moment », as he called it. The air was thick with their collective anticipation, a macabre excitement. This was a show, a public display of Armand's absolute power, a chilling reminder of the coven's unforgiving laws. The stage, usually reserved for ridiculous plays human loved to witness as the sight of a regular human victim being killed before them felt like a very realistic show, felt strangely filled with sorrow and pain.
Lestat sat in his private box, looking at the stage with sadness and exhaustion. He hated every second of it, knowing he was about to witness the death of his fledgling. Of his creation. His poor Joséphine. He knew they would not want to let her die quickly, a simple beheading being not enough for the treason she was accused of.
- Let the accused on stage ! Santiago said
Between Celeste and Estelle, Joséphine appeared from the shadows, dressed in beautiful white Empire-waisted dress, reminiscing of the era when Lestat had turned her, as she had requested. She was holding herself with a dignity she had learnt over more than a century of life and experiences. She did not crying. She was not begging. Armand stood next to her before moving towards Santiago, but she did not care. The only thought she had at this moment was that her daughter, her beautiful, miracle child, was safe. In Giverny. Safe with Lestat. Safe. And she knew she could let the sun burn her to ashes without worrying about her daughter’s fate.
- My friends, you have been invited today to witness the execution of Joséphine de Valmont.
Armand, resplendent in dark silks, burgundy and brown, his perfect jet black hair brushed ever so elegantly, stood at the edge of the stage, right next to Santiago, his ancient orange and red eyes sweeping over his audience. He spoke, his voice carrying clearly through the hushed theatre, recounting Joséphine's « crime » : the theft of his « miraculous creature » the pureblood everyone assumed was dead.
- She has been granted a final wish. Armand announced. To sing.
A single spotlight illuminated Joséphine. She looked out, unable to distinguish faces, resigned to her fate. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips, she softly sighed before her eyes locked at the door behind the rows of people she could not see. It was the « Duo des Fleurs » by Léo Delibes, a song of delicate beauty, of nature's gentle embrace. A song she loved to listen so often in the sorrowful nights she spent mourning over her newborn children who never lived enough to hear her voice. A song that was meant to be sung in a duet, but Joséphine, today, was alone.
- Sous le dôme épais… Où le blanc jasmin… À la rose s’assemble. Sur la rive en fleurs, Riant au matin. Viens, descendons ensemble.
Despite it’s morbid context and setting, the audience could not help but watch Joséphine, sounded like an angel, her dress flowing slightly around her ankles bruised by the torture she had endured earlier. Lestat himself felt touched by her voice, that lovely voice of a woman he had turned into a vampire himself. The beautiful woman he had taken away from the brothel, a sister-like figure he had created. The poor young woman who had been initially terrified about being Armand's choice in the making of a pureblood. One of his most beautiful and saddest creations. His Joséphine. His poor Joséphine.
- Viens, gagnons le bord… Où la source dort et… L’oiseau, l'oiseau chante…
She kept singing until her voice nearly broke, Armand raised a hand. Not to stop her, to process to the execution. With a slow gesture, he pulled a hidden lever the audience could not see. A few clinks were heard, and the trapdoor suddenly opened, so sudden that everyone gasped during the performance that did not stop, not even Joséphine who, initially, felt nothing but a scratch, until her body started reacting to the sunlight violently. And, for the first time, she left out a scream, but did not stop singing.
Her hair started turning into ashes, followed with her arms, her fingers crumbling into pieces as she kept singing despite her cries that made the song barely recognisable. She was dying in the most horrible pain that could be inflected to a a living being, whether human or vampire. She could feel pieces of her body fall one by one, but she kept singing despite the immense agony she felt. Her eyes remained open, her gaze fixated on the door she could see from afar. She kept singing through her cries, she could not stop. It was her way to show her pride. Though the lyrics were mostly whimpers and sobs of pain, she did it. She sang.
- Sous… le dôme épais…où le b-blanc jasmin… Ah ! De-descendons e-ensemble… AGH !
Lestat kept watching this terrible execution. He wanted to scream, to jump on stage, but remained frozen in place, clutching on the armrest of his velvet seat. Her screams made his skin crawl, her whimpers made him feel his own skin was burning instead of hers. He wanted to rush forward, to stop it, to tear Armand apart. Rip his limbs off one by one, submit him to the worst tortures mankind had ever seen. But he couldn't. He was bound by the laws of the coven, by his own weakness. He could only watch, helpless, as Joséphine, his fledgling, the mother of his Olympe, burning to ashes. And silent tears of blood ran down his cheeks as the pile of ashes was swept by a dirty broom and gathered into an ivory urn Armand had made himself.
The audience remained silent. There were no cheers, no screams, nobody singing. The faint noise of broom was the only thing that could be heard. Nobody mourned, nobody laughed. This execution, as theatrical as Armand could orchestrate them, was necessary. Joséphine had taken away the pureblood. The most powerful vampire to ever have been born, so artificial, so strange, yet so desired. Despite this macabre show, nobody could say a word, and the audience dispersed a few minutes after Joséphine’s death.
Vampires remained gathered inside the Theatres’ underground quarters, the sun was shining to much for them to leave. They came over to inspect the urn, pay their respects or blame Joséphine’s ashes for having taken away Armand’s experiment. This is what Olympe was to their eyes. A project, not even a regular being with a brain and a heart.
Lestat retreated to one of the offices, glancing at his portrait Armand had kept intact, painted somewhere in the late 18th century, if not even later. He sighed, trying his best not to shed a tear at the last events, until turning his head towards the desk where papers explaining Armand’s experiment were still gathered. The latter, expressionless as always, placed a velvet-covered box on one the nearby tables nearby the office. Lestat had desperately expected Georges to jump on stage to save Joséphine, but while trying to communicate with him, not a voice was heard. He hoped, deeply, that Georges was alive, even chances were either mere, or inexistent.
The rustling of Armand’s coat was what made Lestat look at him. He stood in the doorway, calm, his hands crossed behind his back, gazing at Lestat who approached the box so carefully, tilting his head to the right without a word. When Lestat reached he box, Armand decided to leave him to his own devices, not even bothering to look back. As Lestat had expected Joséphine’s urn to be in the box as he could no longer see it in the main hall of the underground quarters, but something seemed off. He was met with something else. Something as painful and cruel as the last remains of his fledgling. There was a scent. A familiar scent of cologne Georges used to put behind his neck from time to time.
- Non… he whispered
Lestat stared at the box. His heart, despite having a slow rate, started beating faster, his stomach twitched painfully as he could sense an incredible pain overflow him, his hand caressing the top of the box. And, so cautiously, he opened it.
- Mon dieu, non…
Inside, nestled on a soft deep blue velvet pillow, was laid Georges’ head. Intact, despite it had been a week since he had died, according to the small golden medallion left open for Lestat to see. « 1757-24/07/1902 ». His eyes, those same « icy blue » he had given to Olympe, were wide open, staring blankly, filled with the last, unspoken moment of his horrific end. Despite its state, the head looked perfectly preserved, as if Armand had put it under a spell for Lestat to suffer further of the de Valmont’s decision to take the child away. Lestat could not move anymore, but a huge wave of tears started covering his pale cheeks as his hand managed to make its way to the desk, giving it a punch. Then, another one. And another one. Until his palm was red and bled more than his bright blue eyes.
The more tears he shed, the less he could see, a curtain of blood masking his vision. He felt anger, pain and sorrow, a set of painful emotions he still struggled to control despite his ancient age. It took him ten deep breaths and three swears in French until he managed to move forward to a chair nearby, grabbing it and throwing it across the room, shattering it into pieces. And he screamed. It was the scream of a man that was filled with a rage he could not control. Had Armand been there, he would have had him decapitated, despite Great Laws forbid him to. And this frustration made him scream again. At his own helplessness in a situation he could not control.
He left out another roar, sounding like a lion in distress, and moved towards an armchair he tossed across the room, not even bothering about the noise he made, or the price he would have to pay for these furnitures to be replaced, for nobody to sit on them anyway. He did not even care about the gazes he might receive. All he felt was the crushing weight of loss. Joséphine was gone, burned. Georges, his childhood friend who had, by a miracle, survived an entire century, the one who had absorbed his pain after Nicki, was now just a severed head. Their executions, despite justifiable, had been orchestrated by Armand who did not care about Georges much, and wanted Joséphine to suffer for having taken away his most prized possession. The pureblood Lestat had secretly taken under his care.
After breaking more furniture around the room, Lestat fell on his knees, bending over to have his hands clutch on the old baroque rug Armand had bought decades ago. He wept, he cried, he begged anything around him to make it stop. At this moment, he was not the infamous Brat Prince, as everyone called him. He was a grieving man who felt lost in his own world, having awoken so recently and having met with responsibilities he did not even expect to have. He cried at their deaths, both of them, like there was no tomorrow to be expected. The two souls that had maintained him sane after Nicki’s death, his appearance did not matter anymore.
After what felt like an eternity, Lestat rose from the ground, gathering his forces to pass a soft tissue on his skin to eradicate the presence of blood. Everyone had heard his sobs, but he preferred to keep up wit the appearances. He left the coven when the sun was already down, hours later, not even bothering to look back, promising Armand he would search for the pureblood and inform him if he found them, but knew he could never do such thing. No.
- Should you find the pureblood, bring her to me. Armand had told him
- I will. I promise. Lestat lied, putting his and Olympe’s life in danger for the years to come
Lestat used his vampiric speed to reach Giverny. Each step, despite quick, felt like a broken movement. He felt like his body had been stabbed and left to bleed, he could still hear Joséphine’s song, her voice breaking as she had sung and burned at the same time, he could still see George’s severed head, his icy blue eyes staring into the void, making it look like he could eventually wake up. Armand had taken everything Lestat possessed. His last fledgling, his childhood friend, and quite possibly his reputation for being the maker of the woman who had abducted a pureblood newborn. But there was something he had not managed to steal from him. Someone, still so small and vulnerable. This tiny little being Lestat had taken as huis own. His daughter, Olympe.
Lestat arrived at his mansion right at dusk, having managed to come home safely, despite the numerous time he just had wished to end it all. He decided not to come in by the main door which was bathed in sunlight, making his way towards the servant’s quarters and then moving upstairs just to see her. Olympe. His daughter. The only reason why he hadn't simply walked into the rising sun himself.
He climbed upstairs to his quarters, listening to the coo of a young child, and the giggle of a young woman, and made his way towards Olympe’s perfectly clean nursery. He found the nanny he had chosen there, sitting by the crib, rocking it while smiling constantly at the child. She hummed a lullaby, her voice a soft counterpoint to the quiet babbling coming from within, tiny little hands peeking out. Olympe was not looking like a newborn, nor was she developmentally acting like one. Her little hands grasped the air while she made soft noises, causing the nanny to smile.
- Allons, mon petit ange. she smiled softly. Tu verras, tu auras bien le temps de voir la lune, elle ne bougera pas tant que ça.
Moon, Moonlight. These words struck Lestat with a fresh wave of dread. He remembered this strange intolerance Olympe had demonstrated regarding the soft rays of the moon, and Lestat could never forget how terrified he felt for this little being, so utterly small and vulnerable. He had pretexted that his daughter suffered of a rare case of photosensitivity, making her only tolerant to artificial lights. Another burden, another reason to protect her. She was too fragile, too sweet, when the entire world wanted her dead, in pain, or to use her as a blood bank at an early age. Lestat could not stop himself, he could not keep himself away for one more second. A sheer paternal feeling came out of nowhere.
He stepped forward, out of the deepest shadows of the nursery room, so elegantly dressed, so perfectly clean as always, having made sure to appear somewhat decent for the nanny not to ask too many questions. Upon hearing his footstep, she gasped, startled, her hand flying to her chest.
- M-monsieur de Lioncourt ! You... you startled me. I didn't hear you were here !
- How is she ? he asked, gazing at the crib
- She's been a little restless, but otherwise well, Monsieur. She's a good baby. And so very beautiful.
The nanny smiled at Olympe. The child was calm, indeed, calmer than any other human child, babbling softly instead of spending endless hours crying for various reasons only newborns knew. Sensing Lestat’s insistent gaze, she gestured towards the crib.
- Come, see her.
Lestat approached slowly, his black coat rustling softly. He peered into the crib. There she was. Just like he left her, a pure perfection. She did not look like a regular newborn, even on the day he found her. Her features were rounder, she already had a beautiful set of auburn curls that were as soft as silk, tickling her little chubby and rosy cheeks, giving her a porcelain doll look. And her eyes… these eyes, icy blue. She had inherited them from Georges, and he would have definitely been proud to know his daughter, this perfect anomaly on earth, shared this specific trait with him.
Olympe was looking at the soft plush toy in her cradle, babbling calmly, playing with her little hands or the sleeves of her silk and cotton nightgown, tailored to fit her perfectly. Her early babbles were what made the nanny this amused.
And, seeing Lestat’s face, she smiled.
- Oh ! She is smiling at you, Monsieur ! the nanny cheered
Lestat’s throat closed slightly, blocking a possible sob from making its way out. He was grieving, but he could not show it to anyone. Not even to little Olympe, who seemed to understand him so much, without even saying a word. He managed to remove his leather glow, carefully passing the tip of his finger on her cheek. At this moment, with the knowing look she gave him by accident, she reminded him of Joséphine. His sweet, beautiful, lovely Joséphine. This is what Olympe was in the end : the unfortunate artificial result of a love story cut short, yet a proof that, even in death, life could still be created.
He could still see George's eyes, open and unseeing, in that velvet box. He could still hear Joséphine's song. But right now, what mattered was this little thing. This little girl who had been left to him on purpose. A girl he would treat as his own, despite having absolutely no idea on how to raise a child.
- Bonsoir, ma chérie. he whispered
As she noticed the soft emotion Lestat was displaying towards his daughter, the nanny decided to excuse herself and leave them be. Lestat nodded as she left, not bothering to look at her. He only had eyes on Olympe. His sweet little Olympe.
But, once he felt he was alone with her, Lestat sat on a chair nearby and buried his beautiful face in his shaking hands. At first, he started panting slightly. Then, a first cry echoed in the alleys of the mansion. And then, it turned into a wave of heavy sobs. It had only been a week since he had taken Olympe in aw his own, and the deaths of Joséphine and Georges had been what made him realise the gravity of the situation. The weight of immortality was crushing enough, and now, the responsibility of an infant who was wanted everywhere was added to his life of solitude and silent agony. The worst was that he was alone.
All alone.
But through the tears, a new resolve began to solidify. This child, Olympe, was his. He had promised Joséphine to take care of her, and indirectly to Georges. He was going to shield her, keep her away from Armand, knowing too well what he was going to do with her. And with this unfortunate intolerance to moonlight, the task would be harder, but even more rewarding. He was not going to let her go, he was not going to let anyone touch her. Not his daughter.
Olympe babbled as her little hands batted towards Lestat. He tilted his head and smiled, promptly drying up is tears not to scare her, meeting her smile again when he looked at her. She was beautiful, she was perfect. She was his. And only his. He allowed her chubby fingers to touch his hand and caught it gently, giving her a soft smile.
- You, Olympe de Lioncourt, will be my treasure for the rest of my immortal life. he smiled
It only took a few more days for Lestat to plan his escape from France. He knew she could not remain there, especially not with the threat Armand represented. On October 30, 1902, Lestat and Olympe boarded on a ferry boat where they locked themselves in a cabin, Lestat having packed a few clothes and enough blood in wine bottles to sustain himself, and enough milk for Olympe to drink for the journey.
During most of the trip, Lestat had cut his own wrist to let the child drink from it. She had no fangs yet, which only made her even more vulnerable. Poor child… she could not be taken into the sun, could not be taken outside by night due to moonlight, could only be fed blood either by a bottle or by a cut wrist due to her lack of teeth… everything had sentenced this anomaly to die, but Lestat made sure not to give her up. This is what he thought, looking at the Atlantic Ocean from his cabin window for the endless days and nights they spent on the ferry, until they finally set foot there.
- Well, look at this. Lestat said upon coming out of his cabin
The city rose before them like a titan. Lestat had never travelled this far, and these huge buildings made him feel incredibly small compared with the ones in cities like London and Paris. There were so many of them, touching the sky, and Lestat gasped more than once whenever trying to imagine the view from the top of one of these. They were taller than the Eiffel Tower Lestat hated so much ! And yet, he could feel it, New York City was something new. New York City was something new. The new land, promised for many. And North America, as vast as it was, was certainly the perfect place to hide with Olympe.
Olympe was comfortably snuggled into Lestat’s coat, dressed in a delicate lace down with a matching bonnet. At three months old, she looked twice her age, with the skills of a regular six month old infant. She could not stop looking around, mesmerised by the beautiful city that was surrounding her, being so small in a world she could not even understand. She did not even whimper or fuss, she did not cry. She smiled and babbled at each structure she found intriguing.
Lestat tilted his head and looked down at her, smiling at the sight of this beautiful doll-like infant he was proud to call a daughter. He found her amusing, especially when Olympe vocalised a soft babble while gazing at a tall building they passed nearby, raising her tiny gloved hand towards it. She was so perfect to his eyes, and he knew these lands would keep this child safe.
- Look, ma petite chérie ! he cooed. This city is big, isn’t it ? This is home. Our new home. We are safe.
He felt protective of this tiny little thing and smiled gently as the ferry kept moving towards the harbour. Olympe seemed too be excited, bouncing in his arms. This new life that awaited for them was both comforting and felt like a new adventure was about to start.
As the ferry docked, Lestat stepped on the ground, holding Olympe tightly in his arms to shield her from the moonlight. He himself felt utterly amazed but what was outside. The city was bustling with a mixture of horse-drawn carriages and some early prototypes of motorcars. Fashion was different too, more practical, less patterned, less meticulously style, less coded. The silhouettes were beautiful and fashionable, but something made Lestat fall for this country.
He hired three men to transport his belongings to Brooklyn where he had sensed a house was waiting for them. Olympe carefully nestled against his chest, he moved forwards using his vampiric speed. No, what was attracting him was not Manhattan and its bustling streets. He wanted something different, something calm. A house, not an apartment. A garden, not too big, not too small, hoping Olympe would eventually end up being able to explore it, at least when this strange intolerance to moonlight would vanish.
And after a few minutes strolling around with his supernatural speed, he found the house he had wanted, somewhere across the bridge, in the leafy, brownstone-lined streets of Brooklyn. It was a large, formerly lavish abandoned townhouse, its windows partly broken, the garden being overgrown after decades of abandonment. In that garden, a few graves. The ones of a family that lived mostly in the 1870s, and who died in a span of three years. Grandparents, parents, children, grandchildren. But Lestat did not mind.
It was perfect.
He mentally controlled the two men to bring his furniture to this house, pretending he was a relative of the deceased youngest son. A cousin, from France, who just wanted to spend some time closer to the remains of his distant family members. Nobody asked questions, no. And when Lestat stepped into the empty house, he felt it was like home. A new home. Better than Giverny, but felt it like to be temporary.
At first sight, he knew the house had been very lavish back in a day. On two separate floors, the staircase made of solid wood gave it a hunted vibe. Some furniture had been left to rot, old desks, chairs, couches, something from, at least the 1870s, if not an anterior era closer to the 1830s. Portraits were still hung on the walls, people nobody would ever know about. On the second floor, three rooms and a bathroom, a perfect place for them to move in. Lestat decided to settle himself with Olympe in the grand bedroom, sleeping with her in his coffin he hid under some wooden tiles, then under a bed frame he engineered to move up and down like the lid of a chest. Nobody needed to know this frenchman and his daughter were vampires, indeed.
Over the next month, he worked with a furious, single-minded determination. He acquired resources with ease, his ancient strength and cunning allowing him to relieve various wealthy unsuspecting people who gladly handled him a variety of luxury goods, from expansive fancy chairs to grand polished tables, to even bookshelves made of oak. Every night, some discreet contractors worked for him to renovate the house for his liking.
All rooms had to go through a massive amount of renovations, starting with the bedroom he shared with Olympe, then her nursery which got filled with the most beautiful toys, crib and silky decorations, despite she never slept there. Floors got polished to a point that Lestat could see his own reflection when walking on them. He had picked bulky yet extravagant curtains to shield each room from day and moon light, especially in their bedroom. Some refined furniture filled each single room of the house, making it look American in the outside, but French in the inside. People coming in and out always felt it like home, and Lestat made sure to keep acting as if he was actually related to the family buried in the backyard. He played piano every night, sometimes for his daughter, sometimes for some « guests » he invited to feed. Mostly men he enjoyed the presence of before draining them dry. Rare were the people who had seen his daughter, especially not his one-night-flings who rarely survived the night.
In just a month, this abandoned house had turned into a perfect manor for them to live at, opulent, elegant and practical. Lestat knew this was a nice first step for their new life. For him protecting his most beautiful joy. He would play soft melodies on the new piano, watching her tiny fingers twitch when she was seated nearby, having her giggling from time to time. This was their new life. A new beginning, despite he knew this was not enough. This situation was only transitional, Lestat wanted to move away sooner or later, somewhere safer. Somewhere bathed in French and Creole cultures.
But for the time being, they were in Brooklyn. For the time being, Olympe needed Lestat’s outmost care. For the time being, they were safe where they were. And each night, Lestat begged for this situation never to end.
Chapter 2: From the Stone to the Swamps
Notes:
This is absolutely terrible but I like writing about people like Lestat having adopted kids lol
Chapter Text
Life in Brooklyn was initially extremely comfortable for Lestat. The mansion he had bought was large, fancy, historical, perfect for him and for his daughter. Perfect for a family life he was slowly getting accustomed to. Being a father did absolutely not stop Lestat playing poker and going to brothels to met men and women for his own pleasure. But most of his nights were reserved for her. His precious little angel he often told people about.
Olympe.
The little girl was growing rapidly. In a matter of four months after settling in Brooklyn, she had started crawling and standing. And each night, upon coming back to his mansion, he would be greeted with this beautiful little doll smiling at him, wrapped in numerous fancy lace dresses, her little feet clad in cotton socks, her hair always decorated with beautiful bows he would often pick himself. She had to be dressed perfectly, and he always made sure to gift her the most expensive, perfectly tailored little dresses she could only wear a few weeks before outgrowing them.
Nannies were in awe of this little girl, whose incisors and canines had cut through in just one night in March 1903. She was always calm, yet happy and giggling around whenever they would smile at her. Her icy blue eyes kept shining every time her nannies would walk in and out, providing her with a subtle yet innocent entertainment. And her laughs, so sweet and pure, were quick to make the entire house crew smile. And the most peculiar thing of it all ? She never cried. Whimpered, yes, but never cried.
Lestat had composed so many musics for her, written songs to make her smile. Whenever she was seeing her on the piano, the child would giggle and clap her little hands. But her favourite song was quite possibly the one Lestat had called « Ma colombe ». A lullaby, so beautiful so sweet, he sang to her when the nannies would leave and when it was time for them to retreat in the coffin.
Le soleil se lève, l’aube se dessine
Ma colombe.
Maintenant mon ange, dormons
Jusqu’à ce que la nuit ne tombe.
Tes si jolis yeux bleus se ferment
Ma colombe
Dans mes bras tu t’endors enfin
Je t’enveloppe de mon ombre.
Nous vivons quand les étoiles abondent
Ma colombe,
Ton sommeil te fait flotter là
Où mes yeux à jamais vagabondent
Mon ange, ma tendre enfant
Ma colombe.
Je te promets que mon amour pour toi
Jamais ne s’effondre.
That night, Lestat had decided to come home earlier, but even midnight. He had been in Manhattan, had found a man to seduce and drink from, and was not forcibly feeling good enough to keep hunting for the time being. He came inside, removing his opulent coat and top hat, before he heard her giggles. His little girl was having some good time, and he found himself drawn to the noise, moving towards the living room where she was sitting, playing on the rub between two nannies, stacking coloured wooden blocks, with the two young ladies with her clapping each time she managed to put one on the over without making the tower fall.
Lestat could not help but admire his daughter. She looked like a porcelain doll he had stollen from a collection, and the more she was growing, the more beautifuler she was becoming. Her beautiful auburn curls, now reaching her shoulders, were perfectly brushed, decorated with a large ivory-coloured bow, despite a few rebellious strands still played with her rosy cheeks, a little red, indicating she was currently teething, like any regular baby her age. She was also wearing Lestat’s most favourite acquisition : a perfect light blue frock style dress that was not waisted, with balloon sleeves adorned with frills and lace. He had even embroidered a golden « O. » on the right side of her collar.
A maid, one of several who came and went, quietly tidied a stack of miniature wooden blocks as Olympe turned to Lestat, giving him a simple nod. Lestat had ensured Olympe was never left alone without human care, even as he himself remained her primary caregiver. Her parent. Her father, always mentioning his wife had unfortunately died whenever people would ask him about Olympe’s mother. He was so proud of his daughter but so worried that, when outside the house on hunts or subjecting himself to his usual debauchery in brothels, could not stop thinking about her. About how she was doing, what she was doing, with who, or what was happening. About these nannies who never questioned with the child lived during the night and not during the day, why she did not have the right to even be taken outside when the moon would glow. But they were mostly touched but the love this Frenchman vowed to his daughter as, in a society where girls were often seen as burdens, men mostly preferred their sons to their daughters. But Olympe was clearly not seen as such by Lestat.
Olympe sensed Lestat was home and turned her head towards him. He smiled at Olympe who was gazing at him with the entire love the world coming from her beautiful eyes. The admiration she felt for him, for this man who was her caregiver, was uncanny. And even gently waved at him, with a soft giggle, making the nannies chuckle of fondness at this little girl who seemed to love her father so much.
- Bonsoir, ma petite chérie. he cooed, his voice a soft murmur. Do you want to come to me ? It’s alright, come to Papa.
Olympe giggled softly, having understood Lestat’s gentle command. She pushed herself on all fours, then crouched. She already knew how to crawl on purpose, which often made nannies feel terrified for her whenever she would leave while they had their backs turned for a few seconds. But it was rare to have her try standing.
He had spent countless hours like this since bringing her back from Giverny. The grief for Joséphine and Georges was still too near, but Olympe was the light of his life. Her innocence, her utter dependence on him, filled a void he hadn't known could be filled. He would never let Armand touch her. Never let the world taint her. She was his to protect, his to raise. His daughter.
He had expected Olympe to come and greet her crawling like she often did, but tonight, the little child had decided otherwise. She was growing and wanted to show her father what she was capable of doing on her own. She looked up from her crouching position, looking like a frog dressed in fancy clothes. But definitely cuter.
- Oh. Lestat tilted his head
Olympe pushed herself up, wobbling on her legs. She was not chubby, not thin, her still had lovely fat rolls Lestat loved kissing when he was playing with her. She stretches her arm slightly to find her balance, taking a first hesitant step, nearly falling over. But her smile did not falter one bit, especially not after the second step she took. And Lestat’s arms opened instantly to greet her in case she fell. He did not even believe what he was seeing.
She took a third step. A fourth step. A fifth step. Each step she took was getting more and more controlled. But Lestat, about to jump to the roof out of excitement at the sight of his daughter walking unassisted for the first time, did not care about it. The way she moved, her curls bouncing up and down, these little teeth that made her look older than her real age… Lestat wanted to scream his pride, but retained himself, keeping his arms outstretched to invite her in. And, upon reaching him, she stumbled and giggled.
- Oh my god, she just walked ! a nanny clapped her hands
He caught her gently, pulling her onto his lap, showering her with soft kisses on her hair, her cheeks, her forehead. And she giggled, her little hands gently trying to create a barrier between her chubby cheeks and Lestat’s mouth. He could not stop showering her with kisses. He, who had been severely abused by his father for so long, was not even trying to reproduce the same mistakes on this beautiful little being.
- Mon petit ange ! My brilliant Olympe ! You walked ! You walked ! his voice was thick with emotion
Olympe squirmed in his lap, her little hands reaching up to pat his face after pushing him away, her icy blue eyes fixed on his. She babbled meaningless words to a an adult, but it definitely meant something to her. She was making gibberish sentences, possibly explaining how her last few hours went. And Lestat played along while bouncing her up and down as she played with his golden hair. He was too fond of this child not to.
- Oh, really ? he tilted her head as if he understood her. Is that really what happened ? Well, ma chérie, this is a very important matter to discuss !
She pulled back slightly, her small brow furrowed in concentration. Her little hands held Lestat’s face to make him look at her, as she started imitating his words. Her lips pursed, then formed a shape. A sound. A syllable, a very first, determined syllable that did not mean nothing.
- Pa… she said
Lestat’s eyes opened wide. He was about to scream again, but remained stuck on the ground. His baby was trying something and, as sweet and trivial it might have been to a lot of people, this first syllable meant a lot to him.
Olympe tried again, her high pitched voice sounding so sweet, like the melody played in a music box. She looked into Lestat’s eyes and patted his cheek.
- Pa… pa.
Something clicked. Her face light up as she understood she had said the world right. With a triumphant giggle, letting go of Lestat’s face, she pointed at him and finally said it. She finally said he word.
- Papa !
« Papa ». Lestat was certainly about to scream but contained his excitement. It was a title that should never have been his, had Georges been spared from Armand’s wrath. He was her father, and nobody could deny it. Not even himself. He wanted to cry, but since vampires cried tears of blood, their identity would be discovered. So, instead of sobbing dramatically on the floor, he just laughed. Not nervously, not to mock her word. He laughed because of sheer happiness at the child calling him such.
- Tu as dit « papa »… he mumbled, both confused and ecstatic. You as dit « papa » !
- Papa ! the child responded
Lestat proudly showed Olympe to the nannies who clapped their hands in awe at Olympe’s first word, beaming of pride. Right now, he was not the Brat Prince, not the Rule-Breaker, not even the Wolfkiller. He was just « Papa ». And that title, in a way, suited him like the finest tailored shirt he owned.
- Yes, ma chérie. I’m your papa.
Lestat proceeded to pepper her cheeks with kisses, causing her to giggle and squirm, and the nannies to watch them with an increasing fondness. Olympe’s peculiarities, from the moonlight intolerance to her living only during nighttime along with her father, was not a concern not them as long as she was happy. And, just by gazing at how Lestat was acting with her, anyone could tell the child was both loved and cherished like the most precious gemstone on a crown made of silver. And she was growing fast, too fast for his liking.
Olympe, like any other toddler, was prone to tantrums which were, fortunately for Lestat, short-lived for most. Sometimes, she would pout and sulk for a minor inconvenience, such as the pillows of the couch being pink instead of blue, her blood being poured in the wrong bottle, Lestat refusing to pick her up. Sometimes, she would simply scream against having to go to sleep before the sunrise.
- No. Olympe stomped her little feet as Lestat coaxed her in his coffin
- Ma chérie, the sun is about to rise and we-
- No !
The child was already stubborn, just like her mother once. But Lestat knew how to act whenever she resisted going to sleep. He would sigh dramatically, placing his hand on his chest, say some random prayers in French just to make her giggle, his patience endless with her. And, after a few attempts, he would always pick her up and carry her to the coffin by force where he would hold her close against him and whisper some old lullabies from an era that was most likely forgotten by many. Olympe never fought against these cuddles, snuggling against him in an instant, and falling asleep in less than five minutes like a clockwork.
Her senses increased overtime, so did her hearing. She started being able to listen to people talk a few streets away, which increased to the carriages of the Brooklyn Bridge by daytime, causing her to wake up constantly. Her being a pureblood gave her the unfortunate capacity to acquire skills, and the first was the infamous supernatural speed Lestat often used whenever going on hunts. This, combined with the way she could mentally communicate with anyone, made Lestat’s hard more difficult as, more than ten times a hour, he had to explain his daughter that she was not allowed to use her mind to talk with people. Olympe listened, she only used this capacity with him. But regarding supernatural speed, she mostly did this to annoy Lestat, leading him to chase her around the house too often.
Her hunger for blood was constant, and was slowly increasing overtime, suppressing milk. Lestat continued to provide, cutting his own wrist to let her drink directly from it, which ultimately led them to form a born in shared blood. With his blood in her veins, Lestat could feel her heartbeat, he could hear her from enough distance, he could even detect any pain without her saying anything. Since his daughter was still too young, he refused her to feed on anyone else beside him, believing his blood was enough, despite her hunger kept increasing to the point that Lestat had to store bottles of his own blood in the cellar to ensure she was fed properly, especially when she dropped the need to drink milk with it. As her strange intolerance to moonlight slowly disappearing, Olympe was allowed outside more often by Lestat himself, with the condition to have her in his field of view.
Before Olympe, Lestat had no experience with small children. Tantrums were mostly a way for Olympe to regulate herself, and that always left him mentally drained, exhausted, to say the least. But these episodes, like storms in a calm sea, would always pass quickly. Olympe was growing into a smart little girl, quick to grasp new concepts, developing a wit that was a little similar to Lestat’s. And still, despite having her father’s sass, she still displayed a respectful and obedient behaviour most of the time, except when she was not happy with something. Sometimes, when hurting herself by, she would scream swear words she heard her father say without him even being home.
- Putain de merde ! was her favourite swear Lestat had so often tried to erase from her vocabulary
Despite being a doting father, Lestat always made sure Olympe got disciplined in the usual French standards. The only time he had used some sort of violence was when she had decided to wander in the porch during daytime, it had resulted in a swat, a screaming fit, a few stomps, and then heavy sobs which made Lestat promise himself he would never hurt that little child again. He would not be like his own father, he could not allow another innocent being to be hurt like he was.
- I just wanted to see the sun, papa ! she whimpered as he held her close, on his way back to his coffin
- I know. But sun can kill us, mon petit coeur. Papa doesn’t want his little dove to be hurt, does he ?
- Non.
- Good. No more daytime exploring.
Lestat’s discipline mostly included grounding Olympe for a short amount of time, never too long, or making her stand in a corner after having explained her what she did wrong. She was quick to understand and rarely misbehaved, Lestat having found that the simple action of explaining her something correctly and treating her like the future adult she would eventually become was enough to stop her from hurting herself or hurting the others. Olympe disobeyed once, exposing her pinky finger to sunlight. But, instead of grounding her, Lestat fought this subtle pain she felt, along with his explanation, was enough as a lesson.
He was charmed by her questions, by her wit. By her necessity to understand everything, despite being still so young. Sometimes, there were concepts he wanted to keep her away from, proceeding to simply guide her towards other subjects that were appropriate for her age. He loved engaging himself in playful debates with her, understanding her youth and letting her express herself with an eloquence he wished her to keep forever. Despite spoiling her rotten, filling her dresser with numerous outfits he had picked himself, gifting her with dolls, toys, books, or whatever she wanted, Olympe was still humble and sweet, always perfectly behaved when he was taking her outside, as her moonlight intolerance seemed to fade away with time.
By 1906, Olympe turned out to be a smart and curious little girl. Her auburn hair was always meticulously brushed, she always wore the finest fashions Lestat could find by reading numerous magazines. He was a rich man, his daughter had to be an extension of himself on that matter. As beautiful, perfectly dressed, perfectly behaved. In just a year, Olympe had gone from being a toddler throwing tantrums to a quiet little girl playing with her dolls in the corner of her room, loving to play music with Lestat, and mostly… loving to dance. Her love for classical dance and ballet had begun when Lestat had brought her to see her first ballet in August 1906. Giselle. Lestat’s favourite ballet.
Lestat had booked the perfect lodge for this event. In a way, it was a gift for Olympe’s fourth birthday, but also a gift for himself. He loved being seen, he loved arts, he loved music, he loved dancing. And taking his daughter, who was always so well behaved, attracting the gaze of jealous parents of their nosy offspring or kind smiles of old people who viewed her as a doll, was always making him proud. His child was perfect.
Olympe sat on the booster cushions of her velvet seat, her gloved hands folding carefully on her thighs while her legs kicked back and forth out of excitement. All these people talking around her, all these murmurs made the Metropolitan Opera House feel like a cacophony. She had never seen a ballet before, watching the orchestra adjust their instruments before she gently turned her head towards Lestat, tugging his sleeve.
- Papa ? she gently tugged his sleeve, her voice barely audible
- Yes, ma chérie ? Lestat slightly bent over to his daughter with a voice sounding like a purr
- What are they doing ?
Such a sweet question, so innocent yet full of interest, made him chuckle. Olympe did not know the exact term for this practice, she just said she liked watching people « dance ».
- They are telling a story, mon petit coeur. Lestat explained, his voice soft. With their bodies. With music. It is called ballet.
- Ballet. the little girl repeated. Un ballet.
- Yes, mon ange. Un ballet.
The red and black curtain rose, music started. Olympe leaned forward to have a better view on the stage and, as the first dancers started moving, she got instantly entranced with the show. Her hands moved from her thighs to the railing, she tilted her head as her eyes began shining with wonder. Her fingers moved at each high note, her upper body even slightly swayed, as if she wanted to be a part of these dancers.
And Lestat, despite they watched his favourite ballet, mostly had eyes on her, on his child discovering something new, something she was definitely enjoying. Her reactions were more interesting than a ballet he had seen many times before. They were sharing a strong love for arts, and it only made Lestat even prouder to know his daughter loved both music and dancing. He could not even deny it, she was his, and he was managing to raise her very well.
Lestat saw her eyes follow every graceful leap, every delicate pirouette. He saw her tiny fingers subtly mimic the movements, her head tilting as if absorbing the very essence of the music. Sometimes, her eyes were closing themselves causing him to chuckle silently, yet feel a strong pain and sorrow just a few seconds later.
He remembered Joséphine, her quiet grace, her love for music. He saw images of her in Olympe's attention, noticing how much this small little girl seemed to love arts at an early age. This child, his pureblood, was not only watching. She was feeling it, understanding the unspoken language of the dance. Just like him, whenever he was listening to any music he liked.
Olympe waited until the intermission to express her absolute thrill, bouncing up and down on her cushion with stars in her eyes. This was a wonderful gift for her last birthday, for sure !
- They fly, Papa ! she exclaimed quietly, her voice filled with wonder. They fly like the birds !
Lestat chuckled, pulling her onto his lap for a moment. He did not care about the etiquette, the sole sight of his little girl being this happy and delighted to watch such a performance was enough to make him want to bring her there even more !
- Indeed they do, ma chérie. Indeed they do.
Lestat could not help but feel a deep satisfaction overflow him. It felt so comforting an sweet to have Olympe react to ballets with such an excitement ! He was also happy to know he would share another passion with his daughter, and this passion was probably the fact of producing himself on stage. He had done that back in the 1790s and had loved every moment of it, and knew Olympe was undoubtedly on her way to start a journey in the world of performance. He wished, oh he wished to let do so, to let her become a dancer, a singer, anything she could be on stage… but something held him back. A deep rooted fear he could not suppress. The distant echo of Armand’s voice in his memories, telling him to bring him the child.
Olympe needed to be sheltered, she needed to be shielded away from him. But Lestat knew that one day, when she would become old enough to decide where to go on her own, he would not be able to stop her in her tracks, and she would be at Armand’s entire mercy, especially as a ballerina, or any other stage performer who would become too famous for his own liking.
However, for the time being, he cherished the moment. He cherished his little girl sitting on his lap, eagerly watching the ballet restart after the intermission, her little hands clutching on his. For now, she was his. And only his. Nobody else’s child, not a fugitive, not an experiment. Just a little girl he had learnt to parent, despite having little to no knowledge about children at all, besides his experience as an abused child whose father attempted to isolate.
He had told Olympe about her parents, never fully going in detail, but the child could not care less. Lestat was her father, she was surprisingly calm about her strange upbringing and the tragic circumstances of her survival in a world which did not even want her alive. Olympe was an anomaly, but she was living, like any human child would. And, despite not being biologically related to her, Lestat treated her as his own, still waiting to take her to hunts despite having explained her how they feed, and how she would, one day, end up having to feed herself. But for the time being, she was dependent on him for everything, she was just a little child who needed guidance, shelter and love, something she would not have found in the hands of Armand.
Time went on, Olympe grew even faster. She did not toddle much anymore, she walked with a grace she had learnt to have thanks to her nannies. But the situation in Brooklyn was turning strange to the eyes of people living nearby, who started asking too many questions about this rich frenchman that was only seen with his perfect doll-like daughter in the middle of the night who, despite growing like any regular child, looked a little too « artificial » and porcelain-like. And, from hearing the rumours about them, Lestat had decided to leave, for the better.
The Brooklyn brownstone, while a perfect haven, began to feel less like a temporary sanctuary and more like a permanent cage of rumours and insults from people around the area. In just a few years, Lestat’s lavish lifestyle had triggered too many gossips to be ignored. Crimes were rising, the scent of their district was getting unbreathable. Everything pushed them to leave.
- That man must be the devil ! So handsome and never to be seen by daylight !
- Have you seen his eyes ? His eyes are so unnatural !
- And the child… is it really a normal child ? Or is it a doll he has brought to life ? She also lives by night !
Lestat, ever restless, found himself yearning for a change, for a place that resonated more deeply with his own spirit, and perhaps, a place where Olympe could explore her unique nature with greater freedom without being constantly subjected to people’s stares. As of 1907, he people’s gossips had started to get to her, especially when a man had knelt right before her when she was strolling with Lestat, nearly hitting her with a wooden cross.
- You, cursed child, may the Lord save you from the devil’s claws !
- Don’t touch my daughter. Lestat had hissed
This was enough. Olympe, not understanding much, kept asking Lestat why people had changed so fast, why they were no longer friendly. Even nannies seemed to resign more and more as they started believing something unnatural was going on. Something wrong, something related to death. When the last nanny had resigned, finding a random excuse to leave the house, Olympe felt sad and guilty.
- Why is everyone scared of us, papa ?
- Because we are vampires, my sweet. Lestat said, gently rubbing her hair
- But we are not evil, are we ?
- Mon ange… everyone is evil, to some extent. Some, more than the others. And some, much less. You, for instance, are very, very, very much less !
This simple quote, so lighthearted, had managed to make Olympe giggle in this moment of sorrow. But Lestat knew it was time to leave. He dreamed about moving South, closer to the Caribbean Sea. To a former French colony. A city bathed in French and Creole cultures. A place where his language was not forgotten, a place where they could possibly start over.
New Orleans.
Without a notice, Lestat packed most of his beautiful furniture in different crates. The decision, though sudden to human eyes, had been brewing in his mind for months. Brooklyn, for all its convenience, lacked was starting to lack something he needed for Olympe. It was lacking safety. For his daughter and for himself. Besides, the gossips were absolutely not making it easy for them to stay there. More importantly, it lacked the freedom for Olympe. Here, she was confined to the indoors most of the time due to her peculiar nature. New Orleans had another culture, so many different stories to tell, and they could certainly blend in easily. Or at least, this is what Lestat thought.
He hired a discreet team of human movers, working them only during night time, their movements swift and silent in order not to disturb anyone in the neighbourhood. Lestat oversaw every detail, his eyes never missing anything, not even the smallest cutlery left in the most random sideboard. The grand piano was carefully dismantled, each piece lovingly crated, as per his request. Olympe's complete wardrobe, her dolls, her toys, her old books : all was packed away too fast for Lestat to complain. And Olympe watched the proceedings from the living room while reading a book about astronomy.
- Where are the chairs going ? she asked as the chairs were dismantled and placed in a wooden crate
- To a new adventure, ma chérie. Lestat replied, picking her up. A brand new house, bigger than our current one. You will love it.
He made it sound like a game, an exciting new chapter, and Olympe, trusting him, would soon forget her momentary bewilderment. She would easily adapt, New Orleans was probably a better place for him to raise her. To raise this child, so beautiful, so sweet, so polite and so humble despite him spoiling her rotten whenever he could.
The most crucial item, of course, was Lestat's own coffin, now subtly enlarged to accommodate Olympe beside him. It was carefully loaded onto a private, specially modified train car, along with their most essential belongings. The journey south was a carefully orchestrated affair. Lestat had ensured their compartment was completely light-proof, like a mobile bedroom shielded against the sun. During the day, they would slumber, Olympe nestled safely against his side, her small presence a constant comfort. At night, they would emerge, Lestat stretching his limbs, Olympe exploring the confines of their private car, her senses absorbing the subtle changes in the air, the distant sounds of the American South.
- Papa ? she asked him sometimes whenever awake
- Yes, ma chérie ?
- Will I have my room in our new house ?
- We… we will discuss that topic later, my sweet. When we will settle.
Olympe stood nearby the window which provided her with a view of the landscape around her, gently passing her head between the curtains. New York City could be seen from enough distance, its lights slowly disappearing in the plains and different small towns surrounding the railroad. She knew the trip would last for a few days, but she did not mind much. The excitement of leaving Brooklyn was enough for her not to mourn the house she lived up in for what felt like a hundred years.
Probably two days later, Lestat awoke in the private car due to the strange smell of woods and stagnating waters. They were passing by the swamps, indicating that they were about to reach their destination. The air was damp, the humidity in their private car had increased, their skin and clothes were wet, but it did not matter much. In fact, it was just a trivial matter, they were about to arrive. He carefully woke Olympe up when the train moved towards the New Orleans grand train station.
- Wake up, ma cherie. he whispered softly. We are almost there.
The train pulled into the New Orleans station right at dusk, granting Lestat and Olympe the ability to exit it without fearing the deadly rays of sunlight. The humidity was still there, yet a little less present due to the fact that they were not in the wilderness, but in a city. A bustling city in Louisiana. The station was quite noisy, a lot of people talking, men playing trumpets and contrabass in the halls, women giggling, motor cars moving outside. Lestat, holding Olympe securely in his arms, stepped onto the platform and smiled at the city which had just managed to conquer his undead heart.
Olympe demanded to set foot on the ground when they stepped on the platform, her hand immediately grabbing his. Her moonlight allergy was gone, granting her the ability to be outside more often. She gazed everywhere, clad in her beautiful Edwardian coat that went just right above her knees, adjusting he large hat like a little lady. It even made Lestat chuckle. Having his daughter, still so young, have manners similar to a woman in her twenties was always quick to make him feel both amusement and fondness. She looked around the street as they excited the station, noticing carriages and street cars that looked different than the ones she had seen every now and then in Brooklyn. She jumped slightly on herself, excited by this new territory she would get to explore soon enough. A new life was about to begin.
- Papa ! Look ! she exclaimed, her voice a delighted squeal, pointing a finger at a streetcar rumbling past. They’re bigger than in Brooklyn !
- Indeed, ma chérie. This is New Orleans. Lestat answered with a chuckle. This is our new town.
He hailed a private carriage, ensuring their precious cargo, mostly his coffin and Olympe's belongings, was handled with the utmost care. People did not question, and Olympe watched passerby with wide eyes. Having been raised in a white district in the night, rarely going outside for anything else but a small stroll or a night at the Opera during a time when racial discrimination was probably one of the worst things happening in the United States, she curiously gazed at a group of black men who waved at her. And she waved back at them with a soft smile, causing them to laugh at his innocent gesture.
- Bonsoir ! she said as the carriage moved away
- Olympe, what did I tell you about strangers ? Lestat scolded her softly
- Yes papa, no talking to strangers unless very necessary.
The carriage ride through the French Quarter felt like a new show, a long discovery. The streets were narrower, buildings where not as high as the ones in New York City. The balconies, the colours of all these houses, the mixture of French, Creole, American, and so many other cultures melted into one big city made it feel like a magic place. Lestat adored it, each single detail, each iron balcony, the music, the architecture, the people themselves… and Olympe, on his lap, shared his excitement. She wished she had more than two eyes to be able to register everything, gazing everywhere all at once. The jazz music echoing in the streets, the beauty of a new city by night… this already felt like home. Even to a little child like her.
After about a hour, they made it to their townhouse at Rue Royale. A beautiful architectural piece that made Lestat feel incredibly delighted and proud of this new acquisition. Detailed ironwork, ochre bricks, cream-coloured second floor, beautiful columns… the house was designed in a Spanish-style, and looked like a castle to Olympe’s eyes. The former owners had relocated for reasons only Lestat knew. And still, this place was perfect, blending in the life of New Orleans just right.
- This is it, Olympe. Lestat announced as Olympe promptly ran to the arch that led them to the courtyard
Olympe gasped. The courtyard was neither big nor small, looking like an ethereal paradise. Flowers decorated it, magnolias and jasmine, mostly. There was a fountain in the middle of it, and Olympe ran to it, splashing her pale hands in the clear water before moving around it, twirling slightly and giggling. These childish giggles echoed in the beautiful private outside space she already loved. A courtyard, a safe place. There was even an incinerator that would be perfect to use whenever Lestat would bring home some « guests », away from his daughter’s sight as she still exclusively fed on his blood.
- It’s huge ! Bigger than our house in Brooklyn ! the girl exclaimed, running towards the door leading her to the parlour nearby the entrance
The inside of the house was beautiful. Perfect, to say the least. Very much to Lestat’s refined taste. A grand staircase was located in the entrance room, polished and carpeted. Next to it, the grand parlour, opulent, richly decorated with the furniture they had gathered from Brooklyn, smelled like jasmine and and daisies. His grand piano, along with a chess table, had already been meticulously placed in there. The kitchen, surprisingly modern for that time, was greatly furnished and ready to use. Small copper pots were already stored there, most likely containing nothing but blood.
Olympe explored the kitchen, followed by Lestat who watched her like a hawk. She ran upstairs to get accustomed to the second floor, making her way in Lestat’s master bedroom, a hidden room to safely hide his coffin, toilets they were probably never going to use, a grand bathroom, and a few spare rooms that were facing the courtyard. And right after Olympe entered the bathroom, Lestat gently placed his hand on her shoulder.
- You wanted your own room, didn't you, ma chérie ?
- Oh ? Yes ! Yes I did !
Olympe’s eyes light up instantly. She nodded while looking around the first floor, having noticed that many of Lestat’s paintings were already hanging on the walls. A window on the ceiling was also there to provide her with a view of the night sky, while still having to be closed most of the time, only opened during daytime in case of a human visit.
Her room was located on the first floor, nearby the master’s bedroom and the hidden room where they had located Lestat’s coffin. She had a view on the courtyard, perfect for her to sleep during daytime with the subtle sound of the fountain in the centre of it. Lestat had already configured the bedroom for a bed to be retractable like a chest, under which would be placed Olympe’s future coffin. The dollhouse had been placed between the windows, and Lestat had even requested a little library to be added nearby the bed so Olympe would have access to a private set of books she liked. The far end of the corridor was leading to an empty room that mostly served as a a storage room, but Lestat did not care at that time. All that mattered was that his little girl was happy enough in their new house.
- This is your room, Olympe. Lestat said, watching her eyes light up again
Olympe made her way to the door leading to the courtyard. She was not having a view on the street, but it did not seem to bother her much, on the contrary. She preferred the calm setting of a small garden rather than a bustling street with new motor cars and people chatter so loudly day and night. Olympe could still hear musicians play some jazz in the distance, carriages and cars, still silenced by the walls separating the courtyard from the street. She was excited, so excited about this beautiful place that she turned back to run towards Lestat and hugged him.
- This is wonderful, papa ! I love it ! Thank you !
- Well, I’m glad you do. Lestat beamed
Lestat watched her with a smile blooming on his face. Something felt right in this house, this was a place that felt like home. This was where they belonged. This was was perfect, spacious enough to grant them freedom, yet comfortable to keep them close to another. It was a safe place, with rooms hidden behind walls, perfect for them to preserve their reputation during daytime and night time. They were home, finally home.
Two months passed rather quickly, Lestat and Olympe had quickly accommodated themselves to this new home. This new home. This new rhythm. Their life had turned into a new routine they both enjoyed. Olympe was under the care of numerous tutors each night, granting Lestat the right to stroll as much as he liked, always making sure to mentally check on his daughter to make sure she was doing alright. Mardi Gras was being prepared, and Lestat, loving disguises, loved watching costumes bloom in the different stores he would come across.
People gazed at him with curiosity. Despite being a man of fine taste, Lestat still loved dressing the a fashion that was from another century, favouring opulent victorian neckties, tight suits and top hats over simple suits and boaters, more practical and modern, and also less formal. And, despite his outdated fashion, he also made sure to have Olympe dressed in the most perfect, fashionable and expensive dresses, aprons, shirts and skirts that were to be found at they tailor shop. When asked about his outdated clothes, Lestat simply concluded it was the European fashion and he was still getting used to this new world. But when people would see his daughter, he would just laugh.
- A daughter must be dressed in fine clothes, you gentlemen should know that. he would say
One night, after having left Olympe to the care of a tutor for a painting lesson she enjoyed so much, Lestat had decided to take a stroll in Storyville, a red-light district of the city. He loved being there, he loved chatting with people, seducing, killing for the simple happiness it procured him. His top hat on his head, long brown coat with layers covering his shoulders like a refined shawl, looking like an undertaker rather than a regular french man, made a few turn back to look at him. And, while simply looking at people in the street, Lestat spotted a heated argument.
Two men were arguing in the middle of the street, two brothers of brown complexion, dressed in refined clothes. One of them was slightly older, perhaps in his early thirties, thin yet authoritative, while the other was somewhere in his late twenties, a little overweight, cheeks chubbier but not less attractive to Lestat’s eyes. But at this moment, he only got attracted to the older one. So handsome, so elegant, so charismatic…
- I’m having a fucking night, okay ? the older one said. I can’t have your foolish-
These two men, brothers, were arguing, the younger one ended up punching his older brother, while the other pointed a knife at his throat.
- Get the fuck on home. Else I bleed ya like a kochon, brah.
Lestat watched, fascinated. He got instantly drawn to him. To this man, so peculiar, so new to him. Not a white man, not beggar, not a random citizen of New Orleans. Someone with fire in his eyes, someone with a high intelligence that could be seen miles away, someone strong. This man was charismatic, magnetic. And Lestat felt something strange.
He had found something new.
He had found him.
Louis de Pointe du Lac.
Chapter 3: A New Soul to Love
Notes:
Still not good but taking the series script ! sorry
Chapter Text
The New Orleans townhouse on Rue Royale had truly become home. A few months had passed since Lestat and Olympe's arrival and their house was now their sanctuary, while New Orleans felt like a promised land. They felt safe in their home, it fitted every single one of their whims. Even the hidden ones, such as private boudoirs in which Lestat would invite men and women to have a drink with him, mostly to drain them dry a few hours later and dump their bodies in the incinerator, always keeping guests away from Olympe, who started understanding what animated Lestat this much.
At seven years of age, quite possibly out a human custom he had remembered from his childhood, Lestat had decided that nannies were a thing of the past, and that Olympe needed a teacher, a tutor. And Lestat found Léon Lemieux to be suitable for this role. Lestat paid him enough for him never to ask questions on why this little girl lived during nighttime. Monsieur Lemieux made sure to keep her occupied all night long, from teaching her French literature to mathematics she did not seem to enjoy, music and arts. He taught her numerous dances, but ballet was certainly what attracted her the most. And yet, nothing equaled the pleasure of listening to jazz with Lestat every single night on the balcony of their mansion, gazing at the street, safely snuggled in her fathers arms.
She remained blissfully unaware of the darker facets of Lestat's existence. She knew he killed, he had even showed her where he was disposing the bodies of the victims to be stored and then to be burned in the incinerator, showing her how to put them in it, explaining the importance to erase any proofs of what they had done. This was something he could not hide from her, especially since he knew that, sooner or later, she would hunt just like him and would need to dispose the bodies somewhere. However, for the time being, she was still exclusively feeding from him, Lestat refusing to let her drink from anyone else, deeming humans to be mostly sullied. But she did not know the specifics of his nocturnal hunts, nor the precise nature of his recent, consuming fascination.
The handsome, rich young man, possibly between thirty-three and thirty-four years of age : Monsieur Louis de Pointe du Lac.
She did not know that Lestat had met a man named Louis at the Fair Play Saloon, an establishment where Lestat, to personally introduce himself to Louis whilst also caressing and kissing Miss Lily, Louis' favoured working girl, had left with her, much to Louis' displeasure. Her father’s nightly whereabouts were not her concern, even if, sometimes, she longed to be outside with him. But Lestat always refused, believing Olympe was safer at home with Monsieur Lemieux. He could also use his mind to talk to her, which provided him with comfort on the nights he left her. And he was definitely thankful she had not been there when he first approached Louis.
It had been a way for Lestat to make a first step. A hostile, rather unwelcome first step with had triggered Louis’ anger, but also his curiosity. Louis was hiding a harsh truth that could have gotten him killed, had it been known.
He loved men.
And, back in 1910, when being Black already made most of their life a living danger, loving the same gender made things even worse. Louis had hidden the truth perfectly, remaining a single man who refused to marry, concealing his true desires behind a wish to wait longer or a need to find time to get interested in a marriage he barely even considered. He had forced himself to love women when his heart screamed for men to open their arms at him. And Lestat, charming and exotic to his eyes as he came from the Old Continent, had triggered a silent passion he knew he had to hide for his own sake and for his family’s reputation.
And still, Olympe was unaware that Lestat had already started initiating Louis into a partnership, mentally communicating with him during poker games he went to very often, silently seducing him by using his mind to talk to him. Due to his overprotective nature, Lestat never took Olympe to these games because, sometimes, he could hear men around him spoke about little girls like young women that were soon to marry, or had talks that sounded both predatory and concerning, even in the beginning of the twentieth century.
- So. Tom Anderson, a local businessman who hosted the poker games at the Fair Play Saloon, looked at Lestat. Do you have a family, Mister de Lioncourt ? You can’t tell me you came to New Orleans on your own without a lady behind you !
- This is a private matter which I wish to keep for myself, Monsieur Anderson. Lestat answered, instantly triggering Louis’ interest
- You must feel lonely, without a family of your own. Louis said, cocking a brow at Lestat’s smile
- Not much.
Lestat was in love, he could not deny it. It had been so long since he had not felt such a strong feeling. His heart was fluttering, his heartbeat increasing each time he was looking at Louis, staring right into his brown eyes to seduce him whenever his gaze would meet his. He could feel the weight of his family, learning that Louis was the eldest man of his family who had to step up to take charge of his family’s trust. This devotion to his mother and siblings what was attracted Lestat the most. Louis was a man he could trust.
Lestat never missed an opportunity to daydream of having Louis in his house as his companion. Of his smile, of his eyes, of his gaze. Of the wish he had to pass his hand through his curly hair, to caress these thin cheeks. To listen to him talk about so many stuff related to business, or simply about the books he used to read. Lestat even came to imagine what his family would look like if Louis joined them. Two men and a daughter, living a beautiful yet secluded life in a city which did not mind them too much.
- Oh, Louis. he whispered to himself
Olympe noticed. Two or three months after Lestat and Louis first met, Olympe, with her unnervingly perceptive pureblood senses and her ability to subtly see through Lestat's mental barriers, began to notice a subtle shift in her Papa. He was often distracted, smiling most of the time, especially when he was alone, even his music sounded different whenever he would play some piano. Something was both charming and comforting. It was killing him not to have Louis by his side.
One night, as the first hint of dawn began to paint the sky outside, Olympe had just finished reading a chapter Gogol’s « Anna Karenina », a book she wanted to read despite her very young age. She ways lying in his coffin alone, resting on the padded cushions that would have been very comfortable even for a human being. After some time, she turned her head towards him, finding him nearby. He was neither asleep, nor fully in the room with her, focused on his latest obsession. He was on a nearby loveseat, « reading » a French novel he did not even understand the plot of, still daydreaming, his eyes gazing at the ceiling.
- Louis… he whispered
Olympe, pretending to be reading, listened. She heard the familiar hum of Lestat's thoughts, but now, she could clearly feel her father had met someone. Someone who had triggered a strong mechanism that made Lestat fall in love. She had never seen her father like this, so happy and so excited over random events. She could tell there was something new, something so exciting. Someone who was the source of her father’s latest obsession. A man called Louis.
She ended sitting up, setting her book aside, leaning her elbows on the bottom part of the coffin to gaze at Lestat for a moment with a huge innocent and adoring smile on her face. Having been gifted with her mother’s empathy, she enjoyed seeing Lestat express something other than his strict or overprotective behaviour. His vulnerability was touching, and she gazed at his soft expression as he was staring into the void, his cheeks nearly reddening without even noticing his daughter was looking at him.
- Papa ? she gently whispered, her voice echoing in the bedroom
Lestat jolted a little, taken back to reality. He shook his head a little and, in order to appear as calm as always, just turned his head to gaze at his daughter, not even noticing his cheeks held a subtle blush.
- Oui, ma chérie ? he asked, his voice a little too innocent
- Who is Louis ? she asked, her voice innocent
Lestat gasped for a moment, utterly surprised. He decided to be careful. His daughter was smart enough to see through every single wall he had built to protect his thoughts from any sorts of control… or mind reading. And unfortunately for him, reading minds was a discipline which Olympe seemed to excel in.
- Louis ? What are you talking about ?
- The man you think about often. The one you call every time you are quiet. Olympe leaned on the edge of the coffin
- He is a gentleman. Oui. A gentleman I have recently become acquainted with.
- Is he handsome ?
Lestat chuckled softly. Of course, he knew Olympe would ask this kind of question. She was just a child… but a clever one, who perfectly knew Lestat had an excellent taste when it came to partners, whether they were for a night, or more.
- Oh, yes. Very handsome.
- Like a prince ?
- Yes. I guess like a prince.
Olympe smiled, Lestat could see she was already picturing Louis. She could not see through his memories, so she did not know what he looked like. But she could imagine how handsome, « like a prince » he must have looked when Lestat first met him. From his slightly flushed face to his eyes shining with love and admiration, everything screamed Lestat was in love. Not for a woman, no. For a man. And Olympe did not care about it much, her father’s happiness being the only thing she wanted.
- Is he literate ? Olympe continued, ever practical, a trait Lestat had instilled in her
- Yes he is. Lestat responded with a soft smile, still amused by these questions. He reads a lot, it’s one of his passions.
- Oh, and he is black ? Like the musicians in the street ?
Lestat hesitated, having not expected his daughter to deduce a skin colour so quick without any detail. From what he could see on Olympe’s face, she did not mind that detail much, skin colour being a detail to her eyes. Louis being black was far from being a concern to him either. Olympe just wanted her papa to be happy in his immortal life.
- Yes, ma chérie. He is black, like the musicians in the street. Why do you ask ?
- Just out of curiosity.
Olympe kept gazing at her father who was starting to daydream again, as his eyes blinked a little too often. He was thinking about him again. About Louis, who was an excellent dancer, and who would have loved listening to the numerous musicians that played in their street. A pure product of New Orleans, with a perfect, soft smile on his lips.
- Is he nice ? she asked, her voice softening. I hope he is nice to you.
- He is a little complicated. Lestat sighed softly before looking down. But yes, Olympe. He is very kind. He is just a little sad sometimes. And he has a very strong sense of justice.
- Does he like reading ? Since he is literate !
- More than anyone I've ever met.
- How is he dressing ? Olympe asked, her gaze turning towards Lestat's own clothes that were getting more fashionable since he had started seeing Louis
Lestat chuckled. Olympe definitely had too many questions to ask, but she deserved to get a more detailed description of the man who had managed to make her papa fall in love like this. Olympe had seen people come in and out of the house, possibly many different affairs Lestat had, despite he tried to keep her away from his guests he usually drained dead after a few drinks. His emotions had never been this… joyful. Filled with wonder and happiness.
- Extremely well. Always. He has a very refined taste. Always perfectly dressed for any occasion.
- One final question ! What is he doing as a job ? Olympe asked with sheer excitement
Lestat paused, his smile becoming a little more guarded. He certainly couldn't tell her Louis operated a variety of businesses in the red-light district, including selling the services of prostitutes. Olympe was still too innocent, too pure for such realities.
- He is a businessman, mon petit coeur. Lestat responded. He operates a lot of business on his own, which is very great. And now…
Lestat stood and moved towards the coffin, sliding inside of it, comfortably laying his head on the pillows. He pulled Olympe closer, the first rays of sunlight making their way between the small gaps between the curtains he had closed earlier. Olympe, not eager to sleep just yet, pouted sightly when Lestat closed the lid.
- Now, since the interview is over, it’s time to sleep.
- Oh, but I have so many questions !
- Don’t worry, I am sure Louis will be glad to answer them himself.
Olympe snuggled against him, her questions answered for now, her mind already forming a beautiful yet incomplete picture of this man named Louis. She was eager to meet him, absolutely thrilled to learn more about Louis, perhaps out of innocence. Her father deserved happiness to her eyes, and she expected him to find some with Louis.
- Bonne nuit, ma chérie. he whispered. Don’t think too much about Louis, please. And don’t dream about him or I’ll be jealous.
- Fine, fine… bonne nuit.
Lestat proceeded to kiss his daughter on the forehead, smiling fondly. He knew Olympe would be delighted to meet Louis, he could early see her smile, her polite attitude, her questioning his poor guest. But this man was not to be drained dead, no. Lestat had something else in mind.
It took Lestat a few weeks to finally invite Louis at his place. He had decorated it with utmost care, having even tasked Olympe to be a nice hostess for their guest. He had gathered human food for a soup that could be confused with the blood they drank. Lestat made sure the house was clean, that the finest china was laid out, but also that the most beautiful flowers were on display everywhere around the house. He loved the scent of flowers, and he knew Louis did too. Their mansion had never smelled anything other than flowers, mostly jasmines.
The knock came precisely at the appointed hour. Lestat, a nervous flutter in his ancient chest, nodded towards the door. Olympe, who was upstairs, rushed towards the door, nearly falling after tripping in the stairs out of excitement.
- I’m on it ! she said to her papa
For this occasion, Lestat had dressed Olympe in one of his favourite dresses. A perfect sailor-collared dress, white and light blue made of cotton, tailored for the event. He even had brushed Olympe’s hair to have her hair half down, decorating it with a large matching bow that held the other half of her hair up. She promptly moved to the door and opened it elegantly, her small boots echoing from behind it, making Louis tilt his head when it was not Lestat he met, but a little girl.
Louis, impeccably dressed as always, holding a roses and tulips, paused for a moment. He looked terribly confused about what was happening, believing he went to wrong address. He had expected Lestat, or perhaps a servant, but not a child. Especially not a well-dressed little girl. His mind promptly jumped to conclusions : Had Lestat abducted a child ? Was she a slave ? Or was she even willing to be there ? Where were her parents ? He felt suspicious at first sight. « Poor little child ! I need to get get to her parents », had been his very first thought.
- Good evening, Monsieur. Olympe greeted him with a gentle nod, so politely
She dipped into a perfect little curtsy, a gesture Lestat, along with Monsieur Lemieux, had taught her. She was perfectly mannered, causing Louis to gently nod back.
- Good evening to you too, Mademoiselle. he said, gently bowing to give her the flowers he held, causing her to take them gently. Am I at Lestat’s de Lioncourt’s house ?
- Yes, yes. Please come in, he is waiting for you inside. And thank you for the flowers, they are very pretty !
Louis, still processing, stepped inside while she guided him in. He started looking around the interior, that was mostly a mixture of three styles that seemed to match perfectly. Neo-classical, Victorian and Edwardian, three eras of which Lestat had necessarily chosen the best decorations with an exquisite taste.
- Beautiful house. he nodded, following the girl
After a quick glance upstairs, expecting Lestat to come down eventually, Louis looked back at the child. She was beautiful, very well behaved, looking like a doll, her manners perfect and nearly surprising for someone who lived in such an environment. Just as his suspicions began to solidify, Lestat appeared at the parlour archway, a wide, triumphant smile on his face.
- Louis, mon cher ! You've arrived ! Lestat exclaimed, his blue eyes sparkling. Right on time !
- Yes, yes. Louis nodded
Olympe, seeing Lestat, beamed. Olympe giggled a soft « Papa ! », abandoning her formal demeanour to run to him, wrapping her arms around his waist while still carefully holding the bouquet in her hands. This familiarity was surprising for Louis, who was this child anyway ?
- Can I bring Monsieur Louis his tea, papa ?
- Of course you can, ma chérie.
A single word, « Papa ». She had said that word with a genuine affection, which made Louis’ suspicious thoughts vanish in an instant. He watched Lestat bend down, hug the girl, kissing her hair as she gave him the flowers he had just gifted them with. The interaction was undeniably authentic, overflowing with a warmth Louis hadn't expected from Lestat, let alone directed at a child. In fact, he wondered : How could this man even have a child ? Lestat was so flamboyant, so charismatic and nearly solitary when they were outside talking, he had expected everything but a child.
- Beautiful flowers. Lestat smiled. Did you say thank you to Monsieur Louis ?
- I did. Olympe proudly nodded
Lestat smiled and straightened, placing both his hands on Olympe’s shoulders while she held the flower bouquet in her hands with a delighted smile. It was easy to tell, she already liked Louis a lot.
- Louis, allow me to introduce my daughter, Olympe de Lioncourt. Lestat announced, with pride in his voice. She is very precious to me. And I would prefer to keep her existence private, people can be judgmental when they see something different than their usual routine.
The unspoken implication hung in the air : about a man with a child, about a man with no wife to care for a child, about a child living in the night, about them not being human at all. Louis just nodded as Olympe cautiously placed the flowers in a beautiful ivory vase before going over to the kitchen to prepare some tea herself. She did not want help, she wanted to welcome Louis.
Louis, still somewhat stunned by the revelation, simply nodded nodded again as she left. Considering Lestat’s overall behaviour and personality, he had expected a flamboyant, spoiled brat throwing tantrums over everything and spit her hatred because of his race. But instead, he was met with a clever, quiet, polite and gentle little girl. Her calm behaviour and her humility, even at her young age, were truly surprising, especially considering who Lestat was, how he dressed and mostly how he acted around people. He could sense something other about both Lestat and Olympe, a subtle hum of power that was distinctly not human, but Lestat did not elaborate on it, merely stating.
- She is very much my daughter, regardless.
Louis nodded and noticed Olympe come back, pushing a serving cart that was almost her size. She poured tea for everyone in a set of delicate porcelain cups Lestat had brought with him from France, having made sure to discretely mix hers and Lestat’s with blood, and remained seated with her father while he chatted with Louis for about a hour before going back to the kitchen to serve dinner after placing the bowls on the table, already filled with the soup she had decided to make herself for the occasion, despite human food was tasteless for her.
- What is it ? Louis asked gently
- Tomato and carrot soup ! Olympe beamed. I made it myself !
- What a clever little lady. Lestat smiled before turning to Louis. She loves cooking.
She waited, standing nearby her seat before everyone got seated and politely started eating. She and Lestat ate too, their portions and food looking identical to Louis', and the latter did not notice that Olympe had managed to hide the fact that their soup was mostly blood, looking similar to his. She patiently ate while listening to Lestat talk about France, sometimes intervening, sometimes not, always saying « If I may », tugging her father’s sleeve. Louis grew fond of her rather quickly, especially when she spoke in the middle of their conversations.
- Papa was right about you. she said, sipping some soup
- About what ? Louis titled his head
- You are handsome, just like he said.
This caused Louis’ cheeks to darken slightly and chuckle behind a napkin while Lestat’s eyes widened of surprise and of a little embarrassment. He gently, not even firmly, scolded Olympe, instructing her to eat her « soup » before looking at Louis with a seductive smile. It was definitely a delightful show for Monsieur de Pointe du Lac, who could not even believe what he was seeing. Lestat, energetic, charismatic and seductive flamboyant man with a thick French accent despite having lived in Brooklyn for seven years and in New Orleans for a few months, was too easy to be embarrassed whenever his daughter talked about him. She even questioned him about his favourite books !
Louis could not stop watching the child throughout dinner, liking her the more she talked. She was quiet, yet had Lestat’s wit, his jokes, excellent manners, and definitely loved her father, which was a sweet thing to see. She was not a spoiled brat like he could have thought, but quite the opposite. Louis had no children of his own, and was most likely never going to have any, but Olympe, despite not being related to him, felt like she was a member of his family.
- Can I tell you a secret, Monsieur Louis ? she looked at him while Lestat was rummaging through his books nearby
- Yes ? Louis smiled
- I think you’re an angel. You have a beautiful smile and a kind heart. And you make papa happy.
Louis’ heart stopped right away. He smiled, teary-eyed at such a sweet saying from a young child. As the evening came to a close, Louis rose, a new resolve forming in his mind. Lestat had a child, yes. But he seemed to love him back.
- Lestat. he began, looking at Lestat and then at Olympe. It was a truly illuminating evening. My family, my mother and siblings, would be delighted to meet you both. My sister is about to be married. Perhaps you would do us the honour of joining us for a dinner at my home ? We would all be delighted to have European people home. They love children too.
The invitation was extended not just to Lestat, but explicitly to Olympe as well, a silent acknowledgment of her undeniable place in Lestat's life. Olympe was excited at this.
The de Pointe du Lac mansion's dining room was beautifully decorated, with a taste Lestat only found in himself. He loved the house’s architecture, the vast garden, the servants passing by so smoothly. Florence de Pointe du Lac, or « Maman du Lac », sat at the end of the table, having a view on her children, her future son-in-law, and on her guests. Grace, Louis' younger sister, radiated happiness, knowing her marriage with her fiancé, Levi Frenier, was soon to happen. Paul, Louis’ younger brother, sat across from him and Olympe, causing the little girl to gaze at him with curiosity. Paul seemed rather agitated, looking at the guests with a visible suspicion, despite his gaze was mostly focused on Louis.
Lestat and Olympe were seated beside Louis, Lestat still dressed ever so elegantly in a French manner, and Olympe perfectly tailored dress similar to Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna’s fashion, her auburn curls halfway secured with a large white bow made of silk. She was patiently seated next to Lestat, at the end of the table, very polite and calm. Servants moved silently, bringing a second course of rich, aromatic gumbo.
- I can’t thank you enough, Mother Du Lac. Levi began. It was likely a year before I’d have the means for a house.
Florence smiled in return. She was fond of Levi, just like the rest of the family, except Paul.
- Every young family needs a little nest to start off right, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Lioncourt ?
Lestat inclined his head, a charming smile on his lips, while Olympe remained calm nearby him, sipping her glass of water she hardly managed to drink. From time to time, she interacted with the rest of the family, still with outmost respect.
- Oui, Madame. My mother, she gave me every advantage in life as a young man. My first Mastiff. First flintlock rifle, the means to make my way to Paris.
- Monsieur de Lioncourt, are you a mama’s boy ?
- He is a fils à maman, Mademoiselle de Pointe du Lac. Olympe tilted her head. But it’s a very beautiful quality to have a son close to his mother.
- My mother’s boy... My mother’s... man. We are very close, Mademoiselle.
Olympe did not know about Lestat’s mother, Gabrielle, but from his stories, she could easily tell he once used to love her. Her comments made Grace and Florence chuckle, as her witty interactions, still coupled with a lovely respect for Lestat, were very welcomed in a house where grand-children were awaited and soon-to-be expected, with Grace and Levi’s upcoming marriage.
Paul, however, couldn't resist. He disliked strange men coming over. And Levi, raised a Baptist, despite being kind and caring overall, was not so welcomed to his eyes. Neither Levi, nor Lestat, for what it was worth. And, to some extent, little Olympe.
- It was Louis that purchased the house, Levi. Paul said. It’s Louis who controls the money.
- Pay no attention he said to Levi. Louis answered
Olympe, who had been quietly observing, her manners impeccable, gently titled her head. Lestat gazed at her with a smile, murmuring her to be a good girl in French before Grace, to deviate the attention from the Louis and Paul’s argument, gently smiled at her.
- You have a beautiful daughter, Monsieur de Lioncourt. she said. Very well behaved and very sweet.
- Thank you. Lestat beamed with pride. I make sure to provide my daughter with the best education.
- What happened to her mother ? Florence asked
- My parents were died, unfortunately. Olympe answered calmly. Papa raised me as his own since then.
- Oh, poor little child. Your papa did the right thing.
Both Grace and Florence smiled at Olympe’s quiet attitude and calm demeanour, still touched by the hard truth the little girl had just told them. And yet, Lestat was indeed giving her the best education a parent could provide their child with. Music, arts, literature, mathematics, even astronomy. Olympe was still a little too shy to talk openly, but she made sure to tell Louis’ family about her knowledge later, when she would know them more, or if invited to.
She turned her gaze from Louis’ mother to Paul, who as still arguing with Louis. She had already charmed Florence, Grace, and Levi with her polite inquiries about their day, her quiet intelligence, and her surprisingly witty comments, all delivered with perfect discipline. But Paul was different. He could hear the birds tell him different stuff whenever his gaze would land on little Olympe, causing his agitation to increase further. Olympe could subtly read his mind, and the birds he kept thinking of were a peculiar fixation.
- I do love this bouillabaisse. Lestat smiled, trying to get Olympe’s attention away from Paul
Lestat gently proceeded helping Olympe serve herself as she was too small to reach for the spoon. Neither him nor her really knew the effects the gumbo would have on their bodies, as vampires reacted differently to human foo. Some would vomit, some would barely process it, some would die. Unfortunately for vampires, they could not taste real food. And Olympe gently faked a delighted smile at the gumbo’s taste despite she could hardly feel anything else but a bland liquid in her throat.
- The sauce, Madame... C’est bon. Lestat complimented, a genuine warmth in his tone, charming Madame de Pointe du Lac
- We call it Gumbo, Mr. Lioncourt. Florence corrected with a smile. And the sauce, that there’s Roux. Okra, fat and a bit of patience to boil.
- We had a gumbo the other night, didn’t we, Louis ? Lestat continued. Right after the Opera.
- You got Louis to an Opera ?
- Iolanta. Lestat confirmed with a flourish
Louis sighed, a hint of amusement in his voice. He was not as fond of operas as Lestat, but still somewhat enjoyed it. He was, however, deeply interested in ballets and loved watching them, even dancing when nobody was watching.
- About some blind princess didn’t know she was a princess. Louis chuckled. My stomach got grumbling, left halfway through.
Paul's eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed on Lestat, then briefly on Olympe.
- What exactly is the nature of your relationship with my brother, Monsieur de Lioncourt ?
All heads turned to Paul. The comfortable atmosphere had suddenly grown taut. Lestat, ever protective, felt a subtle shift in Olympe beside him. He knew she was listening, her senses absorbing Paul's agitated thoughts. And he also felt that she would soon become Paul’s next target. Despite her calm attitude outside, she was shy and when people would gaze at her, had not she been invited to this place, she would have hid in Lestat’s arms.
- Your brother and I have been discussing a few investment opportunities. Lestat replied, his voice calm
- The birds asked me to ask you. I wasn’t being rude.
His gaze, however, suddenly shifted towards Olympe. Something was already off about Lestat, his nature itself, quite possibly. Something was even different about Olympe. Her nature, her attitude, her entire being. He could feel she was not a regular little girl.
Olympe could feel the strange shift in Paul’s emotions. Out of a childish innocence, she simply bent forward to look at him with curiosity, her icy blue yes blinking twice, as if she tried reading through his mind further.
- Monsieur Paul. she began. What birds do you see in your head ?
Paul shivered. He did not expect to have this child ask about the birds he was listening to, he expected silence. If not some touch of shyness. He looked at her, then back at Lestat, feeling this question like an accusation.
- There’s something unnatural about you. he whispered, his voice barely audible, his gaze fixed on Olympe. The birds say you are both an angel and the devil. That you are not good. Not evil. Possibly worse.
- Possibly worse ? Olympe asked, confused yet intrigued
- The birds say you are an anomaly… against nature, against the laws of God. Demon, devil, angel… something good, bad and ugly, all at once.
Lestat's charming facade vanished instantly. He carefully set the spoon aside, sending Paul a death glare as he gently placed his hand on Olympe’s shoulder. He could feel his daughter was not understanding the issues about this entire discussion, but he would not let anyone tell his child who she was.
- Don’t you dare speak to my daughter like that, Paul. he hissed
- Birds usually don’t lie.
- Birds should keep their beautiful beaks shut, brother. Grace sighed
Lestat gently nodded and looked away, apologising for the interruption in their initial conversation. He tried making some sort of conversation with Levi, who felt mostly awkward due to Paul’s hostility towards everyone that was not family around this table.
And yet, Paul, agitated enough to keep on going all night long if could, wouldn't be deterred.
- Are you one with Christ, Monsieur de Lioncourt ?
- How ‘bout you shut the fuck up ? Louis glared at his younger brother
- Louis ! Florence exclaimed, shocked.
- It’s alright, Louis, Madame… Lestat said, his gaze slowly turning back to Paul, his eyes beginning to glow with an unnatural intensity. The birds speak for him.
Lestat started staring at Paul, slightly tilting his head forward, a smirk so thin blooming on his face, but too subtle to be noticed by anyone around the table. Just by Paul himself.
- I came to know Christ in a monastery. I wanted to be a priest. Just like you did, Paul.
Paul started drooling slightly, his eyes wide open, terrified. How did he know that ? And Lestat continued, his voice calm and severe all at once. Hypnotic. Beautiful. Just like he was.
- And under the guidance and discipline of the monks who lived there I memorised both Testaments, the writings of Assisi, Aquinas, Erasmus, all the greats. My father, a vulgar man, didn’t think much of this education and so he and my brothers. And so to answer your boring question, Monsieur Du Lac, there is an ocean between Christ and myself.
- Assez ! Louis snapped in French, slamming his fist down on the table again, standing up. Everyone at the table was taken aback.
Lestat apologised, the dinner restarted. Paul could not stop staring at both Lestat and Olympe. It was enough for him to understand these two souls were no regular beings, but something else. Something different. Something dangerous.
The conversation resumed where it had been paused, while tension still remained regardless. Olympe sometimes gazed at Paul who looked both worried and drawn towards her presence. Louis sighed and gently coaxed Olympe into finishing her gumbo, something she did eagerly, faking the fact that she loved it. It had no have a taste, neither to her, nor to Lestat, yet she still acted like she loved every single sip she took of it, like the polite and well-behaved child she was.
These calm days were however short-lived. On the morning following Grace’s wedding, Paul committed suicide by jumping off the roof of the family’s house. Florence immediately accused Louis of it, and the poor man, already grieving his brother, feel into a greater despair. And, during the wake, Louis, desperate, crying, sobbing, pained by all the harsh truths, from his love for Lestat to the acceptance of his homosexuality, allowed Lestat to turn him into a vampire on the church’s altar. Olympe did not know until the next night, finding Louis home, his eyes having shifted from brown to emerald green.
- Monsieur Louis ! she smiled. I’m so happy to see you ! The angels brought you home !
This little girl warmed Louis’ recently undead heart. He hugged her, his body still hurting after having been exposed to sunlight for the first time. She watched Lestat give him his coffin, which ultimately led her to start requesting for her own private space. She first made her own makeshift casket out of a few chairs and a bunch of pillows in which Lestat slept quite often with her, shielding her from any potential rays of sunlight before, very often, slipping in his coffin to join Louis while his daughter was sound asleep, still keeping the lid opened just enough to get a glimpse of Olympe in her sleeping fort. This situation was only temporary, as Lestat had ordered a custom made coffin for Louis soon enough.
She watched Lestat teach Louis how to feed, and he settled in their house with them, sharing the hidden room where two coffins ended up being located. Louis’ and Lestat’s. And she could easily notice, just by the differences between these two coffins, that Louis and Lestat were not only coming from different eras of time, they were also deeply different.
Lestat's coffin reflected an earlier era. A style called « Parisien », it was crafted from solid wood, perhaps oak, adorned with numerous meticulously carved aesthetic embellishments. Its interior boasted plush ivory and ochre padding, with wild silk pillows offering no less comfort for both him and his daughter whenever she shared it with him.
Louis' coffin, on the other hand, was simpler, more modern, a testament to a new era, a new century. It was black, rectangular with gently rounded edges, highly varnished to reflect the entire room, regardless of the light. Its interior, more modest, was less ornate than Lestat's, feeling much more airy. The upholstery, an emerald green like his eyes, was subtle yet delicate, as was its matching cotton pillow. The two coffins undeniably reflected the antithetical personalities of their owners, and perhaps a month after Louis moved in, Olympe had requested a coffin of her own.
- I would like it to be wooden too ! With blue padding, simple and comfortable. I just want it to match my bedroom a little. had been her request
And Lestat had made his way to a coffin maker to buy a custom made coffin for Olympe, respecting her rather wide criteria. He, indeed, got her the most comfortable, fancy and secured one, both enjoying the fact that she was getting to sleep in her own space, while still dreading the time she would spend her first day in her room, sleeping on her own, without him being at least a few feet away. A wall, a corridor was about to separate them, and while already enjoying the idea to have his private space he would share with Louis, he could not help but feel sadness and nostalgia at the sole thought that his daughter, still so young, was requesting her own space.
Upon showing her the new coffin before the sunrise, placed carefully against the wall, under a fake bed she could use to cover it during nighttime, far enough from the windows in case of an unexpected ray of sunlight, teen-sized for her to fit in for the next few years until moving to an adult one, Olympe’s eyes light up with a delighted glee. She ran to it, opened it, closed it, laid inside of it, came out, giggled, kicked her legs. Lestat had expected cries, separation anxiety screams… only to be met with laughs and excitement.
- Enjoy it, ma chérie. he bitterly smiled as Olympe was about to spend her first day in her own room. And don’t forget, Papa is next door, you can call Louis if I’m not responding, and don’t-
- I’ll be okay, papa ! Olympe giggled while snuggling into her coffin pillows. Bonne nuit !
As she closed the lid, Lestat tilted his head with a sad and anxious gaze. His daughter was growing up, she was already making her way towards independence, already becoming so grown while still being just a little girl. And all day long, he could not stop moving in his coffin, waking Louis up each time his lid was opening. A little too often, but Louis could understand why. It was the first time in seven entire years that Lestat had Olympe sleep in another room during daytime. Not outside his coffin like they did recently, completely outside the room he was sleeping in.
- I heard her cry, Louis. he whispered, sitting up
- It’s a kid in the street. Louis grumbled, rolling in his coffin. Olympe is doing just fine.
- No, she cried.
- Lestat.
- You’re not her father, Louis. You don’t know what it feels like to have her spend her day in her room by herself. What if she opened the curtains ? Or went out to play, or-
Louis opened the lid of his coffin with a chuckle. Despite being exhausted, he could not help but feel charmed by this hidden side of Lestat’s personality. The genuine fear Lestat had about Olympe’s survival. Lestat, upon having Louis moving in the house with them, had explained Olympe’s birth, her upbringing, the fact that she was not like other children, while still behaving like them. And Louis only grew fond of him even further while he watched Lestat act like a regular doting father towards his daughter.
- She will be fine, Lestat. Want me to go and check on her ?
- Please. If something’s wrong, scream. I’ll fly in.
Louis chuckled again and rose from his coffin, carefully making his way outside the hidden room, dodging small rays of sunlight here and there to get to Olympe’s bedroom just nearby. He walked inside to find her asleep in her coffin she had opened slightly, a minor mistake from her part. Louis checked the curtains and closed them further securely before kneeling down, nearby the coffin, causing Olympe to open her eyes and tilt her head.
- Shh, shh. Louis whispered. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up, sweetheart.
Olympe shook her head sleepily and sent Louis a soft smile, reaching out to hold his hand through the coffin lid’s gap. Louis smiled, leaning slightly on it before sighing, and suddenly, a soft sentence he would have never expected to hear from her, echoed in the room.
- Tell papa I’m fine, daddy.
Louis blinked. She had called him « Daddy ». Over the last few months, since Louis’ turning, she had grown increasingly close to him. While Lestat was doting on her, overprotecting and definitely strict despite his usual flamboyance, Louis was calm, gentle, sweet. Louis had even told her he would teach her to feed on animals when Lestat would allow her to drink something else than his blood. Louis had become, to Olympe’s eyes, a second father. Her child’s mind making a clear distinction between Lestat, her papa, and Louis, her daddy.
- Sleep well, I love you. she whispered
- I love you too, sugar. Louis responded with an increased fondness
Louis went back to the hidden bedroom and slipped in his coffin before inviting an anxious Lestat in. He did not wait, he slipped in the coffin and curled up next to Louis, perfectly fitting between him and his coffin. Louis’ smile was a comfort int his trivial yet important night.
- Lestat, I’ve been wondering. Louis asked, rubbing Lestat’s hair as his head laid on his shoulder
- Hmm ?
- How come did you never drink blood from Olympe ? Since she is a vampire, and that vampire blood tastes good ?
Lestat looked up at Louis with indignation, frowning slightly. His bright blue eyes could only show him disgust. Utter disgust, despite his entire body was snuggled against his.
- Drink her blood ? She is my daughter. I’m a vampire, not a monster.
Louis chuckled and smiled. It was still heartwarming to have Lestat act like this, but this was a testimony of his love for a daughter that was biologically not his.
His and Olympe’s bond kept on growing, which did not make Lestat jealous. No, on the contrary. It felt comforting to have Olympe rely on both of them; he knew Louis was here to protect her too. The two of them took her to the operas very often, and Olympe started noticing something strange she had not seen before, in the gazes people were sending Louis. He was never walking next to them, but slightly behind, never like an equal. Something closer to a servant. A valet. A constant reminder of Louis’ skin colour.
One evening, somewhere in-between a piano lesson and Lestat scolding her because she did not put her boots in the right box nearby the door, Louis took Olympe for a stroll in the high quarters of New Orleans. She could smell the soft jasmine perfumes of these well-dressed ladies, listening to some men playing trumpets every now and then. But she stopped on the sidewalk, tilting her head to look up towards Louis.
- Daddy. she began. Why do people look at you so strangely sometimes ?
Louis gasped and stopped right beside her, feeling a little bit uneasy. All his life, from his birth to even now as a vampire, he had been subjected to stares, insults, people dodging him or putting him down just because of his skin colour. He had learned to ignore it, despite how hard and repetitive it was. And Olympe asking this question with the innocence of a child who did not understand anything about it made his heart break. She did not know anything about racism, being white as snow and rarely leaving the nice districts of New Orleans.
- What do you mean, sweetheart ? he asked gently, though he knew precisely what she meant
- They don't look at Papa like that. she continued, confused. They look at him with awe. But they look at you... like you are less. And when we walk, you always walk a little behind us. Why ?
Louis sighed and looked away for a moment, before his gaze moved towards Lestat who had stopped walking just a few seconds ago. Lestat knew this conversation was inevitable. Olympe had grown sheltered yet aware of different races and skin colours, but she had never known about the different treatment people of colour received.
- It’s hard to explain, sugar. Louis began, choosing his words carefully, knowing Olympe just a child. There are people judging other people because how they are dressed, and others because of the colour of their skin.
- But your skin is pretty ? she tilted her head. Just a different colour. Is that bad ?
- My skin is dark, and their skin is white. This makes a lot of people feel I am neither as worthy nor an equal to white people.
Olympe's eyes widened. The little girl felt outraged, disgust. She loved Louis for who he was, for how happy he was making Lestat. She was not aware of their business, of the brothel they owned, but she could not stop loving him, her daddy, someone from her family. And Lestat had taught her that very well : family was what mattered the most.
- This is not fair, daddy ! she gasped. They don’t even know you and allow themselves to judge ? You are a literate man ! You are smart and kind ! I won’t let them hurt you, I’ll protect you ! Myself !
From where he stood, Lestat smiled despite feeling a little confused due to what Olympe had just told his lover. He was amused by this statement, but also surprised and proud of her for showing signs of a protective side he had nurtured over the years. Family mattered, this is what he had told her so often. And Louis was family. Her second father. But Lestat could see, in the child’s tone and eyes, that this trait was coming from both Joséphine and Georges.
- I’m sure you will, Olympe. Louis chuckled. But only if you allow me to protect you too.
- Deal !
Two years later, in 1912, the simmering tensions of New Orleans' racial divide boiled over in a way Olympe could no longer ignore. She was ten years old now, with her mind maturing too fast for her father’s liking, her body entering puberty in a similar way to a human one, still preserving her calm and utterly obedient attitude while allowing herself some slight moments of sheer freedom by sneaking out of her room during daytime and play int he shadows of the garden. However, her maturity had led to different doors to open towards the outside. The world around her was easier to understand, but her sense of justice was still the same.
One humid night, as Louis and Olympe strolled through a bustling market street, Lestat having given them permission for a rare outing alone without his presence while was going to play some piano on his own in the parlour, a large man with a beer gut, smelling cheap whiskey and sweat, went out of a saloon. He was not drunk, just tipsy, and was possibly a man whose favourite hobby was to beat up his wife and children. Louis felt his gaze moving towards them and shielded Olympe instinctively. Now slightly older, he knew she was also a target for men who did not want any good to happen to children like her. And she was not safe anywhere, especially not outside, especially not in a bustling street like the one they were at.
- Well ? A silly black prince in the street ? the man slurred. A fancy n****, thinking he owns the street with a white girl in his hand ? Get back where you belong, boy ! Or I’ll get you there myself !
- Hey, you ! Olympe answered
The man did not have enough time to react. Olympe lunged towards him, pinning him down despite her small body, placing her pale hand on his mouth to effectively silence him. She never been this fierce before, and her tiny fangs sharpened as her pupils dilated, causing her to look almost like a cat on a hunt.
- You don’t get to talk to my dad like that. she hissed
Olympe bit the man in the neck, not missing his carotid. It was exciting and scary all at once, being the first time the little girl was feeding from somebody else than Lestat. The metallic taste, filled with fear and anger, felt like an incredible beverage to her mouth, something which could have been compared with fresh apple juice to a human child who was about her age. She drained him dry, sparing the world of another man plagued with intolerance and hatred. Nobody had the right to hurt Louis. Nobody. Especially not a random man met in the street.
She gasped as she finished feeding, feeling full for the very first time in her life, releasing the man’s body who fell limply at her small feet. She was definitely getting closer to Lestat’s level regarding her hunting skills. A predator, hidden under the traits of a ten-year-old child. And she had not even have the opportunity to taste animal blood like Louis had promised.
Louis stared, utterly shocked. His little Olympe, so sweet and kind, so formal, so disciplined. He had seen her anger, but never like this. He barely had time to process what had happened that another lunged towards them for another attack, targeting Olympe. He jumped forward, pinned the man on the wall and drained him dry too. Despite not being fond of feeding from humans, this was exceptional. An act of protection for a child who became his daughter so unexpectedly. He cherished her too much to leave her to her own devices, despite she had proven him to be perfectly able to defend herself. But in a street like this one, men were what Louis dreaded the most.
- Alright. Louis sighed. Let’s get these men to the incinerator before anyone catches us. And you don’t tell Lestat, okay ?
- He will find out, I believe. Olympe sighed at the bodies. I never fed from anyone beside him.
- Let’s hope he won’t find out just yet.
With supernatural speed, Louis carried the two bodies to their Rue Royale townhouse, sneaking in the courtyard to put them in the incinerator, hopping Lestat would not notice Olympe’s outburst. He begged anyone above or beneath that Lestat was not currently waiting for them inside the house, giving them no time to even change their clothes, or wash themselves. He knew how fiercely protective he was, and Olympe having disobeyed to one of his basic rules was mortifying him.
But unfortunately for them, Lestat was there, in a shadowy corner of the courtyard, his arms crossed, frowning. He had felt Olympe's sudden outburst, the strange crack in their mental communication. Her anger, her age, and had heard her feed.
- Olympe ! Lestat's voice boomed. You fed from a human ! Without telling me ! In the middle of the street !
His anger was not about the killing, he killed constantly. but about her disobedience, her exposure, her feeding from someone other than him, someone unclean. She was still so young, so vulnerable in his eyes, just a child needing protection. He would have rather wanted to be there to teach her how to feed instead of having her do this in front of Louis. What if someone had noticed them ? They would need to flee !
Despite this initial accusation, Olympe did not flinch and proudly stood her ground. At just ten years of age, she was already displaying some early signs of a sweet rebellion that was about to happen soon enough. Her puberty had unfortunately already started with her body changing, and it was certainly not over yet.
- He hurt daddy ! she cried, her voice trembling but resolute. He said bad things ! He made him sad ! I couldn’t stay there doing nothing !
- That is my responsibility ! Lestat roared, his voice rising, his hands clenching. Not yours! You are a child ! You are not to feed from others! You are not to expose yourself !
His fear for her safety, for their safety, was what animated his chore. The could have gotten caught, they could have been in danger. Both her and Louis. And in 1912’s New Orleans, anything being out of the ordinary was quick to be either excommunicated or executed. He felt a terrifying, ancient rage building, a primal need to control, to protect.
- I did what I thought was just ! Olympe retorted, stepping before Louis. Nobody gets to talk to my family in such a displeasing way !
- You are not to do what you think is just or not, Olympe ! You are a child and you must obey me !
- One day I won’t obey you anymore and I’ll do whatever I want !
Louis, seeing the dangerous glint in Lestat's eyes, the way his body tensed, knew he had to intervene. Lestat, in his fury, might say or do something he would regret, something that might truly frighten Olympe, something he would never truly intend. Lestat could have never even thought about hurting his sweet Olympe. She was a gift to him, she was a treasure. Even his discipline was not involving physical abuse. But his words, if uncontrolled, could be spilled like venom.
Louis stepped between them, placing a calming hand on Lestat's arm while Olympe stood her ground. From Lestat’s tales about Olympe’s biological parents, he could only tell she was behaving like her mother, who hated injustice like plague. Olympe was a kind soul, despite having been born so artificially, for such a monstrous purpose that was the making of powerful fledglings.
- Lestat, stop. he said, his voice firm, quiet, cutting through the rising tension. She was protecting me. She was defending her family.
He turned to Olympe, his expression softening. He had to play in both camps. He had to defend both Olympe’s and Lestat’s point of view and reactions.
- Olympe, sugar, I understand why you did what you did. And I am... grateful. But Lestat is right. It was dangerous. You must be more careful. We will protect each other, but we must be clever about it.
- Fine. she glared
Lestat kept gazing at his daughter, frowning, angry, nostalgic, proud and sad all at once. All these emotions came from the fact that his daughter was growing up and was learning to be her own person. An independent soul that would, one day, leave him, or make her own decisions without his input. Lestat was attached to her child self, so obedient, calm and doll-like, and absolutely not ready to have his gem become a teenager, and then an adult. He was not ready to have her change so drastically, to close the chapter her early years represented. Her rebellious side was just the top of the iceberg, a way for her to push her true self further ahead. Olympe was becoming as sweet and kind as Joséphine and Georges, some characteristics Lestat unfortunately did not have. But she was also becoming protective of her family, like her father had taught her to be. She was becoming strong, and each night from that point, Lestat dreaded the moment the French Coven would find her and get her back.
Days passed, then weeks, then months… then years. Olympe kept maturing like a regular human being, her body changing slowly into the one of a young lady, her face becoming thinner and longer, granting her the soft features of the adolescence. Her mind matured too fast too and, by 1917, Olympe, about to turn fifteen years old, could understand the issues surrounding her upbringing, the struggles Louis faced, and the relationship Lestat had with men and women, what his polyamorous needs involved and how it hurt Louis to know Lestat was never truly his, entirely. She was learning to be independent, still often relying on her fathers, but was mostly moving on her own, carefully navigating the turmoil her teenage years represented, with a self-discipline and obedience that had never truly left her over the years.
Her birthday came a little too fast. On July 22, 1917, Lestat had their house decorated for the occasion. Garlands, flowers, azaleas in massive pots gathered at different places around the house, different gifts scattered in the parlour. He and Louis had decided to set their arguments aside for just for the event, remaining distant from each other still after Lestat had brought dozens of soldiers at home to feed from each one of them. Tonight, the only person that truly mattered was Olympe, celebrating her fifteenth birthday.
For the occasion, Lestat had dressed her in a beautiful deep blue and red sailor dress, her long hair tied with a matching ribbon that was big enough to be seen behind her neck. Despite growing, Olympe still enjoyed being dressed by Lestat and having her clothes picked by him, as his taste in fashion had always been exquisite. He had expressly picked this outfit himself after consulting her, having found that the waist getting lower and the hair being less voluminous was giving her a better look than these frilly and tight waisted dresses she had been used to wear since she turned eight years of age. And Olympe, sweet Olympe, looked perfect in her outfit, still like a doll, but moving closer to a physical maturity she would reach in the next few years.
A beautiful cake had been ordered for the occasion, a pièce montée coloured pink with raspberries carefully decorating it, along with fifteen matching candles. The could not eat it, but it was mostly out of a guilty pleasure to act like humans just for one night. Olympe’s happy face when she blowed the candles was worth the waste this cake would become, despite Louis had expected to donate it to a local charity for the poor to eat something else than garbage. Olympe loved blowing candles each year, and even clapped her hands at the sight of her fathers who had managed not to bicker just for one night. Her night.
Lestat, in order to mark this coming-of-age which was still incredibly early per vampire standards, had decided to mix Olympe’s blood with a spoon of French wine from the Périgord region. And while they cheered, Olympe got even more excited at the idea she was getting more independent. She was becoming a woman, a long heartbreak for Lestat, but something natural and avoidable.
- To Olympe. Lestat announced, raising his glass. My beautiful daughter becoming a woman this early.
- To Olympe. Louis smiled too. We love you very much, sweetheart.
Olympe smiled at them for a moment before raising her own glass and taking a first sip. It felt like a strange mixture of metal and another taste she could not truly understand, but it felt real. The wine, the evolution of her fashion, even the new coffin Lestat had bought her for the occasion of her birthday, marked a very first step in womanhood.
But something was missing in her life. Freedom, possibly… but also a presence. Someone her age.
A sister.
Chapter 4: Sister of Mine
Notes:
Some Claudia, ladies and gentlemen !
Chapter Text
1917. New Orleans seemed familiar, exquisite, to say the least. Olympe was fifteen years old, slowly blooming into a young woman. Her body had changed over the last few months, her silhouette becoming slightly more curved, more fashionable, in a transitional age where childish short and frilly clothes did not seem to fit her anymore, but when women clothes were still not appropriate. Olympe was becoming a young woman, her body changes mirroring the human adolescence. Even her hair had changed. Gone were her natural ringlets, they had turned into beautiful fiery waves Lestat still styled in an appropriate fashion, waiting Olympe to be sixteen to let her have it entirely pinned up, preferring to style it halfway up and secure it with a bow matching her clothes he always chose for her, not that minded much. These new fashions she was interested in, with clothes getting more relaxed compared with the tight corsets she had to wear as a child.
Aside from the clothes she wore and how he styled her hair, Lestat had decided that Olympe was old enough not to need a tutor anymore. He and Louis were his tutors, even if the latter was still struggling with his vampirism, mourning over his family, Grace mostly, and was often outside for a long while, having gone for a three or four weeks once.
Her vampiric gifts continued to develop in unexpected ways. One chilly evening, as she was helping Louis light a stubborn fire in the grand parlour's chimney, she accidentally summoned a ball of flame in her palm. Louis gasped and jumped back, shocked to see Olympe manipulate something so dangerous, even Olympe was panicked, wiggling her arm nervously to make it disappear, which worked every time she accidentally summoned fire until she learnt to control it. Lestat, upon hearing of it, was both thrilled and terrified, another secret to guard, another power to teach her to control.
- You must not use your gifts whenever it pleases you, Olympe. Lestat instructed firmly
- Only when necessary. Olympe had nodded, understanding the weight of his words
Pyrokinesis was a first gift Olympe had acquired in 1917. The second being the Cloud Gift she discovered while picking a book on the highest shelf of the library. And it had caused her to panic even further, flying across the room and bumping her head on the different ceiling decorations. Lestat was forced to fly around behind her and settle her back down, and had to keep her roped to furniture for a little while until she managed to learn to master it, still instructing her never to fly outside, it was too dangerous.
And yet, something had never changed.
Her eyes, icy blue, so beautiful, shining, ethereal. Anyone who met Olympe could notice her intelligence, her wit, her calmness, her soft personality which made her so peculiar for a vampire. Despite she physically looked like her parents, she was truly Louis and Lestat’s daughter. And, despite the latter’s protest, the girl looked much more like Louis than like Lestat in terms of behaviour. She loved books, reading, photography, painting, music and dancing. She loved learning about the etiquette too, being fascinated with the one Lestat grew up with in the 18th century. And mostly, she preferred feeding on animals when she had the choice, but mostly on predators. She was no longer feeding of Lestat’s wrist, being old enough to feed on her own, yet always under his cautious eye as she was never allowed to go on hunts on her own. Neither to go on hunts, nor to parties. Human parties.
Olympe’s wish for freedom was increasing too fast, especially with er body maturing and her desires blooming. Lestat was trying his best to hold onto the bridle, but could not prevent it. He could not prevent his daughter to grow up, get more independent. But human parties were still forbidden nonetheless. Not because Lestat was worried about Olympe, which was also a reason, but mostly because her attitude, her beauty, and her hunger for human blood would be quick to make them get discovered. Olympe was naturally attracted to teenagers of her age, to their blood. And Lestat, having, during a hunt, noticed Olympe casually flirting with a boy who had offered her a flower in late summer by night, made sure to make her understand she was not to be left alone outside, not yet. She was still too young. Too easy to abuse. She was his child. And Lestat knew how men could be. He was one of these men himself, especially when it came to Louis.
He watched Lestat’s overprotective behaviour towards Olympe with both amusement and pity. Lestat was often bringing victims home, victims he would have sex with, or seduce and kill, sometimes under Olympe’s eyes. But, despite this chaotic situation of a couple breaking and putting themselves back together, he enjoyed watching Olympe and Lestat argue so often.
- You won’t hunt on your own for a while, ma fille. Lestat said, Louis nearby, reading a journal. Not until you’ll learn not to flirt with random… urchins around.
- Papa, please, it was just a-
- Just a flirt, oui.
- Dad !
- Listen to your papa, sugar. Louis said, not even bothering to look away from his journal, a bit too used to these arguments
A night of late October 1917, she had decided to stay at home, remaining in her bedroom that looked definitely different, now that she had gotten rid of her dolls and toys to prefer clothes and art tools. She had switched her new gramophone on, a gift Lestat had offered her on the occasion of there fifteenth birthday. It was some jazz, calm enough to soothe her mind. Her room looked like the one of a rich teenager of that time, with books, musical and art tools, a large bed with velvet blankets which she never used, its only purpose being to hide her adult-sized coffin, another gift from Lestat. She had managed to convince him by saying her teenage sized one being too small for her, too « serré », has she had called it. And Lestat did not even bother saying no, he was rather eager to have olympe be granted more space. And still, Olympe sometimes still liked sneaking into Lestat’s coffin, especially when seeking comfort. Something her father never minded at all.
However, this night, Olympe had decided to choose her clothes herself, having picked a random deep blue dress, a little less structured than the clothes she used to wear before, caressing the lower part of her calves. Lestat was still respecting the dress code applied to girls, most of Olympe’s dresses were not reaching her ankle just yet. At first, she decided to paint something, then to sketch in one of her numerous sketchbooks, before sighing and giving up. She felt incredibly lonely tonight, especially while listening to another argument between Lestat and Louis downstairs. She did not like listening to them, but she could not move away enough to escape them. She longed for someone to share the burden of immortality with her, to listen to her ramblings, or even to just… chat with. Especially after all the events that had unfolded recently. From her powers to the couple her two fathers formed, a couple that was falling apart.
Olympe had learned about Lestat and Louis' shared business interests, including the Azalea. About them operating in the brothel, about its prostitutes. To Lestat's surprise, Olympe did not seem to be much bothered about it, just a little disgusted at first but, again, who could she tell that too ? Who else could be shocked ? Not the victims Lestat was bringing home so often, of course. Olympe knew about the business funds, on the fact that a part of it paid their lavish lifestyle, their expanses, new furniture, latest modern acquisitions, even a brand new motorcar Lestat had bought recently. Perfect beige, shining, expensive. Perfect to show his fortune and to drive her around New Orleans whenever he wanted to take her somewhere. And, instead of sulking and expressing her open disgust, Olympe had just nodded.
- What you two do there is not my concern. she had shrugged, her voice calm, when Lestat had once tried to broach the subject. However, I do not wish to hear anything about it, it makes me slightly uncomfortable.
Despite Lestat's protective instincts, Olympe had begun to sneak out of the townhouse. Not too long and never too far, but just enough to taste the freedom of the city on her own terms while Louis and Lestat were often too busy loving and fighting against each other. She would move around the alleys, lingering in the shadows, observing humans, animals, the street, cars moving, people arguing, with a sheer fascination. Olympe had even began spying on a ballerina who danced in a studio every night, somewhere in the French quarter, and always waited for her to leave to practice the ballet steps she had seen her do earlier. She knew, deep down, that Lestat would never allow her to perform, given his overprotective behaviour and his fear of exposure, preferring her to be sheltered than showcased. And it meant refusing her to achieve one of her biggest passions.
Going outside was also a way to escape Lestat and Louis’ arguments which never stopped like a nighttime routine, the last subject to date having been Louis feeding from a dog, and Lestat adoring them. Sometimes, arguments were about commodities, sometimes, the subject was more serious, implying lives, children, death. And Olympe hated being around her fathers whenever they fought the way they did. Louis was leaving very often, only to come back soon enough. Their union sounded chaotic on the paper, and Olympe, primary witness to this, was feeling sad and confused, yet wished never to participate to their arguments, staying out of them to preserve herself. They fought so often that Olympe had even stopped counting.
- I don’t even know if I should take our daughter away from you before you turn her into… a whore or something ?! Louis shouted that night
- Well you and your stupid morals can go fuck a priest !
- At least, a priest would be have more dignity than you !
- Alors vas-t’en, bordel de merde !
Lestat had started diving deeper into polyamory by seducing many people, including singers and soldiers he often brought home out of her sight, while Louis wanted to be into a monogamous relationship. The Azalea was about to be shut down too, but Olympe did not pay attention to this. Something blocked her out of these conflicts, possibly her increasing freedom, or her desire to stay out of arguments, a rather pacifistic nature having started to show itself. Or maybe, simply, her helplessness regarding a situation that kept degrading overtime.
But tonight, she enjoyed some quiet time after an argument which had led Louis to leave in precipitation. It was the wake of Alderman Fenwick, whom Olympe had the displeasure to meet one night while she went nearby the Azalea to get Louis for some shopping, Lestat had decided to remain home while Louis was outside. And only a few hours later, Louis came back. The simmering racial tensions in Storyville, ignited by the death of Fenwick, had started spreading around the entire city, and segregation only got worse. Riots raged, consuming buildings in a blaze of hatred and destruction. And Louis, upon watching the Azalea and the entire district burn, had managed to save a soul. A young, terrified, abused and abandoned soul.
- Help ! Louis screamed
Olympe gasped when she heard Louis’ scream, being very much used to him being rather quiet, at least around her, and never asking for help. She stopped listening to her gramophone and switched it off in a haste, she felt the need to see if Louis was hurt. Or, at least, to help him, even if Lestat was the name he kept shouting as he was moving closer to the first floor of their mansion. She could hear, from his heavy footstep, that he was carrying something. Someone.
Without a word, she promptly left her bedroom and noticed Louis, his clothes burnt and streaked with soot, run to the grand bedroom to Lestat, something in his arms. She followed them in, standing at the door, finally acknowledging what, or who Louis was holding so close. A young llimp, dark-skinned girl, her curly black hair tied into messy short braids. Her clothes were nearly torn apart, and her body was covered in burns. Lestat, standing nearby the window, moved fast towards Louis while the girl was laid on the bed.
- What’s going…- Olympe started, confused
- Lestat, please ! Louis cried in desperation. Make her like us !
- The Gift cannot be given to children ! Lestat's voice sounded terrified and disgusted. The Great Laws forbid it !
- Please, you know you can do this !
Olympe could only watch, feeling worried about it. About this decision Louis pushed Lestat to make. The girl was young, even younger than her, and yet so broken. She was barely breathing, so she proceeded to move towards her and to caress her forehead gently without saying a word, soothing the girl who kept gasping and whimpering in pain.
- It’s okay. she ended up whispering to the girl. You’re okay.
Trying to keep her calm, Olympe looked from Louis to Lestat. The latter was torn between love and principles. In fact, he was right. No child should be turned into a vampire, Olympe had learnt it, which had led Lestat to explain her that she was born a vampire and would keep growing and mature physically until reaching the age of twenty-five… at least according to the books. Otherwise, human children turned into vampires would never age. And that girl, if Lestat was to make her like them, would probably stay a teenager for the rest of her undead life.
- And she’ll be what ? A lap dog ? Lestat scoffed
- No, not a dog !
- A daughter ?
- Yeah. I'll stay. I'll stay. I'll never leave you ever again. I promise. I'll be happy, for you, for Olympe, for her.
Lestat gazed at Louis, then at the dying girl whimpering on the bed, then at Olympe who kept rubbing her forehead. He could see how Louis kept clinging to humanity, wanting to have a family, to have children. And Lestat, only to make him stay, despaired to have him around him for the rest of his undead life, was willing to commit this sacrifice. To break one of the Great Laws. Only for his lover to stay with him, to love him back, something he had never told him anyway.
- She will be at war with herself. Lestat said calmly, tears filling his eyes
- Please, please ! Please !
Louis kept repeating it. He kept begging Lestat for this girl’s survival. He knew about the Great Laws, he knew about the fact that children were not to be turned. He knew about the risk both this girl and Lestat were exposed to. Turning a child into a vampire was a crime which could cause them death, both to the maker, and to the fledgling. And this girl… she would remain at her age. The age of a teenager, judging but he way she was dressed, her hairstyle, or even her face which traits were still round.
- You’ll regret this for the rest of your life. Lestat stated grimly
But the decision was made. He wanted Louis’ happiness, he loved him. Even if it implied to break one of the Great Laws and turn this child into a vampire. He sighed, moving towards the bed before gazing at Olympe who kept stroking the girl’s forehead. She was now holding her hand as a sign of comfort.
- Olympe. Lestat commanded. Leave us. Go to your room.
- But she-
- I said leave. Now.
Olympe hesitated for a moment, she wanted to stay with them. To comfort this girl, to understand the situation. But Lestat wanted her out of this room for a reason. He did not want Olympe to see the process of making a fledgling just yet. She gave the girl’s hand a soft squeeze, before nodding, exciting the room and waiting in the corridor, sitting on a nearby couch. Her enhanced hearing, a gift and a curse all at once, granted her the capacity to listen to Louis’ cries. To Lestat biting the girl. She heard choked sobs, a gasp, a whimper, a second one, and suddenly… a cry. A loud cry, and a profound silence followed, then Lestat’s voice boomed again, Olympe could feel the girl was probably feeding on his wrist.
- Enough !
It felt like an eternity before the bedroom door finally opened. Lestat emerged first, he did not look at Olympe one bit, ashamed, devastated, worried. Louis followed, holding the hand of the teenage girl he had brought home just a few hours ago. She was still dressed in her ragged clothes, her hair was also still messy, but her eyes had changed. They were as red as blood, analysing the entire area with curiosity rather than fear. Louis placed himself behind her with a soft smile despite his recent tears.
- Olympe, this is Claudia. he said proudly, while Lestat just left to another room. Your new sister.
- Sister… Lestat scoffed
- Bonsoir. Olympe nodded gently
Claudia glanced around the hall until noticing Olympe, looking both surprised and confused. Her eyes widened, and Olympe, in turn, felt strangely attracted to this new soul that had been brought to her by Louis. She felt a connection, a bond, something strange. She was a sister, just like Louis said, despite their different skin colours and backgrounds. A teenager, just a little younger than her. A vampire, just like her. Someone to share a life with, someone to love with, someone to dream with.
- Could you help her bathe, please ? Louis asked with a soft smile. I think she needs some help.
- My daughter is not a maid. Lestat groaned from the other room
- I’ll do it, it’s okay. Olympe stepped forward. Come, let’s get you cleaned up. Unless you want to stay dirty for the rest of your undead life.
Olympe extended her hand, causing Claudia to look at Louis for a moment. He nodded, which made her take her hand and follow her around. Just by a touch, she could feel how sweet and kind Olympe was. An angel, the third angel of this strange situation. Louis was the black angel, Lestat was the white angel, and Olympe ? The red one. Fiery, yet sweet and soft. Claudia had only known abuse and pain from her aunt, Olympe’s gentleness was strange, but welcomed.
Olympe led Claudia to a large bathtub in the bathroom, close enough to the grand-bedroom. She filled it with warm water, adding a few oils, mostly jasmine, to help Claudia calm down and possibly soothe her skin, which was already healing itself. As she helped Claudia out of her tattered clothes, she decided to comfort her.
- It’s alright. Olympe murmured, carefully washing the soot from Claudia's hair. You're safe now. Papa and dad will take care of you.
Claudia, still a little confused by the transformation, constantly hungry and incredibly tired, looked up at Olympe, her eyes wide. She could not stop analysing that girl, that white girl who was so sweet with her.
- Are they angels ? she whispered, confused. A white angel and a black angel ? The black angel saved me from the fire, the white angel saved me from death.
- Non. she explained gently. They are not angels. They are my fathers. And I think that now, they are your fathers too.
After she gave her a bath, Olympe helped Claudia in one of her nightgowns, making sure it suited her. She proceeded brushing Claudia’s curls carefully, having seen women do this with children quite often, tying it into twin braids with a soft smile. Without another word, she took her to the parlour where both Louis and Lestat were waiting. While on their way downstairs, Olympe, ever so welcoming, kept reassuring her to make her feel like home, indicating which room was for what, where they were allowed to go, what they were allowed to do.
- Until papa or dad will get you some clothes, you can wear mine. she smiled. They might be a little too big, but I think they must be appropriate for your age. How old are you ?
- Fourteen. Claudia answered as they went down
- Merveilleux ! I’m fifteen ! They must fit perfectly !
- I'll have my clothes ? For real ? My own clothes ? Something mine ?
- Soon enough, yes !
Lestat’s facial expression was still grim, but upon looking at the two girls holding each other’s hands, his gaze softened a little. He had expected Olympe to be less than excited to have to share her stuff with another teenager, but was surprised to see how welcoming she was to their new family member. Olympe rarely had the opportunity to be around people her age, Claudia was the very first person to be both her age, and also a vampire. Lestat had made two people happy that day. Both Louis and Olympe, despite the two of them knew Claudia would be stuck in a prepubescent physique for the rest of her life.
- We just have discussed about it. Lestat announced, his hand on Louis’ shoulder. Until Claudia is healed and strong enough after her turning, she will sleep with Louis in his coffin. And in order not to create any jealousy, Olympe, you will sleep in my coffin with me for the time being.
Olympe’s eyes widened. She was neither approving nor disapproving this decision, understanding why they had to do that, but still desiring her independence. She did not mind having to sleep in Lestat’s coffin with him for a while, knowing it was absolutely not eternal, thankfully.
Louis was reassured to have Olympe sleep around them too, knowing she was prone to escape too often without telling anyone. And Lestat ? Despite it meant not snuggling against Louis during daytime, he could not help it. He was absolutely delighted to have Olympe back with him in his coffin. He had missed her presence, her calm breathing, her sometimes holding onto his shirt. This idea had filled a void he hadn't realised had grown so large whenever he and Louis did not share the coffin, or after their arguments. He was happy to have her back, reminiscing of an old era, of her infancy that seemed to have ended yesterday to the eyes of a man like Lestat, who at lived through three different centuries.
The arrival of Claudia, however, irrevocably altered the quiet domesticity of the Rue Royale townhouse. While Olympe was calm, quiet and obedient, Claudia was a whirlwind of energy. She was mischievous, often misbehaving, and seen like a force of nature by both Louis and Lestat. The latter even called her the « hurricane » due to her capacity to wreck an entire place by just stepping into it. She was Olympe’s opposite. Despite being drastically different, the energy emanating forms these two girls was bringing a joyful spark to the family. The house was living, feeling twice more alive than when Olympe was the only daughter here.
That day, right before sunrise, the girl’s laughter echoed around the house. They had reunited in the parlour before dawn, playing with macarons they smeared on the table nearby. Claudia had managed to drag Olympe into some mischief that night, but the sun was rising and the girls knew the rules, especially Olympe, but she kept building a pyramid of playing cards peacefully, minding her own business until…
- Bang !
The pyramid of playing cards exploded midair, Claudia having decided to push one of the foundations a little to make Olympe squeal. It was a new routine, and Olympe did not seem to mind. Her sister had definitely started bothering her out of the blue, enjoying to have Olympe express something else than an obedient teen’s behaviour.
- Hah ! You should have seen your face ! You were so serious ! « Don’t breathe on it, Olympe » ! Pfft ! she mimicked Olympe’s voice incredibly well
- You’re hopeless, Claudia. Olympe rolled her eyes with a smirk
- I’m fun. There’s a difference. Claudia beamed. You should try too, I swear, it doesn’t hurt.
Claudia had even instilled a new, rebellious streak in Olympe, enjoying the shared transgression of smearing macarons on the wall with her before bedtime, leaving sticky, sweet evidence Lestat would sigh over when waking up by dusk. Lestat, despite loving the new energy of his house, sometimes longed for the quietness it once had, as Olympe, despite her flaws, never had the idea to play with human food in mind at all.
Suddenly, from the upper floor, Louis’ voice echoed, gentle yet rather firm while the girls were going upstairs. They had just mischievously decided to smear one last strawberry macaron on the wall right next to a beautiful Rembrandt painting Lestat had struggled to acquire a few months ago.
- Girls ! Come up to bed ! Louis said
Claudia groaned theatrically, flopping her arms on her long nightgown, running in first while Lestat was looking for his slippers, Louis indicating them where they were. Olympe followed slowly, a bit too used to these routines, still understanding Claudia’s initial disapproval.
- Must every night end like this ? Y’all get tired ‘fore I do.
Olympe rolled her eyes too, a subtle hint of defiance in her attitude that was changing for the best. Claudia’s presence had triggered many rebellious tendencies, more times sneaking out on her own with random older teenagers while Claudia would cover her and pretend she was just « having a nap » in her coffin, or was probably stargazing. Her cute gaze always made both Louis and Lestat melt, and they believed her.
Claudia called Louis « Daddy Lou » with a particular affection. It was a way to show him how much she loved him. And she was definitely closer to him emotionally than to Lestat.
- The sun comes up, we go down. That’s never gonna change. We’ve got rules, Lil Miss.
- Rules are fools, Daddy Lou ! she sighed, walking into the room
- Keeping you safe, little waif.
- You’re gonna get grounded again. Olympe shrugged, moving towards Lestat’s coffin so gracefully
- I live grounded, sister !
Lestat had finally found his slippers where Louis indicated and moved to the secret room too, stretching and moving towards his coffin like a tired cat. His hair, carefully brushed into a ponytail, was often criticised by Claudia despite how comfortable it was for the night. She, with her own unique nicknames, called him « Uncle Les ». He did not mind much. He did not care much. She was his daughter anyway. His fledgling.
- Come now, mesdemoiselles ! he commanded with a soft voice. No more revolutions. Time to tuck in.
He opened the lid of his coffin with a smile, bowing as Olympe moved towards it and slipped in, snuggling against the padded side. He settled next to her, letting her rest her head on his arm, kissing her cheek with a soft smile as Olympe, moving her legs that were so long that she struggled positioning herself next to him first, causing him to guide her.
- Feet off the edge, ma belle. he smiled. Oui. Like that. And don’t let Claudia drag you into mischief tomorrow.
- Too late ! came a muffled giggle from across the other side of the room.
Louis sighed and invited Claudia in, patiently waiting next to it. Claudia dived in, yawning, making Louis lay down next to her, wrapping one arm around her waist. He loved having her around like this, as much as Lestat loved having Olympe with him. Fatherly care, mirroring the one of his lover for a child they had taken in. Claudia let out a soft giggle, causing Louis to tilt his head at the noise. She loved bothering everyone. She she not been there, the overall ambiance of the house would have been dull and rather sad !
- I’m gonna go on a date like Olympe someday. Claudia chuckled. Maybe even two dates.
- You’re dating someone, ma cherie ? Lestat gasped
- I’m not dating ! Olympe hissed across the room, scandalised
Claudia stuck her tongue out, absolutely delighted to have outed one of Olympe’s newest secrets. Olympe stuck hers back. Nobody was aware that Olympe had already experienced a few dates with human teenagers, making sure to feed beforehand in order not to harm them. Olympe was indeed worried Lestat would end up learning about it, especially since him banning her from human events « out of precaution », not wanting her to be discovered.
- So pretty and so single ! Claudia chuckled as Louis closed the lid before she could tease Olympe further
- Enough bickering. Time for bed, girls. Lestat said, pulling the lid down over himself and Olympe with a smooth click
It only took a few more minutes for Claudia’s voice to echo around the room again.
- Daddy Lou… how come vampires can’t eat cake ?
- Because our stomachs are like graveyards, baby. We’d just be burying it. Louis chuckled
- Hmm. So what happens if I drink a little blood and then eat cake ?
- It’s gonna explode, Claudia. Like the macarons on-
- Shhh shh shh. Lestat mumbled into her curls. Go to sleep, mon cœur.
Claudia did not stop asking questions for some time, up until addressing Lestat directly. She had noticed the relationships around the house, how Olympe, so soft and kind, treated the to men as her fathers, how Lestat acted like a patriarch while Louis was more passive about everything happening around the house, just allowing himself to let the girls feed on animals. He just preferred it that way.
- Uncle Les, I got a question. If you made me and you made Louis, who made you ?
Olympe rolled her eyes, knowing the basic lines about Lestat’s turning by Magnus, but Lestat sighed and slightly opened the lid, now annoyed and wanting to rest. These questions at dawn were definitely a new routine which was sometimes fun, sometimes… not so pleasant, especially for him. Especially when it came to the questions about his maker.
- When I’m tired, I’m not so kind. he grumbled before snuggling Olympe close to him
The house was alive, filled with laughs and chats, enjoyable moments that made living as a family easier for everyone. Even Louis seemed genuinely happier now that Claudia was around. The family seemed to be complete, full, and loving. Lestat knew this situation was only temporary : Claudia would one day realise she was not to grow into a woman’s body and would watch Olympe mature, they would eventually drift apart, the family would shatter. But for the time being… they were happy. All of them.
Lestat loved dressing the girls in matching clothes, he was even quite passionate about it. His daughters needed to be wearing the latest fashions with perfect fabrics, age appropriate couture, elegant enough, not revealing. He hated chiffon skirts, so the girls mostly wore cotton and velvet, matching sailor dresses or perfect tea gowns that were sized just right. And when Louis would dare commenting it, Lestat was quick to retort.
- It’s fashion, Louis !
However, moments of happiness were always short-lived in such a peculiar family. Somewhere later in 1918, Florence de Pointe du Lac passed away, causing Louis’ sudden grief, despite he had not seen her in a while already, not since Claudia’s turning. Lestat, ever the master of appearances, took meticulous care in preparing the girls for the wake. They needed to respectful, elegant, and silent, yet showing his opulence. His money.
They both got dressed in Olympe’s bedroom, despite the latter did not inhabit it ever since Claudia had moved in with them. Lestat held up two black mourning cotton dresses, simple yet beautifully tailored. They looked perfect, going mid calf for Olympe, and slightly under the knee for Claudia. Over these, he dressed them with two heavy dark red capes made of velvet, two layers on their shoulders, with refined black embroidery decorating its openings and edges. Their clothes were matching and they would definitely be easy to spot in the crowd.
- For the occasion. Lestat murmured. We must show our respect to this family. And we must also show Louis that we care a lot.
- But we do care ! Claudia said
- Precisely. Yet we still need to show up for him. It’s his maman, after all.
He proceeded carefully styling Olympe’s hair halfway up, securing the higher part with a large bow matching her cape. He did the same for Claudia, making sure not to accidentally tug her hair too much, being extra careful not to damage her perfect curls. The girls looked perfect, ethereal, almost out of an old book. They were exactly like what Lestat had envisioned for such an event. Doll like, well dressed, well behaved. And Lestat, who was always putting a huge importance in presentation, if not even a certain pride, smiled at their sights.
- Parfait. Lestat said with a proud nod. And remember to stay calm and well behaved.
- We are not young children, papa. Olympe sighed
- I know. But together, you are a tornado and a storm united.
The de Pointe du Lac Mansion was filled with whispering voices that night, along with the sound of numerous footsteps around the mansion. Lillies and Jasmines were displayed everywhere, possibly to mask the scent of Florence’s corpse int he casket, left open for people to pay their respects.
Louis moved around, his eyes hidden under his sunglasses, filled with sorrow and pain. He did not have an excellent relationship with his mother after his father’s death, and Paul’s suicide had made them drift apart further with Florence blaming him on his death. While Lestat was mostly remaining with Claudia, Louis had Olympe stand beside him, holding onto his arm like a proper lady she was becoming. She left like an anchor, especially when Grace and Levi, whom she had not seen in years, approached them with hesitation. Louis placed his gloved hand on Olympe’s, trying to hold his head up with a smile, nodding at his sister and her husband who simply nodded back at him. And Grace’s gaze turned towards Olympe, who was no longer the delicate doll-like little girl she had met back in 1910.
- Olympe, my dear. Grace said softly, her voice filled with grief. You've grown so much… How long has it been ? You are becoming a woman already.
- About eight years, Madame. Olympe nodded. I am terribly sorry for your loss.
- Thank you.
Just after they finished chatting, Grace noticed Claudia nearby, as the girl seemed to approach them. She looked down at her with curiosity. To her eyes, this child had nothing to do there. And strangely enough, she was dressed in a similar fashion as Olympe, if not identically. The latter had decided to move towards Florence’s coffin.
- Who are you with, honey ? Grace asked
- My dad, my uncle, and my sister. Claudia answered. Who are you ?
Louis, placing a hand on Claudia's shoulder, intervened smoothly. He still had not removed his eyeglasses, giving him a very peculiar look for the wake of his own mother.
- This is your aunt Grace and her husband Levi. How about you go to your uncle ?
Claudia nodded quickly and turned around, skipping towards Lestat who gently greeted her with a soft gaze, despite looking incredibly bored, if not detached about this gathering. She asked him some random stuff, and Lestat answered quietly, trying his best to keep quiet out of respect, despite, in another context, he would have wrecked the entire place and sang until his vocal chords would hurt.
Louis smiled and nodded at his lover before tuning back towards Grace who watched them with a mixture of disapproval, disgust and sadness. Louis’ visits were incredibly rare, especially since the time he broke the door on the occasion of the twins’ birthday which had happened recently. He quickly glanced at Olympe, who was being watched by Lestat, his hand on Claudia’s shoulder, while she gazed at Florence’s dead body in the coffin. From the girls, despite being incredibly close to Claudia, Olympe, with her sympathy, was the one who resembled Louis the most.
- You have a kid now ? Grace asked with a disapproving tone. And you have adopted Olympe too ?
- The girl is an orphan, I adopted her off of Liberty Street, did right by it.
Grace frowned. In seven years, she had not expected Louis to actually adopt Olympe but also to adopt another child. Another girl. Men of this era, or couples, were rarely adopting, let alone girls. God knows what he and Lestat did to them, she thought.
- Do you think you and her « uncle » are the right people to adopt an orphan ?
Louis sighed at his sister’s skepticism. Grace was directly referring to his and Lestat’s « suspicious » relationship, their opulent house, unconventional lifestyle not many people were able to understand, especially not in 1917. She was aware that Louis was not a man to love women, but she was still deeply worried about him anyway. She had known, from the very start, that his relationship with Lestat was absolutely not just a business partnership. It went far beyond that.
- Don’t start. Louis sighed
The two of them broke into a private argument that was barely heard, Louis making sure to make Grace remember what he did to the mansion’s door, before letting out a groan. He was a predator, which caused Grace to understand it. Her brother was not the same. He was not the Louis she had grown up with. The older brother who had taught her to walk on the old floor of the house, of the boy who had taught her to dance, beaten up so many boys, defended her against oppression. He was someone else.
- You forget what I did to that door, Grace ? Louis snarled, directly threatening his sister
- Ahem. Lestat said
Lestat’s sudden intervention was what made Louis snap out of his trance. He shifted back, turning his head towards Lestat who had brought Claudia back to him, his hand resting on her shoulder, having sensed the situation would soon be out of control with Louis’ potential rage and outburst.
- Claudia has expressed an interest in going home Lestat announced with a subtly hidden sarcasm
- The smell is awful. Claudia bluntly stated
- Hmm. Wakes were invented in places where it snows.
Without another word, Claudia moved next to Louis before Lestat made his way back to Olympe, who was still looking at Florence’s body in the coffin, feeling sad yet rather a little happy. She thought about Florence being reunited with Paul, for some reason. A mother and her child. And Lestat, noticing she was slipping away into some sort of unhappiness, gently took her hand into his and smiled.
- It’s time to go home, ma chérie. Lestat softly said, pulling her away towards Louis and Claudia. Dawn will be upon us soon.
- I wonder if Madame de Pointe du Lac is happy now that she has joined Paul and his birds. she said quietly
- Maybe she is. Let’s hope she is.
Lestat gently directed her towards Louis as they excited the mansion, he was the one who took everyone home. There was not much to be said that night, only the faint echo of the bustling street was heard from the hidden bedroom where the girls rested with their fathers. Tomorrow night, Louis and Lestat would take Claudia to the funeral home to have her select her own coffin. And Lestat kept Olympe close to him, his embrace so tight, knowing that she would move back to her bedroom. It felt incredibly hard for him to let go of her, knowing so much that her life was constantly in danger, Armand’s voice still echoing in his memory. The less he was with her, the easier it would be for Armand to find her and bring her back to Paris. And he was ready to sacrifice it all to keep Olympe with him.
At first, Claudia’s coffin resided in the hidden room, next to Lestat and Louis’. She did not complain until she asked for her own space and privacy, preferring to share room with Olympe until she would get her own bedroom. Lestat had decided to grant her wish, having workers work by night to redesign the bedroom at the end of the corridor, which was next to Olympe’s, covering walls with a brand new flowered wallpaper, buying a massive amount of furnitures, a desk, a horse themed coat rack, an opulent wardrobe in which he had meticulously disposed all her dresses, paintings and so on, rendering what was an upstairs storage room into a perfect bedroom for a teenage girl. He had even conceived a rotating system to hide Claudia’s coffin. While Olympe simply had to pull down a bed to hide her coffin, the system in Claudia’s bedroom was ingenious and perfect. With the press of a button, a section of the wall would turn along with he floor. On each side, either a bed or Claudia’s coffin. Lestat had made this in order to make sure not to attract too many suspicious gossips on why the bedroom was entirely redesigned… and why there was a coffin in it. Decoration, he had said.
Time passed slowly for this peculiar family. Olympe had found her partner in mischief in Claudia, who had become the « sparkle » that allowed her to be more sneaky and rebellious. They usually snuck out together, or one after the other, dodging Lestat’s overprotective gaze whenever they were managing to escape the house. While they were standing in Jackson Square Park, having fed and dumped a common body in the swamps nearby right to an alligator pit, Claudia sat on a bench while Olympe adjusted her skirt slightly to her calf. There was nobody in the park that night, thankfully for them, as predators were quick to rise when seeing two teenage girls alone in the street.
- Hey Olympe. Claudia said. How come you and Uncle Les don’t even look like each other ?
- He adopted me. Olympe answered, sitting next to her. I was a newborn.
- But… you’re not a human, are you ?
- No, not at all. I’m a vampire, just like you. The only thing that changes is that I was born this way, and never made.
- Wait, we can have kids ?!
Olympe chuckled and shrugged. She did not have much information on how she was made, Lestat having omitted to talk to her about the entire painful process Joséphine had to go through, and also never told her about Armand. Armand. Who would have done anything to bring her back to him, to bring the experiment back home. Due to Lestat’s fear, Claudia was allowed to hunt on her own, but Olympe was never trusted outside alone for more than a hour for a variety of reasons Lestat hid a myriad of lies, of which none included Armand and his men possibly spread around the United States in search for her. Olympe’s increasing wish for freedom was a sign of control slipping away from him, and of Olympe putting herself into great danger. So she had to be clever to be free.
A few days later, Olympe had decided to sneak out on her own again. But she needed to convince Claudia first, as the latter had originally told her she wanted to go on a hunt of the night on her own. They were in her bedroom, Claudia was sitting on the floor, writing something down in her journal, possibly an idea of what Louis and Lestat’s relationship was, before Olympe stretched towards her direction like an old cat who had seen enough to start becoming lazy.
- Claudia. she whispered, leaning on her sister’s shoulder with a soft smirk, watching her write stuff in her journal. There's a party taking place tonight at the Madame Fleurie Club. I heard about it.
Claudia tilted hummed and smirked before turning her head towards Olympe, the idea of covering her up for the night already blooming in her mind. She was not so fond of parties like Olympe was despite she had never actually attended one, but she was willing to help. After all, she was a direct witness to how Lestat treated her, how overprotected and sheltered she was.
- And you want me to help. she shrugged with a smirk larger than her coffin
- Please. The back alley we always use to sneak out. The old service entrance. Less visible from the street. Just tell them I’m resting.
- Fine. What do I get in exchange ?
- Huh… what would you like to get ?
Claudia looked up for a moment before setting her journal aside and turning around to face her sister who was sitting cross legged, her eyes screaming endless pleas for her to cancel her plans for the night just for her to have some fun with humans.
- A pearl necklace. Claudia nodded. You remember, the one we saw at the-
- It’s expensive, Claudia, I don’t have the money for it.
- Perhaps you would like me to tell Uncle Les about you being a lil’ too sneaky with human boys, huh ?
- Shut up. Okay, okay for the pearl necklace.
The girls shook hands, Olympe knew she would potentially have to rob a random victim to get Claudia this necklace, but she did not mind much. At least, she was getting the cover for the party. She knew Claudia would manage to make up for a magnificent lie for Olympe to be excused. And while her sister carefully left, upon hearing Louis and Lestat’s argument downstairs, she prepared her speech to avoid her being accidentally denounced. After all, Olympe deserved a bit of fun. And she dressed herself accordingly, in a beautiful evening dress going slightly above her ankle, in a typical teenage fashion, despite Lestat still refused to let them go past her calf. She had made this dress on her own without even telling him, not caring much about the social standards, having mostly forgotten her love for the etiquette since Claudia had arrived in their lives.
The Madame Fleurie Club was the place to be that night. A lovely bar that was fancy enough for a girl like Olympe, tonight filled with young folks that were around her age, if not even older. It was a dance, mostly. An event popular amongst teenager, whatever their skin colour was. People were blending in, nobody seemed to care about it. At least not this armada of teenagers who had gathered to this bar to act like adults while being mostly children themselves. And while melting into the crowd of people who seemed to welcome her, she felt a little strange. She felt what she had never been before. A human like any other.
During that party, she danced with a sixteen year-old called Nathaniel Smith, a blonde-haired newspaper boy who lived nearby with his mother and three sisters. With him, she twirled and giggled, paying no attention about her condition, about her being a vampire, about all these humans being sources of nourishment for her. She had fed beforehand, so there was little to no chance she would get exposed like Lestat had warned her more than once. She even kissed this boy before she left as she had been outside for more than five hours, it was very much past midnight, and she needed to go home. Lestat was probably going to ask her if she wanted to go on a hunt with them and she needed to be in her coffin just in case.
She promptly made her way to the courtyard, tiptoeing and climbing cautiously on the wall to get to the balcony and then to her bedroom, silently closing the door behind her, begging for no crack to be heard. After all, she could hear Louis and Claudia talk about something nearby. Claudia was being scolded, Olympe could tell. And while she tried tiptoeing towards her closed coffin in the dark, smiling after such a wonderful night, a voice boomed from the entrance door of her bedroom, causing her to shiver and freeze. It was Lestat's voice.
- Olympe Elise de Lioncourt !
Olympe did not move, her smile faltered. She closed her eyes for a moment, giving out a soft sigh before lifting her head up for a bit, and raising her hands in the air. Especially when she heard another sound of footsteps, all lights suddenly switching on, exposing what looked like a crime scene to Lestat who had busted her anyway.
- Et merde.
- Oui, oh oui, « et merde », comme tu dis !
She turned back, her hands still up in the air, and she saw them. Louis and Lestat, both standing at her door, their faces showing both anger, disappointment and relief. Lestat had his arms crossed on his chest while Louis had his behind his back, shooting Olympe a glare that meant she was in trouble. The two of them were mostly shocked, as Olympe was usually not prone to such misbehaviour, being always a calm soul compared with Claudia.
- Sorry… Claudia shrugged as she appeared behind Louis
- Oh my god, Claudia. Olympe’s eyes widen, what did you-
- She told us just a few seconds ago, young lady. Louis scolded. About her sister having went to a party filled with… humans.
- No, I just said-
- ASSEZ ! Lestat shouted
Claudia gasped at Lestat’s outburst, feeling awfully guilty about the entire situation. She had brought the topic very randomly, while it had been hours since Olympe’s gramophone was looping on some random classical music and Louis had questioned it. She had told him about Olympe being at a party to meet with humans. Young humans, close to her age. And Lestat, who was playing piano, had nearly fainted before hearing his daughter come back, having used his supernatural speed to get to her bedroom and hide in the shadows until dramatically showing up. Had she not been back at the exact time Claudia told them about her sneaking out, Lestat would have went to the Madame Fleurie Club on his own to bring his daughter back home by force.
- Sorry Olympe.
- Enough apologies ! Lestat scolded both of them
Lestat walked towards Olympe in a haste, wanting to grab her by her collar but desperately fighting against this idea of hurting his child like his father had hurt him when he was her age. But he was close. Too close to punish Olympe, his own father being the only example he had in terms of discipline.
- Do you have any idea ?! he hissed, his voice low enough to be a growl. Do you have any idea about the danger you put yourself in ? My daughter ! In a place filled with horrendously sweaty young men who don’t even have a single body hair ?!
- Papa…-
- Don’t talk back to me, petite insolente ! You don’t get to talk back to your father !
His eyes were burning with rage and fear, mixing into a perfect fury. He was mostly scared for Olympe, and this behaviour, as innocent as it could have been, had triggered the release of years of frustration, years of having to keep her safe, years of constant fear of having Armand find her and bring her back to France. Besides, Olympe was putting everyone in danger by just doing these kinds of things. By doing what he was doing on a daily basis. Living around humans, behaving like them, blending in with them, only to kill them to feed.
- You are not like them, Olympe. he restarted. You are unique. You are ours. And you are too precious to be carelessly tossed into a pit of hormonally challenged children !
Olympe blushed slightly. She wanted to scream at Lestat, but her calm nature and fear of arguments blocked her from doing so. She straightened her shoulders, still way too proud about what she had done and about the freedom she had experienced, lifting her chin in defiance for the first time in her life. This attitude, this sass, was something she had indirectly inherited from Lestat when she was a child.
- I'm not a child, not any longer. she answered, her voice trembling slightly. I wanted to see the city. To dance. To be with people.
Lestat gasped of shock again, his eyes narrowed to a point Olympe felt both scared and enraged. The very notion of his daughter blending in with humans just because she wanted to seemed to offend him on a fundamental level. Even Louis, his eyes wide open, could not help but gasp at Olympe’s sweet yet firm rebellion. She was no longer a child, she was becoming a woman, and it was, unfortunately for Lestat, too easy to see.
- With « people » ? he scoffed. Meet with « people » ? Olympe, we do NOT mix with humans. We cannot ! They live, we live, they die ! It’s the natural order, and you, of all beings, should understand that. They are sustenance, they are our food, not distractions, not people to flirt with, not people to play with, not people to be around with. And they are certainly not to be trusted with our true nature !
These words seemed to hurt Olympe deeply. Her features were tensed due to the overall argument they were having, but Lestat was right. Indeed he was right. And still, his brutal dismissal of humanity felt like a denial of her desires, or her needs, or her wishes, her body growing into the one of the woman, of the sensuality that came with it. She wanted to experience it, to experience these soft moments outside, having always been raised isolated from kids her age, from gatherings, parties, because she was unlucky enough to have been born a pureblood, and not a human.
But somehow, a spark was still visible on her traits. She was still excited, still happy about that night out. About that boy, Nathaniel. The first boy she had ever kissed. About the jazz, the waltz, the dances, her twirling in her dress, jumping sometimes. She was happy anyway, too happy to let Lestat cast a shadow on her sheer joy of having been, just for a few hours, a human like the rest of these teenagers who had happened to attend this dance.
- But they were alive, Papa. Olympe argued. They felt things. They danced, giggled, drank. They were happy to live ! And I felt it too, I felt their happiness. And what's wrong with wanting to be… a part of that, even if only for a little while ? I have lived my entire life cooped up, sheltered, not even understanding why you were doing this to me. I wanted to live, even if I was born undead !
- Putain de merde.
Lestat glared, his eyes filled with so many emotions that made it look like he was about to explode into a massive splash of blood and fury. He felt possessiveness, anger, sadness, surprise, exhaustion and mostly… fear. The fear of loosing her was increasing now more than ever and he had never told her, why, apart because of her being a pureblood and humans wanting their death, he protected her this much. It was for their safety, but also for the safety of their family. Olympe being discovered by humans would lead them to have to hide further away, and possibly Armand to track her back. Olympe was straying from the path he had built for her. The path on which he had not been prepared to the transition of his daughter from a little child and a young woman needing her independence.
- What’s wrong ? he finally sneered. What's wrong is that you jeopardise everything ! You put yourself in danger, you put all of us in danger ! You, my daughter, wandering among these human children like a common street urchin ! It is repulsive ! Have I taught you nothing of discretion ? We are fragile, our existence is fragile !
- We are not fragile ! We are predators ! You yourself say it when you leave the house to feed !
- Olympe, it’s enough. Louis sighed. Lestat, maybe we should give Olympe more agency, more freedom to-
- Enough ? No ! It’s never enough ! I’ve seen these people live ! I’ve seen them laugh and dance ! I want to feel like them !
- You can’t feel like them because you were never a human in the first place ! You were an anomaly from the start !
Olympe’s eyes opened wide at Lestat’s cruel yet realistic words. Yes, she was an anomaly, she knew it. Vampires could not reproduce, but her parents did. With chemicals, spells, painful processes she barely knew a word about, Lestat having decided to wait for her to learn about the truth being her conception. About the truth on Armand. But hearing the word « anomaly » coming from her father was quick to make her feel terrible in a mere blink of an eye eye. And Lestat felt it, just by noticing the shift in Olympe’s behaviour.
- I… Olympe, je suis désolé.
Despite burning with rage, fear and desperation, suddenly got plagued with guilt, more than he ever thought. He left out a long sigh before moving closer to Olympe, placing his hands on her shoulders before gently moving them to her neck, caressing her jawline to get her to look into his eyes. He was screaming internally about being sorry for this unfortunate word, but Olympe seemed calm, despite a little sad. She knew who she was, she knew what she was, how unique her existence was to any coven around the world.
- I don’t want to loose you, Olympe. he whispered. I’m worried sick about you. All the time, and it never stops. You are unique, the only one of the pureblood kind, and unfortunately, you’re my daughter.
Olympe did not respond. Claudia looked down, feeling terrible herself about the turn of these events, wanting to apologise too. For having been so childish, so blunt about something this trivial. But she stood there, helpless, before Louis placed his hand on her shoulder, keeping her away from any potential intervention. This was a hard moment Lestat. He was finally acknowledging the truth. He was finally accepting that Olympe was growing up and maturing into a young woman.
- But Louis is right. Lestat restarted. We should grant you more freedom. From this day onward, you are allowed to leave the house whenever you wish, at the only condition to keep me informed about your whereabouts. And you are also not allowed to leave New Orleans, not even to go to the nearby swamps on your own.
- For real ? Olympe looked up, excited like she never had been before.
- For real. But I expect you to be home two hours before sunrise. And, if you kill someone, you come home and put them in the incinerator. I’ll be there to help you if needed. Understood ?
- Understood.
Lestat was pained, his voice sounded devastated. He was allowing his daughter to escape, to taste some freedom of her own. It felt like he was cutting a rope linking her to him, it felt like his shield was dissipating, that it was time let go. And it hurt his pride, his glory. His possessive desire to have his entire family under his roof, despite he was wandering around himself too.
Surprisingly enough, Olympe proved herself to be incredibly responsible compared with Claudia. While the latter was a force of nature, bringing back corpses to burn them in the incinerator more than three or four times a night, Olympe remained cautious and meticulously chose when to attack or how to spend her free time. She was always coming back home early from her clandestine ballet practices she had decided to join or quiet strolls, mentally telling Lestat where she was and what she was doing, yet never mentioning anything about ballet. It was a subject that was not to be talked about, especially not so soon after he had granted her this much freedom.
Olympe also developed her own precise set of victims, being rather selective to make sure they were not going to be missed. Never children, never teenagers, rarely women or family men minding their own business. Only creeps. Older men with lust in their gazes, those who sought out young girls with vicious ideas. This taste for human predators at started during an evening out with her family going to an Opera with Olympe having spotted a man in his fifties actively looking at Claudia with a visible predatory intent. Criminals, perverts, predators, dangers for women and children. And their fear, a potent, intoxicating cocktail, was what made their blood taste so good. She always made sure they were not drunk, only to have their blood pure like a perfect liquor. She was a predator, hunting predators.
- Papa, I found a particularly nasty one tonight. Olympe would say often. He was following a little girl near the docks. I made sure he won't bother anyone again.
- Good, ma chérie. You are nice to protect the innocent. Lestat nodded
Lestat knew her methods, approved of her choices, despite sometimes being a little surprised by how cold she was when she spoked about these killings, not that he was very different anyway. She was like him sometimes, he had seen her act. He had seen her kill men viciously, sometimes violently. He had seen her turn into a predator. She looked more and more like him, let alone a dramatic side that was exclusively his. But, in depth, she seemed to look way more like Louis.
But even lost in the evolving city that was New Orleans, Olympe’s aura started increasing, her heartbeat, slow and steady, began to resonate across the world, a faint, triggering so many gossips, so many stories about the the pureblood having, in fact, survived infancy. And Lestat knew. He felt the subtle shift, the growing power within her, he felt the danger coming closer and was ready to fight against anyone who would dare touching his daughter. He could no longer control her outings, but he could still protect her anyway, like a father should.
They lived as a family for the next two years. It was a beautiful yet strange picture of two men and two teenage daughters of different races, not looking like the other, a peculiarity that was quick to make a few people gossip. People chatted when they saw them around the operas together, how peculiar it was for two men, with absent women, to take care of two girls.
- Did you see them at the opera last week ? a woman would whisper to her companion. That Frenchman and his black… associate. And those two girls. So perfectly dressed, like dolls. But no mother. It's just unnatural.
- And the way the older one looks at him. another one would say, referring to Olympe's adoration for Lestat. Like a saviour, while the other one looks always ready to set things on fire.
- Do you think they are their daughters ?
- Most likely brides to be. The older looks old enough to marry.
Lestat heard these whispers, of course. He always did. But he merely smiled. Let them talk. Let them wonder. His family was complete to his eyes, despite imperfect, despite built on a weak foundation made of lies.
Olympe was about to turn sixteen. She was about to start being treated as a woman. And in France, the coven started feeling her aura, her presence. Armand even heard her voice once. And from this moment, he knew.
He knew she was alive, somewhere.
And he was going to bring her back.
Chapter 5: The Calling
Notes:
Some drama yep
Not my best I'm afraid
Chapter Text
Time passed too fast, a single year felt like a day. Olympe, now sixteen, felt like she was owning New Orleans with a newfound confidence. Not only because of her increasing maturity, but also because of her strength, her capacity to kill, to drain dead, how quick she was to hide the bodies, meticulously planning every single hunt. She was Lestat’s pride and joy, but also his biggest source of fear and exhaustion, never resting whenever she was not around the house.
Her life had once been curated perfectly, her activities meticulously planned, each clothing piece chosen with taste by Lestat. Now, she was free, yet always keeping him informed about where she was going… or mostly. While Lestat still believed he held the reins, Olympe had started exploring further than the city, strolling around the swamps, dodging alligators, feeding on random creeps she would find there who pried on her whenever she passed by. She was far from being a child, she was becoming a woman, too soon for both Louis and Lestat’s liking. But what could have they done ? There was no way for them to keep her locked inside the townhouse forever.
Olympe always came back home a few hours before dawn like a clockwork, telling about her night out before retreating in the library or her bedroom. Sometimes, when the weather was bad enough to hunt all night long, she enjoyed spending her night playing chess against Louis, play piano with Lestat, or just chat about a variety of subjects with Claudia, mostly about the newfound discovery of relationships Olympe had made. She was, in fact, dating a boy, making sure to only tell Claudia about him, but she blocked any access to her mind to Lestat and Louis whenever she thought about him. It was a regular harmless relationship between her and the newspaper boy she had met a few months back. Nathaniel. She was enjoying every single bit of freedom Lestat had reluctantly granted her with Louis’ constant insistence, from hunts to attending to human parties with the obligation to tell him, mentally, where she was going and with who. Olympe was becoming a woman. And the threat Armand was representing only grew bigger with time.
Her greatest secret, the one she guarded most fiercely from her fathers, was her continued participation in human ballets. She had found a small, unassuming dance studio in a quieter part of the French Quarter, where a troupe of dedicated, if struggling, dancers practiced nightly. There, amidst the sweat and the creak of the wooden floor, Olympe found a stage for her soul. She moved with a grace that transcended human ability, her vampiric speed and strength lending an ethereal quality to her pirouettes and leaps. She was a ghost among them, a silent, perfect performer, never speaking of her true nature, only basking in the shared passion for the art. She was careful, always feeding beforehand, always leaving before dawn, a phantom of the ballet.
- You were magnificent tonight, Olympe. a fellow dancer, a girl named Marie, might whisper, her eyes shining with admiration. Like you float on air.
- Just practice, Marie. Olympe smiled
She knew the truth, of course. It was more than practice. It was pureblood grace, a secret she guarded with every fibre of her being. The risk was immense, proximity to humans, repeated exposure, the chance of discovery, but the joy of dancing, of feeling truly alive in a way her sheltered existence rarely allowed, was a powerful intoxicant.
At home, the dynamic between Olympe and Claudia deepened into a fierce, almost symbiotic bond. They were sisters, confidantes, partners in mischief. Claudia, forever trapped in her preteen-like form, looked up to Olympe with a mixture of adoration and a nascent, bitter jealousy. Olympe was slowly, undeniably, becoming a woman. Her body, unlike Claudia's, continued to mature, her slender frame acquiring the soft curves of adolescence, her height increasing subtly. This physical transformation, a constant reminder of Claudia's own arrested development, was a silent, simmering point of contention between them.
- It’s not fair. Claudia would sometimes grumble, watching Olympe brush her long auburn hair. You get to grow up. You get to wear dresses for women. And you even get to date with older boys.
- You're beautiful, sister. And you'll always be my partner in everything.
But the changing fashions of 1918 only exacerbated Claudia's envy. The tight corsets of the past were giving way to looser, more boyish silhouettes, skirts were shortening, and hairstyles were becoming less elaborate. Olympe, with her keen eye for style and Lestat's endless indulgence, began to express a desire for these new, more womanly dresses.
One evening, Lestat, ever sensitive to Olympe's unspoken desires, walked in Claudia’s room to find the girls randomly chatting about commodities, fashion, makeup, children, women and latest gossips of the city. He smiled and leaned on the wall, enjoying this beautiful scene of his daughters being so close to another, believing having made Claudia had been an excellent decision as Olympe was so close to her. Then, just moved it, hopping down the steps that led to them.
- Ladies, time to refresh your wardrobe ! he said, sitting on the seat in the middle of the room ever so dramatically. The current fashions are simply passé. We must keep up, mustn't we ?
- Do we really have to ? Louis sighed, passing by the room with a book about science in his left hand. We sent shopping for new dresses just a few weeks ago.
- Nonsense, Louis ! Fashion is fashion, and our girls have to be dressed for the occasion !
Heading to the tailor shop was rather quick, Lestat had decided to use his car to drive them there. While the girls were excited to get some new clothes, Louis was less than thrilled, trying to convince Lestat to go on a hunt instead, rather than having to be dragged into a clothing shop for countless minutes that would feel like hours. Despite Louis loved dressing well, he knew how picky Lestat was when it came to dress the girls. And now that they were voicing their opinions and negotiated to get what they wanted, shopping trips that once lasted just a few minutes were would drag on for what felt like weeks.
Monsieur Dubois, director and main tailor of the shop was a man in his forties, French like Lestat, but quite possibly a few generations younger. He worked in the evenings, thankfully for them, and Lestat was a client he adored, quite possibly due to them coming from the same country, which undoubtedly resulted in them getting discounts each time they either bought or ordered the creation of custom-made dresses for the girls.
- Ah, Messieurs ! he smiled. Et mesdemoiselles ! What can I do for you ?
- We need new clothes for these two young ladies. I heard there was a new collection ? Of arrivals from the latest French fashions ?
- Yes, you’re right. Please, have a look. Latest French models are already sold here.
Unlike Olympe, Claudia did not care much about adult clothing yet, despite often feeling jealous of Olympe switching fashions. She moved towards a display of dresses made for people her age, in their early to mid-teens, not too revealing, elegant, and rather childish decorations like huge bows, white and blue, pink and purple, orange and gold, with cravats or scarves. Lestat knew she loved to dress like a doll and absolutely obliged whenever it came to dress his youngest daughter in the most perfect outfit, whatever the occasion was. Claudia was absolutely spoiled with perfect clothes.
Olympe, on the other hand, had deviated from the childish fashions Lestat used to love making her wear, matching Claudia’s outfits. She preferred stricter fashion granted to women, growing too bored with the numerous pleated skirts, sailor gowns, endless amounts of frills of her different clothes. She had a dress she had stolen from the body of an abusive woman, her last victim for sure. It was her favourite piece she only wore when going to practice ballet, away from anyone’s sight, only to pretend she was older than her real age.
- Oh, Uncle Les ! Claudia took out a dress from the rack. Look ! Can I have this one ? Oh, and a dress with a low waist with a bow too !
- Of course, ma chérie. Anything for my little milkweed. Come look at the catalogue.
Claudia came back to them, looking at the catalogue Monsieur Dubois was holding out for her. She flipped a few pages and picked different clothes she enjoyed, perfect of her teenage body, perfect for her young age. Each time, Lestat nodded while Louis tried convincing him not to spoil the girls with too many dresses. Claudia was still processing so much, having turned fifteen and still enjoying to have stuff that was her own. Clothes that were her own, tailored for her.
- And for Mademoiselle ? Monsieur Dubois turned to Olympe. Young ladies’ collection, I presume ?
- Oh, I think she will be fine with the same section. Lestat interjected. After all, she is only sixteen and-
- Sixteen is considered to be old enough to dress like an adult, Monsieur de Lioncourt. The women collection is perfect for your daughter.
Olympe's eyes lit up. She flipped through the pages, her fingers tracing the elegant lines of the dresses. There were designs with shorter hemlines, allowing for greater freedom of movement. The fashion was changing so fast, she knew she would soon drop the corset with the way the waists were going down, hitting the sudden arrival of that new flapper fashion movement that was slowly making its way towards the United States. Olympe already loved pinning her hair up to match the style fashionable women displayed in the street, and having the right to choose clothes from the women collection was making her feel even more thrilled about this sudden shift !
- Papa. Olympe said, her voice soft but firm, pointing at a dress. Look.
- Yes, mon ange ?
- I like this one.
Lestat leaned closer to inspect the dress Olympe had chosen, despite reluctantly trying to accept his daughter was not to be dressed with children clothes anymore. The dress was deep blue and gold, with a lower waist and refined sleeves, going to the ankle. It was feminine, refined and not inappropriate for Olympe. And while she gazed at some other dresses, putting a silk dark red one above her coat before a mirror, Lestat saw his daughter’s reflection. His breath caught. The image of his little girl, of the infant he had cradled, of the child he had tried to protect for so long was fading. In her place stood a young woman, elegant and poised, holding herself with a French grace she had learned from him. It felt bittersweet to see her become her own person.
- It’s exquisite, ma chérie. he murmured. Perfect for you.
- Really ?
- Yes, really.
Olympe smiled at him before gazing at herself again with wonder, and Lestat exchanged a look with Louis, trying to find comfort in his lover’s eyes. The latter felt as sad as Lestat, he understood this moment, the strange pride but bittersweet lines of watching a child grow up, a feeling he knew Lestat was experiencing to a deeper extent. He was thankful, for the time being, that Claudia would never age, feeling very egoistic regarding that topic, having turned her as a child, making her remain perpetually as a young girl. And while Claudia seemed to take it well still, the two men knew their family would eventually shatter. But for the time being, they loved their girls as they were.
That night, they picked five outfits for each of their daughters. Claudia got all the dresses she wanted tossed in a large basket, excited to wear them on a hunt or just to remain at home. Frills, sweet pattern, pleats, chiffon… anything that was appropriate enough for a young girl like her. But Olympe, on the other hand, had chosen dresses in a transitional fashion, reaching her delicate ankles, her waist lower, velvet, silk and satin, that would surely make her look too grown up for Lestat’s liking. But there was no way, with her increasing interest in fashion, he could tame her passion for dressing up so well, just like him. Between the sisters, Olympe was definitely the one who cared much more about what she was wearing compared with Claudia.
Olympe loved exploring human relationships, watching and interacting with them on a nightly basis. She loved listening to their banters, to their arguments, to their laughs. She watched couples kiss, children play, old people walk around the streets with cane. With that boy, Nathaniel, this very first « lover » she had, as she told Claudia, she felt like a random human in the street, not like a sheltered vampire who had an overprotective father like Lestat.
Despite talking about the boy in a harmless way, Olympe kept triggering Claudia’s slowly increasing jealousy. For the time being, she was not interested in boys or girls just yet, but seeing Olympe bloom like a flower, explore the early signs of her womanhood, quick dates, her changing body, even the way she dressed usually… it made her feel bitterness at the situation despite, at that time, she was not fully realising what her life would imply when her sister would reach her twenties and be fully considered to be a woman while she would stay in the body of a fourteen-year-old girl for the rest of her immortal life.
Nathaniel Smith was considered to be her first lover, the first boy she talked about so often to Claudia. His kindness, his energy, his willingness to help, his desires for a good future, for a family… World War I was reaching its end and he had complained about not being drafted despite being old enough. And it was what made Olympe fall for the boy, this endless kindness. Their brief and innocence romance was soft and sweet, like the ones in Olympe’s romance books, filled with whispered conversations in the park by dawn and stolen kisses in quiet alleyways. However, nothing was made to last, especially not humans. Nathaniel succumbed to smallpox, something Olympe was immune to, like any vampire. His death was an indirect reminder of Lestat’s initial command of not bonding with humans, but she could not stop there, she wanted to bond with the entire world, innocently. She wanted to be a part of the society too. She only told Claudia about Nathaniel’s death, keeping the rest of the family in the dark, smiling to them like nothing had happened, shielding her thoughts away.
- Are you sure you’re alright, sugar ? Louis would come over and ask her while she was reading
- Yes, why ?
- I don’t know, you know you can tell me if there’s anything troubling you, I’m no judge and I won’t tell Lestat.
- Thanks dad. I’m fine.
It was in the wake of Nathaniel's death that something shifted within Olympe. That strange and consuming grief had opened a door, a gate. Something leading to a path of discoveries when she laid eyes on Nathaniel’s cousin, a beautiful young woman with golden hair, probably in her twenties, holding an infant child in her arms. Olympe felt a strange attraction to this woman, similar to what she had felt for Nathaniel, but to a different level. She was not only attracted by boys, not at all. But this attraction, as dangerous for her as Lestat and Louis’ union, could be quick to cause her trouble.
On a random night, to hide herself from a pouring rain, having decided to leave the house to give Lestat and Louis some « sensual privacy », as she called it, she entered in a bar somewhere near Liberty Street. A random speakeasy, with jazz echoing in every room, glasses clinking, people laughing and playing cards. And there, she noticed her. A woman, with a voice deeper than a bass, with broad shoulders, well-built silhouette dressed in a perfect silk dress, her copper hair cropped short under a hairpiece made of gold, flowers and feathers. She was singing sensually, provocatively, and attracted the young and learning Olympe. That woman’s name was Albertine. Just Albertine.
Per today’s standards, that woman would be called a hermaphrodite, or intersex. Born with the attributes of a boy and a girl, assigned male at birth, chosen to be a woman, despite a masculine side was showing up too often. But in the late 1910s, the eighteen-year-old Albertine was herself an anomaly, if not even a freak to the eyes of her contemporaries. And this was what attracted Olympe to her, the fact that Albertine was, to her eyes, not like any other. It had started with a drink Olympe paid her, then followed by an intimate conversation. Their connection was immediate, magnetic… electric. It, unfortunately for Olympe, ended up being a one-night fling, as Albertine had to leave soon enough due to some fervent Christians having decided to sack her apartment for her being the « Spawn of Satan », or the incarnation of the devil, just because of her different appearance. When she felt a deep sadness over Albertine’s departure, Olympe understood affections were not limited by gender. They went beyond that.
Later that same year, close to the end of 1918, Olympe found herself falling deeply in love with a ballerina who danced with her so often. Juliette Williamson was two years older than her, having been taught to dance since toddlerhood, and often competed against Olympe despite their skills were vastly at the same level. Juliette was destined for a conventional marriage, to a husband, to have children, a fate she disliked, since her love was not targeted towards men, but towards women. Their relationship blossomed in hidden moments backstage, in whispers during late-night practices. And when they danced privately, love poured from their eyes. But this beautiful youthful romance had to remain hidden from the world. From the society that would have disgraced Juliette and possibly thrown her to an asylum, and from Lestat and Louis who would be mad at her for breaking the rules like that.
And Juliette, as sweet as an angel could be, ever so understanding and quiet, had not even flinched when Olympe had told her she was a vampire.
- I know you were not normal from the start, de Lioncourt. she giggled between two kisses
- Oh, is that so visible ? Olympe tilted her hand, placing a hand on her chest like Lestat would do this, ever so dramatically
- Yes, you are too beautiful to be a random human. I wonder if anyone else knows.
One quiet night, Claudia, ever observant of her sister’s tendencies, entered Olympe's room to find her hunched over her drawing desk, a charcoal stick clutched in her hand. Olympe was sketching, not the usual abstract patterns or architectural details, but a figure. A dancer. Juliette. Her face, her form, her flowing dress rendered with an almost obsessive detail.
- Hey Olympe, I’m bored ! she whined, her arms dramatically falling down on her sides. What are you drawing ?
- N-nothing ! Just practice ! Olympe panicked
Claudia, with a mischievous grin, easily sidestepped Olympe's attempt. Her gaze lingered on the drawing she found exquisite, then towards Olympe's slightlyflushed cheeks. Claudia knew about Juliette, she knew she was one of Olympe’s fellow ballerinas, and that Olympe had explicitly told her Juliette danced better than anyone else in the world.
- Oh ! That’s not nothing, that's Juliette. Claudia smirked. You draw her a lot.
- Yes, yes I do. I just find her beautiful, ethereal, and-
- You love her.
Olympe froze. This affirmation was direct and blunt, a typical feature Claudia displayed a lot, and almost felt like a direct slap. Her heart, slow and steady as it was, gave a nervous flutter. She looked at Claudia, then back at the drawing, her cheeks turning shades darker for a few micro-seconds.
- Claudia ! Olympe hissed, her voice low. Keep your voice down !… It's complicated.
- Complicated how ? Do Uncle Les and Daddy Lou know you’rein love with a human ?
- No. They don’t know about any of it. The ballet rehearsals, or Juliette. You can't tell them, Claudia. Promise me. Please. Papa would… he would forbid me from ever leaving the house again, quite possibly my room, even. He would be furious. You know how he is when he is furious.
Claudia nodded. They both had way too many opportunities to be witnesses to Lestat’s violence, especially when it was directed towards random victims he killed to feed, or during his arguments with Louis that were, sometimes, rather heated.
- But… why her ? Claudia asked. She’s just a human.
- She's more than that. She’s… beautiful. And kind. And she understands me. She dances like a dream. She's supposed to marry a man, but she doesn't want to. She likes women. And I too, like women. And men. And… whatever.
- Oh. Claudia nodded. Like Uncle Less and Daddy Lou ?
- Yes. Like them, though more like Papa. He likes both. So you understand why this is a secret, don't you ? They wouldn't understand. Not the ballet, not Juliette. Not all of this.
Claudia nodded slowly, her expression serious. Her sister’s happiness mattered so much, enough for her to accept keeping her mouth shut about a topic which would probably hurt anyone deeply. She had never experienced loosing someone she loved just yet, and she knew Lestat and Louis, in case of an issue, would possibly question her if Olympe acted strangely.
- I understand. Claudia said. Your secret is safe with me. I won't tell them. But remember what Daddy Lou said. Humans break.
- I know… I know.
And Claudia was right. Somewhere in April 1919, poor Juliette died of a typhoid fever, which had rendered her blind and incapable of walking due to her feeling dizzy. Olympe learnt about the tragedy when Juliette’s parents came to tell the ballet impresario about their daughter’s passing, which led the rest of the ballet dancers to whisper around the theatre until the news reached the young vampire. She had fallen on her chair in a shadowy backstage lodge, away from anyone’s sights, and decided to leave for the night to join the Juliette’s wake during which she struggled not to break down into heavy cries, especially when she saw a man appearing to be Juliette’s fiancé, not even saying a word, looking mostly satisfied by her passing, possibly due to him having known about her preferences.
Olympe locked herself in her room, the grief a raw, agonising wound. She refused to open the door, even for Louis, who would stand outside, murmuring soft words of comfort, slipping some white papers for her to draw under the door, sometimes even trying to coax her to open it to feed. Lestat grew increasingly worried, feeling how Olympe’s mental energy had switched from a happy one to something plagued with sorrow and pain. He had suspected some secret outings first, then could feel her presence around the house. And yet, the depth of the pain she felt was enough to have him incredibly concerned about what could have happened to her : A hunt that went badly ? Needing new clothes ? Hunger, perhaps ? He could sense it, in a way, but Olympe did not even seem to take care of that matter.
It lasted for days, days of feeling Olympe’s pain, her silent cries, but her mental absence while being physically home was what broke Lestat the most.
One night, unable to bear Olympe's silent suffering any longer, Lestat decided it was time to intervene and moved inside her bedroom. She was not there, having left for a first midnight stroll on her own, but what lingered on the ground were all the drawings she had made recently. Her room was a mess, something so uncommon for someone like Olympe, and these pages were enough for Lestat to feel worried. He looked around until potting a huge pile of sketches, most of them being portraits of Juliette, some others being her body, draped in silk, or simply in a tutu. Some of them were stained by droplets of blood that most likely indicated that Olympe had cried either while sketching, or while looking at them. And then, he saw the ballet programs, the slippers, the bandages. He saw her training tutu hanging from inside the coffin, the smell was a mixture of her perfume and the disgusting scent of human sweat Lestat hated so much.
- Mon dieu. Louis ! Lestat gasped
It did not take long for Louis to come inside the bedroom, seeing it open for the first time in a while. He took a look around, acknowledging the mess, before he looked at Lestat who was holding out the numerous portraits of Juliette, looking furious, desperate, surprised and horribly pained all at one.
- She’s been dancing. Lestat hissed, his eyes wide, brows furrowing. With humans, filthy humans. And this… demoiselle.
He pointed to Olympe’s most recent depictions of Juliette, possibly sketched a few weeks ago. Juliette’s face was appearing on many different drawings, without even a name to be linked to her beautiful face. She was just a random beautiful girl Lestat could have sucked dry, but since the poor girl was dead…
- She’s been in love with a human, Louis ! Lestat nearly tore the drawings. I told her ! I warned her about getting too close ! This is why ! This is why I forbade it !
- You loved me when I was a human.
- This is not the same ! I am much older than her and I didn’t make such a foolish decision out of the blue.
- Lestat…-
- This is why I kept her sheltered ! And now she suffers for it ! She deserves this pain, Louis ! She deserves it for her disobedience !
Louis walked over, gently taking the drawings from Lestat's trembling hand before he would tear them apart. He looked at Juliette's face for a moment, before letting out a soft sigh. From just looking at these sketches, he could sense love. A love that was forbidden by the laws of the United States, forbidden by the church. A love that was similar to his when it came to men.
- Lestat, stop. Louis said calmly. She’s grieving. And no one deserves this kind of pain. She needs to make her own experiences. You can't shield her from everything. Not from life, and not from death.
- Life ?! What life is this ? A life of constant deception ? A life of risking exposure for a human connection ? I told our girls ! I warned them both not to get involved with humans !
- And you expect her to live in a gilded cage forever ! She's becoming a woman, for Christ sake ! She needs to explore ! To love ! To live !
Lestat paced, running a hand through his hair, desperately trying to calm down. He had never told Louis about the real reason why he was this overprotective of Olympe, and did not judge it was time yet, perhaps never. The threat Armand represented was still there, the coven was probably still looking for Olympe after almost seventeen years searching for her. He only told Louis his downright possessive behaviour was mostly due to him having promised her deceased parents to take care of her, not that a coven leader located in Paris was probably actively looking for her.
- And what if she's discovered ? What if she's killed ? Humans hate us ! They could kill her so easily !
- We will protect her. She is our daughter, our child. Just like Claudia. We will protect her.
It took a few more days and nights not feeding for Olympe to finally accept showing up. A few nights later, when Olympe had emerged from her deepest grief, Lestat and Louis confronted her. They sat in the parlour silently when they heard her footsteps coming closer. Lestat, still visibly agitated, held one of Juliette's drawings. And when he saw Olympe, visibly thinner, he fought against his will to pick her up and cradle her to have her feed on him.
- Olympe. Lestat began, his voice trembling yet stern. We found these. And we know. About the ballet. About your friendships with humans.
- How…?
- Viens ici, sit by me.
Olympe looked up, her eyes widened. She looked from Lestat's agitated face to Louis’ calm yet serious expression. Her secret, her most cherished, dangerous secret, was out. A wave of panic washed over her. She graciously moved to set on the couch next to Lestat, who held a pile of her drawings on his lap. She felt worried about this conservation, but angry at her fathers for having found her sketches in her room.
- And we know about this Juliette. Lestat continued, trying his absolute best not to wreck the entire place down. A woman, Olympe ? You loved a woman ? Is this… is this what you truly are ?
Olympe flinched, her cheeks flushing. The question, so blunt, so public, made her feel both exposed and vulnerable. Only small sounds came out of her mouth, she was unable to form a coherent response. She was outed. And yet, in a way, she knew her fathers could not judge her. Louis was a homosexual man, and Lestat was bisexual man, of course they would never dare !
- I… I don’t-
- It’s okay, sweetheart.
Louis, seeing her distress, immediately intervened, kneeling in front her with a soft smile. He placed a hand on Olympe's lap, looking into her eyes to provide her with a bit of comfort.
- Sugar, there is nothing to be ashamed of. he smiled. Lestat and I we are not exactly examples of conventional relationships, are we ? There is nothing wrong with loving a woman, Olympe. Or a man. Or anyone your heart chooses. Your Papa and I, we love each other. And we are both men.
- Yes. Lestat nodded, his voice softening thanks to Louis’ intervention. Louis is right. Your preferences are your own, we have no say about them. We love you, regardless. But the human, ma chérie… that is the danger. You must be more careful. You must learn to protect yourself, and our secret.
Olympe looked from Louis' reassuring face to Lestat's still-worried one. She felt an incredible relief, but also a lingering pain hurting her soul. They weren't angry about her loving men and women, no, of course not, they could not be. They were angry about the danger loving humans represented. Louis was less worried than Lestat, not knowing the root of his actual fear for his daughter, but still. At least, they allowed her to be who she was.
- We want to see you dance. Louis said softly, breaking the silence. Do you mind if we come with Claudia ?
It took a few seconds for Olympe to fully process Louis’ gentle request. She did not believe it first, remaining frozen for some time until her gazed moved from one father to the other in confusion. They had just shifted from scolding her about having been too close to humans to… this.
- What ? Olympe tiled her head. You really want to come ?
- Yes, ma cherie. We would be honoured. And perhaps we can discuss feeding from a few of your-
- Lestat. Louis grumbled
Olympe accidentally let out a chuckle at Louis’ scolding, a very first time since Juliette’s death. Lestat was so relieved by this sudden subtle sound that he smiled at his daughter, delighted to see another expression on her face rather than a pained one.
- Bien, bien. Lestat smirked. We won’t feed on ballerinas, fine. But still. We would love to see you perform.
Olympe's eyes, still tear-rimmed from grief and the shock of exposure, widened again. She had first thought about a joke, and it seemingly was not. A proper performance ? With them watching ? The idea was terrifying, exhilarating. And she nodded. She simply nodded. She had kept this secret for too long, and it was a relief not to have to hide such passion anymore.
- Okay. Olympe nodded. It’s at the Saenger Theatre. But I don’t have the date yet.
- Oh my god, this is a rather famous place to perform ! Then we’ll wait for the date. Louis smiled
- Yes… I think the impresario has got very good connections with the mayor.
- But be prepared, we will be there. Lestat gave Olympe his signature smirk. To embarrass you, possibly.
- Lestat.
Lestat rolled his eyes and gazed at Olympe with soft smile. He was about to see his daughter shine like the most beautiful diamond exposed at a museum. He hated the idea that she was about to perform in public, begging anything above him to avoid any vampires to acknowledge her. But he sure knew they were about to spend a beautiful night out.
A few weeks later, the Saenger Theatre in New Orleans was incredibly crowded. Olympe had told everyone the impresario knew the Mayor, this was probably the reason why all these gold and red velvet seats were taken. People were chatting in the hall, eager to see another representation of « Giselle », a ballet Lestat adored. He, Louis and Claudia had booked their seats in a lodge, trying their absolute best not to pass as a strange family, despite they, somehow, were one. Lestat was sat between Louis and Claudia, observing the red curtains with impatience, eager to see his daughter perform like he, once, had performed, more than a century ago.
Lights dimmed slightly, the orchestra started playing the first melodies of the ballet. Curtains rose, revealing a wallpaper of a village square by night, a few trees propped to decorate the stage. Then, Olympe appeared, earring a delicate peasant dress, her auburn hair woven with ribbons. She was Giselle, and this was what made Lestat gasp when he saw her twirl on stage. He had not expected his daughter to play the main character of a ballet. And she was perfect, more than she had ever been before, this was definitely a pleasant surprise !
Both Louis and Lestat were left flabbergasted while watching Olympe dance on stage. They had both seen countless operas, countless representations of different ballets. Hells, Lestat had seen this ballet probably up to a hundred times ! But human art was absolutely not as beautiful as their daughter, their Olympe, who moved around the stage like a ghost, almost flying whenever she was executing a pirouette.
- Mon dieu… he whispered to himself
Olympe kept almost flying around the stage. Her hops felt like they were light, her pirouettes were fluid, making her look like a prima ballerina, despite having much less practice compared with her fellow ballerinas who had been around longer. She executed a series of fouettés, her legs snapped out with precision and grace, and the people watching her were more than surprised and delighted to see such an ethereal performance. They gasped, all of them, whenever she was moving faster than a human ballerina would. Lestat, out of pride, wanted to run on stage and hug his daughter close to him, but respectfully remained seated. She was a performer, just like him. Not better, not worse… just like had been once.
Louis, seated beside Lestat, watched their daughter dance with the same emotions. She moved on stage so beautifully that it left him incredibly moved. Her presence, almost the one of a ghost when came the Wilis, made Louis shed a tear, one single tear, that hid behind his collar. watched with a quiet intensity. For the first time, years after his turning, Louis had shed a tear, almost like a regular human being he still believed he was. He was so proud, so happy to watch his daughter move on stage, so proud to witness her doing the thing she loved the most : dancing.
Claudia moved swiftly to the edge of her seat, amazed by her sister’s movements, by the way she had captivated the entire audience. She wanted to clap her hands to encourage Olympe, but copied Lestat when it came to stay seated in silence.
- Uncle Les… she whispered, tugging his sleeve. How does she do all of that ?
- I don’t know, ma cherie. Lestat smiled. I don’t know.
The curtain finally fell, and everyone, the family included, felt the ballet had been too short to be properly appreciated. People clapped their hands loudly, as if they demanded more dance, more magic… more Olympe. People genuinely believed this girl was a human, considering how she moved on stage, or how she chatted with other people. Thankfully enough, no one knew she was a vampire, and that most of her skills were due to her enhanced strength.
Lestat, Louis and Claudia made their way backstage, having found a way to bypass the random men who were filtering visitors. They found Olympe, still in her ballet attire, congratulating every performer of this ballet personally, smiling at them like a mistress, and even shaking hands with the impresario who did not stop complimenting her performance. He expected her to perform with them again soon ! Quite possibly until she would deice to stop dancing herself… which was not going to happen soon, to say the least.
- Olympe ! Lestat exclaimed, running towards his daughter to pick her up with pride
- Oh ! Olympe giggled, almost suffocating
- My magnificent girl ! You were sublime ! A true artist ! You nearly gave me a heart attack with those leaps !
- You were truly beautiful, Olympe. Louis smiled softly. I was very proud.
Olympe, for the first time in what had felt like centuries, felt an intense happiness. Her grief for Juliette was still too near to be forgotten, but tonight, surrounded with her family's love and admiration, it felt distant. She had restarted chatting, restarted laughing, and acting like her true self. Someone filled with joy.
- The audience gasped when I did the jeté in the first act, Papa ! she recounted
No one could stop Olympe from talking, she was letting it all out. So many emotions were coming out of this beautiful girl who has spent quite some time mourning the loss of a loved one.
- Yeah I heard that too ! Claudia nodded, adjusting her beret. It was awesome !
Olympe and Claudia settled on the back of Lestat’s car, chatting endlessly. Lestat was the one driving, Louis sat in the front with him. While Lestat was proudly complimenting Olympe’s performance and the girls were chatting, Louis could not help but smile. This was his family. His home. He had two perfect daughters, a lover who was, to his eyes, willing to do a lot of sacrifices to keep this family in one piece. They were happy, all of them. And he chuckled when he heard Claudia ask too many questions… as usual. She had to take notes about everything, even if it very often annoyed Lestat to have her start writing in her journal by bedtime or whenever he was explaining something important to her, from how to hunt to the best spots to feed from.
- Oh, and how did you manage to almost fly around like that ? Claudia asked
- Claudia, sweetheart. Louis laughed. Enough questions, you’re going to kill your sister with them.
- But we’re already dead, Daddy Lou !
- Who knows, maybe we can die twice. Olympe chuckled
Sometimes, Lestat would look at Louis and smile, listening to the girls chatter in the backseat. Seeing his lover so happy was providing him a strong sense of comfort, knowing things were currently done right, despite this situation was temporary. They were a family, a strange and unconventional one, but bound by love and shared secrets, despite their foundations were trembling and possibly soon to crumble under the crushing weight of their existence.
- Mesdemoiselles. Lestat chuckled. You’ll have the rest of the night to chat about it, I need to focus on the road.
- Sorry Uncle Les. Claudia giggled
They made it back to the townhouse rapidly. The girls kept chatting about a variety of stuff until, somewhere close to the sunrise, they retreated to their respective bedrooms. Louis went to each one of them to gently close their coffin lids, kneeling before Olympe who was still excited after her performance.
- Did you like it, dad ? she asked
- Yes. Louis smiled. I am so, so very proud of you for performing like that. You actually made me cry.
- I saw that. On your collar, a tiny droplet of blood.
- My clever girl. Come on, lights off.
Olympe rolled her eyes and switched her light off, Louis gently rubbed her hair and closed the lid of her coffin with a soft smile she could still perceive. Lestat came a few minutes later to check on the girls, tucking Claudia a little better in her coffin, and making sure Olympe’s curtains were perfectly closed. He was a proud father, a patriarch, with a loving family… despite having a secret affair with Antoinette Brown, a local singer. But no one had to know, no one needed to know anything about it. Especially not Louis.
Early August, 1920. Olympe, now eighteen, had embraced her freedom entirely, abandoning her soft girlish attitude to become more womanly, trying new experiences, among which : sex. New Orleans by dusk, night and dawn, had become a playground for her to show her sensuality, a strange and rather human hormonal call for something different than just stolen kisses in an alleyway. Her ballet performances were improving greatly with an increasing grace and elegance that slowly became a part of her personality. But these last few days, right after turning eighteen, an age that was not the one of a child, but not the one of a grown woman, she had started expressing her desires for something less coded, less bridled, more… bohemian. She was very much around people her age now, but these were adults, living lives far removed from the sheltered existence Lestat had once envisioned for her. And these people definitely initiated her into some practices Lestat would have rather explained her before she would come back and tell him loudly about what she had done.
One night, when the rain was pouring outside with a raging storm, Olympe had found herself in the red-light district, hunting on a random creep who was eyeing a group of young girls chatting on their way back home after school. She promptly hid behind him and attacked him, draining him dry without a remorse, but his blood tasted strange. Like a mixture of so many different alcohols, so many different substances, among which… Opium.
Olympe stood up and looked around, her troubled vision not allowing her to use the cloud gift to get back home. She wobbled on her legs and held herself onto a wall for a moment, a chuckle escaping her. She couldn’t even think about telling Lestat about this rather unfortunate situation, her brain not allowing her to create regular sentences, rather something in gibberish, words she tried saying out loud but which came out as small murmurs. She coughed, hearing so many sounds, so many noises, so many people, talking and laughing, that she almost felt she was going crazy.
- Wow. she mumbled
Instead of returning home, completely intoxicated with both alcohol and drugs that came from the man’s blood, Olympe found herself stumbling towards a brightly lit doorway. She could hear the sound of pianos, people laughing, ladies and gentlemen moaning upstairs. It was a brothel, from what she could notice while looking at the women’s outfits and their provocative gestures. Olympe looked around, smiling softly, until a group of ladies, dressed in what appeared to be rather thin nightgowns, gently coaxed her upstairs into a room filled with men and women kissing, naked or not, partying, either heavily drunk or high due to the Opium they had just consumed. Poor thing was just eighteen and had stumbled into an orgy, and that age was considered to be old enough to be come a bride, back in 1920. So Olympe walked in there, giggling, twirling, dancing.
- Bienvenue, jolie rose. a lady said
On the next day, right at dusk, while having slept all day long, Lestat suddenly sat up. A jolt, sharp and unsettling, shot through him. Olympe. Her mental presence, usually a clear, steady beacon, was a chaotic, joyful muddle, radiating a dizzying array of unfamiliar sensations: human heat, a cacophony of voices, the scent of sweat and cheap perfume, and a distinct, cloying sweetness of alcohol. And then, a flash of naked skin, a tangle of limbs, a woman's soft laughter. He had not felt it earlier during the day, and he understood one thing : Olympe had been outside during daytime.
- Louis. Lestat hissed, throwing open the lid of his coffin. Wake up. We need to get Olympe, I think she’s drunk. I can feel it.
- Drunk ? Louis, roused from his slumber groaning. How can she be drunk ? She only drinks blood.
- You can get drunk if you drink the blood of someone who had too much alcohol.
Louis nodded and proceeded getting dressed in a haste, informing Claudia they were leaving. Claudia had decided to stay in her room for the time being, at least in case Olympe would come back. They got dressed in to matching pieces and promptly moved to Lestat’s car, parked right outside. He wanted to drive faster, but the traffic was too dense for them speed up.
- Putain de merde ! he slapped the steering wheel
- Calm down, Lestat. Louis clung on the door. Swearing won’t make that damn traffic better !
It took Lestat quite possibly a decade worth of mental energy not to burst into the street and scare everyone off. They made it to the brothel where they could feel Olympe’s aura, where her scent was still softly coming out of the windows upstairs. It was a clandestine brothel since Storyville had been closed in November 1917, just a few days after Claudia had been turned into a vampire. The two men walked in, determined to find Olympe, hoping she had not done anything foolish during the entire day she had spent there. She was alive and possibly doing well, just incredibly drunk and possibly drugged.
While usually being the flirty one, Lestat did not even bother to use his usual french politeness to greet the beautiful ladies he passed by, followed by Louis who, on the other hand, slightly tilted his hat as a sign of respect. The entire area smelled tobacco and alcohol, mixed with the subtle scent of opium, at least on the first floor. On the second floor, however, the same scent, mixed with sweat and wine, made them understand the gravity of the situation Olympe had put herself into, despite being rather accidental. Even Lestat felt disgusted to see these rooms filled with numerous naked humans having their fun everywhere without an ounce of shame, despite being what people would call the « epitome of debauchery » due to his past life. And knowing that Olympe, his little Olympe was there only made his and Louis’ disgust increase. Olympe was still too young to their eyes, she would always be too young, even in a century or two. These poor gentlemen were absolutely not ready to let her try these sorts of things.
They made their way towards a large wooden door that was half open. The sound of a gramophone could be heard in the corner. Lestat took a deep breath and pushed the door open, revealing something he had not even expected to witness. Bodies, some clothed, some naked, lay around the room, some people smoking, some people just kissing, and some others finding the company of their neighbours entertaining enough to openly have sex with them without even bothering about the rest of the people.
- Dégoutant. Lestat almost gagged despite expressing some admiration towards the situation
After scanning the entire room, Olympe’s scent became more obvious. Lestat was the one to find her, her auburn hair being a great way to distinguish her from the rest of the crowd. She was naked, cuddled in the arms of an unconscious woman who was possibly twice her age, a woman she had drunk from, her head resting on her chest, her hand playing with her collarbone while her eyes were closed. Her hair was a mess, so was her face, but she still looked rather beautiful nonetheless.
Lestat’s eyes wide, his jaw could have fallen on the ground. This felt so impossible to his eyes, so strange to have his disciplined, elegant and charming daughter… in an orgy. He felt embarrassed, shocked, disgusted, pained, absolutely not amused about this rather peculiar situation, but moved swiftly, grabbing a random chemise.
- Olympe Elise de Lioncourt ! Lestat’s voice boomed in the room
Not a soul moved, everyone remained on the ground, or kept kissing, or just kept cuddling. Some looked at Louis and Lestat with inviting glances, Louis proceeded to wince like crazy. Despite a few men were incredibly attractive to his eyes, their target was to take Olympe out of this wretched place. He had owned brothels, so many of them, but seeing his daughter there felt horrible. He was not as embarrassed as Lestat, he was just… disappointed.
Olympe felt her fathers approach and opened her eyes, looking up and rolling slightly from the arms of the unconscious woman, opening her arms wide. She looked up at them and smiled like she had never done in years, like a child delighted to see his parents after a long semester at the boarding school. She was still heavily drunk, and an entire day surrounded by these people had not stopped in the effects, especially not with the opium she had the opportunity to smoke.
- Papa ! Daddy ! You came to the party ! she giggled and made a grabby hands motion. I told EVERYONE I have two handsome dads ! And there you are, ready to take over !
- Good gods. Louis scanned the area to find her clothes
Lestat’s embarrassment kept growing. This situation was not just a source of disappointment for him, it was mostly something that made him feel incredibly worried, if not terrified. She was a vampire, and she could have been exposed. She had enchanted the woman she had drank from, this lady would probably not be able to recognise her anyway. Lestat proceeded to pull his daughter away, setting her on her feet while the woman groaned, her magnetic girl being too comfortable and to sweet to be removed from her so quickly.
- Get up, ma chérie. he commanded, his voice tight
- Oh. My head’s spinning… she looked at Lestat, her eyes still hazy, seeing him double. I'm sorry, Papa. I think I'm still drunk… And I apologise for your twin too.
- My twin ?
- Your reversed twin, Tatsel ! Tatsel ed Truocnoil !
- God give me strength.
Louis tried suppressing a chuckle at Olympe’s saying. He tried viewing this situation with a bit of humour, despite it felt horribly wrong to his eyes to see his daughter in such situation. It would have been the exact same, had Claudia been at Olympe’s place. Louis, despite having owned a brothel, was not happy with the current situation of his daughter having walked into one. He caressed Olympe’s cheek while she looked at him, her eyes black due to the opium she had smoke just a few hours ago, by daytime, having managed to hide in the corner of the room with a man she had almost drained dry.
- Well. Louis smiled before gazing at Lestat. The blood of a drunk man along with drugs don’t make a perfect mix.
- Evidemment ! How vulgar ! My daughter, intoxicated with the blood of a common drunkard !
Instead of breaking into an argument, he held out the chemise, plain white with a few dried stains of whiskey and helped Olympe into it, trying his absolute best not to be too harsh despite his agitation. He promptly proceeded to cover her shoulders with his opulent coat made of cotton and velvet, while Louis gently placed a random hat on the top of her head.
- Come on. Louis said, his voice softer. Let’s get our princess home.
The two men stood on each side of Olympe, who held onto their hands to keep herself steady. They found a secret way out of the brothel, which appeared to be a staff entrance and made their way to the car fast enough to avoid people to ask questions on why a young woman was just dressed in a chemise with a long coat, holding hands with two grown men of two different ethnicities. She slid on the backseat, barely acknowledging anything until they made they started driving towards their house. She felt the car bounce softly, smiling while looking at the lampposts or the mist, pointing at random stuff, naming them in either French or English.
- Jasmine flowers… she said
- Yes sugar. Louis nodded
Lestat was the one driving, as usual, and he wanted to scream. Olympe’s safety was a priority to him, and this… her, at a brothel, taking part to an orgy ? This was the worst thing he could have had envisioned regarding his daughter's behaviour.
- It was your idea, it was your idea to grant her more freedom ! Lestat snapped at Louis, his hands gripping the steering wheel. Had it been me, she'd be home all the time ! Safe ! Not in a den of human depravity, naked, and drunk !
- You could do worse than that. And besides, she needs to experience.
Louis’ simple word « experience made Lestat violently steer, stopping the car abruptly. He felt disgusted, surprised and pained by what his lover had just said.
- Experience this ?! he gasped, outraged before resuming the ride. An orgy ?! My daughter, a pureblood, well educated, perfectly dressed and disciplined, in an orgy ! She is eighteen ! She is still so young ! And… What if someone had seen her ? What if she had been exposed ?
- Lestat-
- She had fed from these humans.
- She knows how to control people, just like you. I’m sure she erased their memory.
- No daddy ! Olympe giggled in the back seat, having the time of her life. Drunk ! Drunkendingly drunk ! And yes ! I erased myself because it’s dangerous ! Papa says it’s dangerous !
Lestat wanted to look back but could not, his eyes focused on the road. He tried his absolute best to keep looking straight, despite only wanting to pull over again and scream at the top of his lungs.
- See ? he hissed. She was sodden ! She was practically human ! This is precisely the kind of danger I warned you about ! This is the cost of her « freedom » !
- And the alternative is a broken girl, Lestat. Louis calmly retorted. You can’t have it all, Lestat. You want her to be a woman and to be powerful. That comes with risks. We teach her, we guide her, but we cannot control every breath she takes.
- Wow… Pretty lights… she mumbled, pointing at a distant streetlamp. I need one like these in my room.
Lestat gripped the wheel, clenching his teeth, hissing a few curses while trying his best to keep his eyes on the road. He knew Louis was right, in a way. He just hated it. Hated the vulnerability, the loss of control. His perfect daughter, tainted by human excess, tainted by human lust. Just like he was. Words did not need to be told, they had quickly known what she had done there. But Lestat wanted to burst into a thousand of French swearwords.
They made their way back to the townhouse close to the early morning hours. Olympe almost fell out of the car, having forgotten about the door. Lestat picked her up and carried her to her room while Louis rose her bed to reveal her coffin. Olympe managed to remove Lestat’s perfect coat despite barely being able to stand and fell into her coffin, face down. She did not say another word, not even a « good night » or a thank you, and fell unconscious when the lid closed on her. Lestat remained there, rubbing his forehead. He trusted Olympe in erasing people’s memories, but was worried still. She was so young, but growing too fast, and Armand’s voice could not stop echoing in his mind whenever he was looking at her. He had to protect her, whatever the cost would be, even his own life.
Olympe still returned to her usual self very fast. She would hunt, then come back with a few bottles of blood she had collected to have them stored somewhere in the house, then spend a part of her evening with Louis and Claudia. Lestat was often outside, enjoying flings with numerous folks, feeling abandoned by Louis and receiving little to no attention. Olympe knew what Lestat was up to, but had no say about it.
However, after this incident, Olympe started hearing voices. Strange voices, like whispers carried on the wind, then growing clearer, more insistent. These voices were not familiar, so different from the ones of Lestat, Louis or Claudia, nor even the chaotic chatter of human thoughts she could hear so often. These voices spoke directly to her, some were ancient, some were not. They spoke of destiny, of a glorious return, of a family she had forgotten, a family she had been stolen from. Despite the fact that she did not know where these voices came from, Olympe could not help but think they sounded familiar and used the same words her fathers or her sister used with her daily, soft nicknames that suited her perfectly. Olympe did not suspect these voices to be evil ; she thought they were other vampires, perhaps distant relatives, finally reaching out to her.
- Come to us, mon bel amour.
- We miss you dearly, come back.
- Sweet bird, time to go home.
She kept these voices a secret. Why burden her fathers with something so personal, so new ? She was a woman now, capable of handling her own affairs. She didn't know the voices were coming from across the vast Atlantic, from France, from a coven she had been born to escape. These voices, so sweet, so lovely, men and women calling for her, were the ones of the people who had killed her parents, the same people who would drain her in one go if they could have had.
The voices grew stronger, more persuasive. They detailed a palace, a place of power, a wonderful destiny awaiting her. They spoke of a « true family » who was eager to finally have her back. They urged her to travel, to seek them out, promising enlightenment and belonging. They were insidious, proceeding to hypnotise Olympe so subtly that she did not even acknowledge how she was changing, how she eager she was to leave New Orleans, despite knowing she was safe there. These voices blocked out the familiar worries of Lestat, the gentle presence of Louis’ affection, and even Claudia's playful thoughts. She was becoming isolated, drawn into a world only she could perceive. She was shutting down.
One moonless night in late October, 1920, the voices melted into one single command. Clear, beautiful, sweet yet firm.
- Come to us. The ferry awaits.
Olympe was brushing her hair when the command echoed in her mind. She proceeded to set her hairbrush on the vanity table, walking towards the door calmly, like a sleepwalker. She slipped out of the townhouse in just a random ivory gown she had sewn herself, like a ghost in her own house. She floated above the streets of New Orleans, not even acknowledging she was being taken away from her family. From the ones who had protected her so much. She landed on the docks, alone, facing a large ferryboat which destination was Le Havre.
- Come here.
Without hesitation, Olympe climbed aboard, not even able to use her free will to return home. Once on deck, she was met by two figures, a man and a woman, who gently opened their arms. They led her to a secluded cabin, a small, windowless space. Inside, she was smothered, a soft cloth pressed over her mouth and nose until the world dissolved into darkness.
When she awoke, it was still dark, she was laying on a comfortable mattress. She felt dizzy, a strong headache almost paralysing her. She sat up, feeling something strange. The air on her neck. She ran her hand through her locks and noticed they had been cut short and died brown in a rather modern fashion. It was done to hide her away form any potential threat, as Olympe’s unique appearance could be quick to have her recognised, and nobody wanted to feel Lestat’s wrath on them. Not even the French coven itself.
Her memory, too, felt altered. Shattered. Something was missing, pieces were broken. She remembered leaving, remembered the ferry, but the reason why, the voices echoing in her mind, the compulsion… it was entirely blank. She was left with a manufactured narrative : On her own, she had decided to move to France to see her family. It was a lie, carefully implanted, designed to prevent questions and ensure her cooperation. The two shadowy figures with were blurry, so blurry that she could not even distinguish their faces.
- Where are we going…? Olympe asked
- To the Havre, then to your home. a shadowy figure, possibly a woman, answered
- My home.
- Yes, where you belong. Not where you were taken away. Your home, your real home. You asked for it, ma colombe. The Maître will be delighted to have you back.
Back in New Orleans, dawn broke slowly, light started passing through the small gaps between the curtains of the rooms. But for Lestat, it was a dawn of terror. He woke with a jolt, having felt a shift, so sudden and stop terrifying that he could not settle back in his coffin. Olympe, it was Olympe. He could no longer feel her heartbeat, could not sense her anywhere in the house, or even in the city. He could not even reach her mentally.
- Olympe ! Lestat gasped, showing open the lid of his coffin
He abruptly left the coffin, thankfully not waking Louis up, and ran towards Olympe’s bedroom. It was empty, yet it looked like she had just left. A porcelain cup of saved blood half empty, a hairbrush left at the centre of her vanity table with a few hairs on it, even a drawing that was still unfinished. Something was wrong, and the more Lestat stared at the bedroom, the more horrified he was. The balcony door leading to the courtyard from her room was wide open, so was her coffin, as if his daughter had left all her devices so randomly to go outside. There was no sign of a fight, no sign of a struggle. She had just left.
His vampiric speed allowed her to look around the entire area, walking in and out of each single room, even glancing into Claudia’s coffin. He teared through the entire townhouse, ran around the courtyard, the streets of the French quarter, desperately trying to find his daughter who was not responding his mental pleas. Despite the sun was already up, Lestat could not care less. He kept running like a mad man, hiding in the shadows, not even bothered to have his body burn slightly. His heart was hammering with a fear he hadn't known since the night he had travelled away from France with a small Olympe nestled in his arms. He was so fast, his vampiric speed guiding him to go even faster.
- Olympe ! Ma chérie ! Where are you ? his mental shouts echoed into the void, unanswered
The sun kept rising, high enough to fill the city with its dangerous light. Lestat did not come home, he found shelter in a brothel where he hid in the cellar for hours until it was late enough to pursue his research. He wept endless tears of blood streaming down his face, sometimes breaking down in the corner of a silent street, desperately trying to reach for his child. She was gone. His Olympe. His beautiful daughter, his pride and joy combined, was gone. Abducted. He knew it with a chilling certainty. But was it Armand ? Was it truly him ? He was not even sure, and he could not ask Armand mentally. Had he not been the reason of Olympe’s disappearance, Armand would learn Lestat had been with Olympe for years, and it would the matters worse. He had seen Joséphine and George’s fate for having tried to save the child from a cruel destiny, he did not want to face the same path and end up burning on a stage, eaten alive by rats or simply decapitated and exposed as another traitor.
That same night, Louis and Claudia, who had felt Lestat’s absence during the entire day, joined his research. They ran around the city, desperately calling Olympe’s name. Louis went to the Saenger Theatre where she was supposed to give a performance, but everyone was crystal clear : they had not seen her last night too for the practice. Claudia went to the dance halls, nobody had seen a thin and elegant woman with auburn hair and bright blue eyes.
- Olympe… Claudia mentally whispered. Olympe, please, tell me where you are.
There was no trace of her, not a piece of fabric accidentally torn, not a shoe, not a bow, not a feather, not a scent, not a hair. It was like Olympe had vanished into thin air… as if she had never existed in the first place. And when Lestat could not feel her anymore, dreading the worst while reaching the docks, he collapses and let out a loud scream that made the nearby ferryboat shake. A second scream came out of his mouth before his hands fell limp on his sides, looking high up in the sky.
- She’s gone, Louis. Lestat whispered, his voice broken, as they stood on the deserted docks. They took her. I don't know who, but they took her
- We will find her. I promise.
- I want my daughter back. That’s all I want. I can’t… I had to protect her. I had one job. And she is gone. Ma chérie, mon ange… she is gone- she is gone-!
Louis placed a hand on Lestat’s shoulder, but something was broken, deeply broken. His heart, his trust, his family. A piece had been stolen, his family was now incomplete. And the sound of Lestat crying only made it worse.
Claudia moved towards them, looking at the horizon while her small hand grabbed Louis’ coat. She tried analysing the area, she tried communicating with Olympe mentally, she wished she could fly to get to her. And yet, not a sound came back to her. Olympe was gone. And their family, built on weak foundations of lies and emotional manipulation, was soon to crumble too.. The idyllic life they had built in New Orleans, for all its secrets and shadows, was over. And the one who felt it the most was Lestat himself, well aware that Olympe was the one who held their family together. Now that she was gone, this family would not last long.
Meanwhile, across the endless expense of the Atlantic sea, the coven of the Theatre des Vampires was agitated, despite Armand’s usual calmness. Everyone had sensed the shift, the aura of the girl approaching their country, the fact that she was finally coming back. These whispers did not yet get to Armand who had, that night, desired to be left alone in his study to think, checking his papers for a moment. He was smiling after that night’s execution. A rich overweight man, father of two adult kids, who had dared mocking Celeste and insulted every woman in the world with his disgusting presence. His blood had been tasty for the entire coven, even Armand had his fill and knew he would be satiated for two more nights.
The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of old paper and ancient power. He was reading a leather-bound tome, his perfect jet-black hair falling softly around his face, focused on these strange sayings that would barely mean something to a human, written in a language people did not even know.
A silent movement in the shadows of the doorway announced a presence, a strong energy. Santiago, ever so perfectly dressed, his blond hair styled back in a very modern fashion, his pale green eyes still expressing some kind of youth due to him having been turned eighteen years ago, had walked in. He cleared out his voice, causing Armand to shift from his desk and cross his hands behind his back.
- What is it ? he asked
- We have found the girl, Maître. Santiago announced, his voice a low, triumphant purr. She's on the ferry. It will arrive at Le Havre in three weeks.
Armand slowly closed his book, his smile widening, unable to hide this sudden satisfaction. His red-orange eyes, usually so cold, expressed a triumphal expression. The pureblood experiment was coming back. The pureblood was coming home. Not that he had missed her, no. He had been frustrated about her vanishing just after he had the opportunity to hold her. To hold the most prized possession of the French coven. To hold the most beautiful yet strong anomaly of their kind.
- Excellent. Armand murmured, his voice a silken caress. My creation will be back soon.
He looked at Lestat’s portrait, then back at Santiago. Armand had no idea about Lestat having been the one who had raised Olympe, about the one having taken her away from his claws. Not yet, and he would find about it very soon, which would only increase his hatred for this man.
- Where will we hide her ? Santiago asked. At the theatre ?
- No. At the Chateau de Romanus, in Saint-Cyr. Armand responded, his eyes shining. It’s safer here, more secluded. Less known.
Armand looked at his desk, checking his book cover for a moment before letting out a satisfied sigh. The sole thought of having Olympe back, despite he did not know her name yet, made him shiver of excitement. He looked at Santiago, his gaze suddenly darkening.
- And this time… he whispered. She is not going to escape me.
Not anymore.
Never.
Chapter 6: The Wind Blows on the Cage
Notes:
WARNING : This chapter contains torture (usage of an Iron Maiden without spikes) and abuse, both mental and physical which renders Olympe rather obedient.
It's 100% ok if you don't want to read it !
Chapter Text
The journey across the Atlantic ocean had barely felt long for Olympe. She was in a trance, barely talking to these two vampires who kept her company. In her compartment, of which she could see nothing but shadows, she still lived in a similar way to the one she knew in New Orleans. By dawn, she would wake up, have some blood from a flask, read. But after that, on a daily basis, she would have her hair cut short and dyed brown, the dye always fading way too quick for anyone’s liking. Vampire hair was meant to grow incredibly fast, and Olympe’s hair was no exception to the rule. Everyday, her hair length was reaching the middle of her back, which caused her two companions to proceed to the same routine when the sun would go down. For them, it was a way to keep her identity hidden, her auburn locks being way too singular not to be seen and remembered. With her curls shortened and her hair dyed brown, Olympe was the epitome of « Madame Tout Le Monde », a woman like many others, blending in so perfectly amongst regular travellers, despite an extreme beauty no-one, not even Armand, could erase so easily.
But during this trip, despite the endless hours she spent in the private cabin, reading, painting or simply resting, she could feel a piece of her memory was missing. Whenever she tried reaching out to Lestat, she did not have a response. It felt like something had been built. A barrier. She did not remember most of her time in New Orleans, just the fact that she had two fathers and a sister, their names, that she loved ballet and arts. Otherwise, she did not know. Why did she leave ? When ? The hole in her memory was as endless as the ocean felt every single night, as endless as the hours she spent in the darkness of her cabin, either alone or surrounded with these two strange figures.
- We are almost there, sweetheart. one would say
- How long ?
- Soon, sweetheart. Soon.
It took the ferry three weeks to dock at Le Havre harbour. Its horn even made her shiver as she barely understood what was going on. And one of the vampires opened the door to lead her to another cabin which had windows, granting her a view of what was outside. It was dawn, the sky was grey, rain had fallen recently. A thick mist made it hard for her to see the city nearby. When the ferry docked, Olympe came out after the two vampires that served her as an escort, dressed in a regular black coat with a blue sweater and brown skirt underneath, a silk scared tied around her neck elegantly. The air tasted of salt mixed with industry.
She looked around when she set foot of the pavement nearby the ferry, confused yet feeling this place to be strangely familiar. She had no memory of her early days, of her escape with Lestat. But, strangely enough, this city, the mist, as oppressive as it felt, made her feel a sudden ache. The distant souls of her parents, probably there, watching her being taken back to the man they had tried to protect her from.
- Hello, ma jolie. a woman’s voice sounded nearby
Olympe shivered and looked forward, being met with two women, were vampires, which was quick to notice at first sight. One of them, slightly taller, had a more angular face and jet black hair, while the other seemed a little younger, her hair ginger and curly, but both of them had yellow eyes. The one who had called Olympe was Celeste, the eldest, who had been the one to have decapitated Georges de Valmont back in July 1902. From afar, they could easily distinguish Olympe from the rest of the humans, she was the perfect blend of her parents. And these eyes, so beautiful yet so lost, were George’s.
- Welcome home. she smiled, extending her hand for Olympe to take. I’m Celeste, this is Estelle. We’re here to take you to your palace.
- My palace ? Olympe asked while shaking hands
- Yes, of course a palace ! Estelle smiled. Do you think we’ll let our pureblood child sleep in a tent ?
Olympe cautiously approached the two of them without asking more questions, finding these women extremely attractive despite the strange situation she was in. They looked like angels, but in fact, there were here to shackle her and give her back to Armand. But to the eyes of a young woman of Olympe, barely eighteen, who had grown sheltered most of her life and rarely stepped out of New Orleans on her own, these two women felt more like guides than anything else. She did not even remember anything anyway, and her mind, stuck in a fog as thick as the one surrounding them, did not help he realise the gravity of the situation.
This was Lestat’s worst mistake : he had avoided mentioning her anything about the French coven, he had not warned her about them. About their rules, about their organisation. He had not warned her about Armand, the man who had claimed her as his own after she was born, since he had been the source of this « experiment », as he called it so often. And poor Olympe was about to discover how different her life would become, now that she was back to the man who often called himself as her maker, despite she was not a fledgling at all.
- Mon dieu, mon dieu ! Estelle gently stroked Olympe’s cheek with a smile. Look at you, you are so beautiful ! And you look so sweet !
- Estelle… you’re going to frighten her. Celeste chuckled, gently passing her hand through Olympe’s hair.
- Just saying the truth.
- Come on, we should go. The Maître awaits.
These calming voices and encouragements lured Olympe further in this trap. Celeste took one hand, Estelle took the other, and the two vampires who had accompanied her from New Orleans to Le Havre disappeared into the mist, but Olympe did not care much. She was attracted to something, to a magnetic presence these two women seemed to share.
They guided her to a motorcar that appeared a few meters away from them, hidden in the mist. A Model T car, with seats made of leather. Olympe slid on the backseat, her hands clutching on her skirt while Celeste sat to drive, and Estelle moved with Olympe. The journey towards Saint-Cyr took them until dusk, a trip during which Olympe had not said a word to either of them, rather than just nodding to their questions. Celeste enjoyed the silence, while Estelle felt too much joy to have the pureblood back.
And, mentally, she could not help communicate with the rest of the coven, but mostly with Armand. She watched the die vanish slowly from Olympe’s growing auburn hair, she watched her soft face, her kind icy blue eyes, her manners that were surprisingly very « French » for a girl who came from the United States. And, mentally, she informed Armand.
- She is so beautiful, Maître ! Just like a beautiful doll despite being so grown !
Olympe watched the scenery from the window with wonder and confusion, the coasts of Normandy faded behind endless plains and small villages, then to bigger towns to finally arrive nearby the Château de Versailles she barely acknowledged. Before the sun started rising, Celeste parked her car in a large courtyard that felt like the one of a church, with a palace composed of three floors standing right behind it, it’s architecture a mixture of Baroque and Classical, having been built around the same time as the Grand Trianon. There were stables filled with motorcars instead of horses, probably the ones belonging to the people working there, or to Marius de Romanus himself, since this castle was supposedly his property. The palace in which Joséphine had given birth to Olympe. She was back in her cage.
- Welcome home. Celeste smiled
There was nobody outside to greet them, but Olympe found the overall structure to be intriguing enough for her her to wonder about the stories this huge place had to tell. Celeste came out first and opened the door for her, Olympe went out of the car and glanced around, feeling the soft wind blow with a noise sounding like a melancholic melody. Estelle led her to a large door which opened when they approached, and closed as soon as they walked inside. Olympe glanced back at the outside, not even realising that she was now in a cage. A cage Armand had made just for her, filled with lies, and beautiful sayings that made no sense.
The interior of the grand hall made Olympe shiver. It was opulent, very well decorated, but frozen in a century she had never known. Eighteenth century paintings, columns, furniture, had been meticulously placed to make this place look like a museum, while managing to give Olympe a comforting aura of something she had known before, including the heavy curtains that blocked the sunlight from pouring into the halls. Despite the absence of daylight, the palace was illuminated by large crystal chandeliers and numerous wall sconces, offering Olympe a comprehensive view of this new abode, not humble, not small. It was a castle, just for herself. Form what she could tell from the portraits of Marius de Romanus, she knew he would probably not come here any time soon.
- And these people over there are the French coven. Estelle waved at the group of people. There is Eglee, Gustave, Luchenbaum, Planche, Tuan, Quang…-
- Enough. Celeste silenced her fledgling. Let the Maître introduce Olympe to them, if he wishes.
- Of course, of course.
Vampires of different ethnicities were gathered on the grand staircase, made of marble, people from Armand’s coven. A dozen of them, all dressed in black as if they were assisting to a funeral. They followed Celeste, Estelle and Olympe through the different rooms of the palace until reading what appeared to be a ballroom, where Armand was waiting, glancing through the windows in a small hole between the curtains
- Maître. Celeste announced
Armand turned back, all vampires bowed slightly and turned their heads down, but not Olympe, not understanding what she had to do first, staring at his ethereal figure for a moment. Her hair, back at its auburn colour, was what made him recognise her. Not the icy blue eyes, not the pale skin. The hair, so beautiful, like it was made of silk. Then, while approaching, he could not help but analyse her, scanning the shape of her head, the way she held herself, her body type… but what attracted him the most was her aura. Her perfect yet so unreal aura. Something he had artificially created. Even ancient vampires like Akasha were not aware of Olympe’s peculiar existence and would have definitely have had a say about the overall situation.
- So. he softly murmured, his cold fingers touching her chin. You are the pureblood, ma petite colombe. What’s your name ?
- O… Olympe, Monsieur. she responded, not looking at him
- Olympe. What a beautiful name. It definitely suits the beautiful girl you are.
Armand proceeded to lit Olympe’s chin up with his index finger. She looked scared, and it was made Armand realise she was exactly what he wanted her to be. Silent, obedient, fearful. She would not question anything. She did not even look back at him just yet, and he could not hemp but think how perfect she looked. The perfect mixture of Georges and Joséphine, the incarnation of what he dreamed about the most. She was the pureblood he had created, alive and well, and now a young woman, meaning that he will feel much less remorse to have her get her blood drawn so often.
- Look at me. he purred
Olympe, after a few more seconds, gathered her courage to look straight into Armand’s red-orange eyes. She felt a strange pull towards him, a sense of belonging that was both comforting and deeply unsettling. She did not understand why, but she his magnetic presence deep within her, especially when he tilted his head with a surprised smile. His voice was soft and sweet, with a subtle accent that made him attractive enough, but Olympe found something repulsive in him, despite not being able to tell why.
- You are a beautiful thing, mon enfant. And you will obey me. Or your life would change too fast, and you wouldn't like it one bit.
- What is this place ? Olympe managed to ask
- This place ? This is where you were born, eighteen years ago. Your palace. Your home.
Armand offered his arm to guide Olympe around the palace, all curtains closed. Armand explained this was Marius de Romanus’ palace, that he was Georges’ maker, but also his. He explained the use of each room, opulent or not, for Olympe to understand where she was going to live. The coven still followed close behind, Estelle being the most enthusiastic of them all, thrilled to have Olympe around. However, the rest of them were mostly solemn, as they knew this was probably the first and the last time they would get to see the pureblood before her isolation from the outside world. Armand had decided, at first, not to let the coven get too close to her, apart from his right-hand man who would be perfect to keep her in line.
- And this will be your favourite room, I believe.
Armand made Olympe enter in a large bedroom with tapestry on walls and a beautiful coffin made of oak, perfectly polished to make her believe it was a coffin made of mirrors. It was located under a canopy of gold and red velvet curtains and nearby a large wardrobe, probably larger than the one Lestat had possessed in New Orleans. There were multiple ornaments on the walls, numerous paintings hanging above the doors, a small library close to the windows, and a doll house which Armand smirked at. There was a set of dusty dolls placed in this corner, probably something Armand had offered Joséphine following Olympe’s birth.
- Allow me to apologise. he chuckled. You were still so young when you were taken away from us, I did not find the courage to remove these dolls, but I will now.
Olympe nodded softly while looking around, noticing the plush toys that were soon to be removed too. They had probably expected a child, and were met with a young woman who found not interest in dolls at all. This was her bedroom, as a few of the stuff she had with her on the ferry were there, already on a desk, on the tables, or on chairs.
- You will have your blood drawn four times a week, after you wake. Armand said, moving to stand before her. Your blood is precious, Olympe, a gift to our kind.
- My blood… drawn ? Olympe innocently looked up, seemingly surprised, not fully understanding the gravity of this information. You want to take my blood away ?
- Yes. As a pureblood, your anomalistic existence is what makes your blood a necessity for us. To make us survive, but also more powerful. For the greater good of our kind.
Despite these words meant nothing to Olympe’s eyes, Armand’s sweet tone, manipulative and filled with lies, made her believe it was a necessity. She nodded, hypnotised by his soft voice, by his beauty, by this subtle arrogance that gave him a fatherly aura. Something which, somehow, reminded her of Lestat, despite her memory of him was shattered, and filled with negative motions.
- Besides, there are rules I want you to follow. You are not to use your abilities within these walls, if you have any. The palace is sacred, and I would not wish you to play with fire or fly around.
- Is that dangerous ?
- Yes, very dangerous. I want you to be protected and not hurt.
Again she nodded. Despite not much detail was told to her, she accepted the rules without questioning them. She did not realise that while she was complying to this, Armand had managed to use his mind gift to block her further mentally, making her unable to communicate with her family anymore. He wanted to have her fully at her mercy. A silent and isolated creature, perfect to use. He was already impatient to taste her blood to possibly determine what to do with it, if it was worth using it to create willing fledglings. But there one more rule to follow.
- But the most important rule is that you are not to go out. Not even into the courtyard. The world outside is a dangerous place, ma petite colombe. It is at war, a chaos that would consume one as delicate as you. Do you understand ?
- Yes, Monsieur.
- Maître. I would like you to call me such.
- Yes, Maître.
Armand nodded, caressing Olympe’s cheek with a smile that was too soft to the eyes of the rest of his coven. He could feel she was lost mentally, but not terrified of this entire situation. She was horribly confused, but she was not ready to resist him and his commands. He was already fond of this girl he had claimed as his own.
- Santiago. he commanded without looking away from his perfect pureblood
- Yes, Maître.
A figure emerged, tall and lean, with pale yellow eyes, blonde hair perfectly swept back. He was the man who had caught Joséphine in Giverny and brought her back to Paris for her execution. He was the one who had tracked her down in the first place. He stepped to stand next to Olympe, who felt like a small child next to his imposing presence. He was much taller than her, and definitely stronger.
- Olympe will be under your direct care. She needs boundaries and to respect them. Should she disobey my commands, you have my full permission to ensure her compliance. You may punish her as you deem fit, as long as it does not cause her permanent harm or death. Her blood is too valuable for that.
- Of course. Santiago nodded, giving Olympe a side-eye that made her shiver
From a glance, just one glance, Olympe could feel this man was probably a violent one, considering how he acted around her. He promptly introduced her to the coven before telling them to leave. When he ended up being alone with Olympe, away from Armand’s sight, he bent over her and grabbed her cheeks, pressing them while staring right into her eyes.
- Consider yourself to be lucky to be this beautiful, otherwise I’d have you killed immediately. he hissed
- Don’t you dare talk to me like that. Olympe glared
- As fierce as your mother. Don’t worry, ma petite. I’ll eat you raw no matter how loud you’ll scream.
Olympe gasped and, too scared to respond further, closed her eyes. This made Santiago sigh and let her go, then leave her in this huge bedroom feeling like an entire house on its own. She walked around, analysing each piece of furniture, barely even able to remember anything. Why did she even come ? She did not have a clue. And these next few years were going to be the hardest for someone as sweet and kind as Olympe, but also as rebellious and full of wit.
Nights passed, weeks, months. While Olympe was there, her family in Louisiana was shattering. Claudia had met a boy named Charlie Manson and drained him dry by accident while they had a sexual intercourse in Charlie’s car, making Lestat force her to look at his burning corpse in the incinerator as a lesson. He held her against him, cupping her face tight enough for her to look at the burning body of a boy she had decided to get too close to. And Lestat was not as kind as he had been with Olympe when she was outed with her secret relationships with humans. He was not as kind as when Olympe had drank from people at an orgy, earning merely a scold. No. Not anymore. He was no longer a man with a soft spot for his daughters. Not anymore.
- Stop squirming and watch. he purred while forcing Claudia to look at Charlie’s burning corpse
- Please… Claudia whimpered
- Remember this, his face as it melts. This is why we never get close to mortals.
Lestat was only a shadow of himself, having become cruel, sadistic, arguments against Louis had turned physical, painful. He managed his life between desperately looking for his daughter and living in the townhouse as a cheater, having multiple affairs, among which a long lasting one with Antoinette Brown. Olympe had been what held this family together. And Claudia, now becoming a woman herself but stuck in the body of a teenage girl, was finally becoming more aware of the harsh truth about her existence. The Rue Royale townhouse had become a constant battlefield, a place of numerous arguments where they kept burning victims and mostly at an alarming rate, a place the police liked visiting too often since many bodies were found nearby it. One night, after having exposed Lestat’s affair with Antoinette, having been called a mistake, Claudia left to find other vampires and eventually enrolled in college in 1923.
- White girl, down in Algiers, sings torch songs with a flat, no-nothing ass. Been following you, Uncle Les. You ain't been your careful self. He's gotten tired of us, Daddy Lou… the housewife and the mistake.
- Claudia. Lestat glared
- Only Olympe was able to see past your smiles, Uncle Les. And now she’s gone, no one’s going to defend you no more.
Claudia left that night, not telling anyone about where she was going. This revelation had shattered Louis and Lestat’s relationship in a million pieces. And yet, she was right. Olympe would have either defended Lestat or simply tried holding the family together. But she was no longer there to prevent them from falling apart from each other. Louis fell into a depression worse than the one he had started feeling after Olympe had disappeared, and Lestat could no longer stand him begging for Claudia to return.
In France, however, Olympe did not see anything. She did not see her family crumble after it had struggled to live with her memory for a few years already. She could not even tell which year it was anymore. She was trapped in a perpetual present, no date was to be told, not even a mention of the historical events of the Roaring Twenties. Every night bled into the next, marked only by the drawing of her blood, the hushed footsteps of new fledglings and the silence she was met with whenever she tried communicating with anyone. She sometimes changed her routine by playing piano or painting in another room than hers, looking at her dresses that were still stuck in time. Armand was often there to check on her, to be with her, to make her believe this situation was perfectly normal. The nicknames he was giving her was an alteration of the one Lestat sometimes used with her, with the addition of « petite », or « small », only to swiftly belittle her without even her acknowledging it.
- Don’t worry, ma petite colombe. he said when she would get her blood drawn. I do this to keep you safe, to keep all of us safe.
Quite often, to think about something else but her solitude, she enjoyed exploring the palace, its endless rooms and shadowed corridors becoming her entire world. She ended up knowing what piece of hardwood was cracking, the size of each pillar, even giving names to paintings she often admired. She had no notion of the year, no concept of the passage of seasons outside, being mostly forbidden to even have a look. Everything had been stuck in time, and poor Olympe was only left a ghost of the vibrant young woman she had been in New Orleans, a few years ago already.
That night, she had decided to wander to a gallery she never fully had the opportunity to explore yet, having preferred sticking to the galleries she knew the most. She wandered between he paintings and statues until spotting a portrait that made her freeze when she recognised him. It was a replica of a portrait that was kept in the Theatre des Vampires. A man with golden hair tied in the back in a very late eighteenth century fashion, a coat made of fur and red velvet and piercing right blue eyes. Lestat de Lioncourt. Her heart gave a lurch, something felt bittersweet about him. The memory was foggy, fragmented, but the recognition was undeniable.
Armand, who was there that night, had decided to follow her around the palace, having used his capacity to fly in order not to be heard.
- Ah, Lestat de Lioncourt. he murmured, his voice filled with both love and disdain. He was the leader of the coven, with me. Actually, he even helped me founding it, somewhere in the late 1790s.
- He raised me. He was my Papa. He took me from France. He said… he said my parents died. He was the one who became my father. He named me Olympe de Lioncourt. I had another father… A second father…
Armand’s eyes widened. Never in his entire life had he expected Lestat, the Brat Prince himself, so selfish, so full of himself, to take away his most prized possession after Joséphine’s death and raise her as his own. He would have imagined Lestat killing the child, believing it was a way to avenge the deaths of Georges and Joséphine, but he was wrong. He shook his head, trying to suppress this sudden surprise in order to push Olympe further into believing into him. He hated Lestat, and he wanted her, if not to hate him, not to trust him one bit.
- He abducted you, ma petite colombe. From your true family, from me. He kept you hidden, only to have you for himself. He is a fool, a sentimental fool who dared to raise a pureblood as his own. He believed he could defy the very laws of our existence, that he could keep you from what you truly are.
- I survived thanks to him… Olympe answered, rubbing her temples as her memory seemed to fade away with Armand’s powers
- You survived thanks to me. You are my creation. He kept you from your birthright, Olympe. From the power that flows through your veins, a power that belongs to this coven, to me. The world is at war, and he left you wander. You will only leave when I deem it right, when the world is safe for one as precious as you. But for now, you will stay here and this man will be a distant memory. The memory of a liar who forbid you meet your destiny. Who took you away and pretend he was your family. These people should never be spoken about. You, my sweet, are Olympe de Valmont. And they are nothing but people who wanted you to be hurt.
And Olympe, oh, sweet and soft Olympe, still young and vulnerable, believed him. Armand's sayings, filled with authority and logic, wove themselves into the fabric of her altered memories. She was lost, her entire being was lost and partly erased. He was her saviour, her protector, shielding her from a dangerous world outside. And she believed he genuinely wanted the best for her while she was nothing but a tool.
But Olympe was still a young woman who had her ideas and beliefs, echoes of her New Orleans explorations lingered. One night, probably 6 years after her arrival, she refused to allow her blood to be drawn. The young fledgling assigned to the task, a nervous boy who looked no older than her, stammered whenever he tried coaxing Olympe to sit down. And she refused, using her fire gift to cast a large flame onto a wall as a refusal. However, this was a direct violation of Armand's basic commands. No powers allowed, no refusal either. Just pure submission.
Santiago appeared almost instantly after Olympe had cast her fire on the wall, looking strangely too satisfied. He had been watching, waiting. He wanted to see how far she could endure isolation, punishments that were mostly blood deprivation until now.
- Disobedience, mademoiselle ? he purred. The Maître does not tolerate disobedience. He warned you.
Olympe’s eyes widened as she felt Santiago’s large hands grab her arm. She knew what was coming and she tried protesting it too. Usually, it was just not being allowed to feed for some time, or further isolation in a pitch black room for the night and the next day. But tonight, Santiago had changed his plans, dragging her towards a room that was in the underground, quite possibly a former prison.
- Santiago, please ! she begged when they entered in a cell that led to a room behind the wall. I didn’t mean to-
- It’s too late, ma petite.
The room was pitch black, a suffocating void. The air was cold, damp, and smelled of old iron. Shackles were dangling on the walls. Santiago shoved her inside, and Olympe stumbled, her hands scraping against rough, cold metal in which she was propped. She tried moving her arms but the space around her was too small to allow her any sorts of movement. It was an Iron Maiden, a relic of ancient torture, modified to imprison rather than kill, with the spikes removed. Something Santiago had conceived just for Olympe to comply, away from Armand’s sight.
- No ! Let me out ! Santiago, please ! her voice was filled with fear
- I only obey the Maître, ma petite. he hissed
The door of the iron maiden closed on her, then she heard Santiago lock it. She was trapped, standing upright, barely able to move, the cold metal pressing against her, only to have shown resistance against having her blood drawn. She was panicked. Through the small hole of the iron maiden, Olympe could see Santiago leave before the entire room turned pitch black again. She sobbed longly, scratched on the metal, screamed, but nothing, no one came She reached out mentally, desperately calling for Lestat, for Louis, for Claudia… but their voices were gone. Hidden. Blocked. Armand's manipulation had severed those vital connections, leaving her entirely alone.
- Papa ! Papa ! she cried, her voice hoarse, but only the echoing silence answered her. Dad ! Claudia ! Please !
Santiago kept her in the iron maiden for three days without providing her any blood, only freeing her when he learnt Armand was coming back. When he finally released her, Olympe was weak, disoriented and incredibly scared of him, almost broken after having cried in pain for so long. But this was only the beginning of Santiago's reign of terror. His sadistic nature made him operate beyond Armand's explicit commands. What he could not have done to Joséphine, he would do to Olympe. He always made sure to hide the Iron Maiden away whenever Armand was present, and he had a chilling way of ensuring Olympe's silence.
- You won't tell the Maître about our little games, will you, ma petite ? Santiago purred each night, or before Armand’s arrival. He wouldn't understand. He might even punish you for being so… difficult with me. And then, our fun would end.
- No. I won't tell him.
- Good. My good girl. Oh, I have so many ideas with you, but you must comply. Otherwise… you know what awaits.
- Y…yes.
As much as living constantly isolated and having her blood drawn regularly, Santiago’s punishments almost became a part of Olympe’s routine, mostly used for trivial infractions as she did not dare disobeying much anymore. Hair not perfectly brushed ? A drop of blood spilled on the polished floor during her feeding ? Choosing the wrong dress for the hour, one that didn't meet his arbitrary standards of modesty or elegance ? Anything resulted in having her locked in the iron maiden. He usually did not make her stay in there for too long as fledglings were quick to notice when she was gone, but he made sure to make her fear him enough to accept this situation. The fact that she was not to rebel, not to fight, not to even express her disagreement.
Years passed strangely too fast. The Great Depression had happened in 1929, putting an end to the Roaring Twenties. Fascism was on the rise in Europe, rumours of an upcoming Global Conflict were spreading across Europe. Cars were evolving, agriculture was evolving, weapons were evolving. And fashions, accordingly, evolved too. Designs were closer to the silhouette and practical for both men and women, displaying less extravagance compared with the beginning of the twenties.
But inside the palace, time had ceased to exist for Olympe. She did not know what year it was, making her perpetually stuck in a year that had happened thirteen years ago. Her clothes, though meticulously cared for, were still of that era, her understanding of the world frozen in the moment of her abduction. Even the staff of the palace, her fledglings, were dressed according to the 1920s, which did not help her regarding the passing time. The fledglings made from her blood came and went, but most of them did not survive the first few months following their transformation, exposing themselves to sunlight in order not to live in the shadows for the rest of time. Olympe was perpetually isolated, a beautiful, valuable prisoner while Armand drained victims dead and made them drink her blood. All these people, criminals or random people who had no desires for a future, operated around the palace as wards, guards, housekeepers, and were forbidden to tell Olympe when they had been turned or even what year it was.
Armand, in his own way, continued his manipulation. He would visit her, stroking her face, telling her she was a precious gem, too rare and fragile for the outside world to understand the true reason behind her peculiar existence. He reinforced the lie of the world in an endless war, ensuring she believed her isolation was for her own protection. He subtly instilled in her a hatred towards her parents and Lestat who had raised her, portraying them as those who had attempted to deviate her from her rightful place as a pureblood, denying her true destiny. Armand did not know about Louis yet anyway.
One night, Armand had decided to come to the palace unannounced after a rather long absence that had lasted for two weeks, due to a random set of situations at the Theatre des Vampires. He started by checking on the fledglings, ensuring they were doing their assigned tasks around the palace in silence, before starting to look for Olympe. He had not found her anywhere, not even outside, and nobody knew where she was. He decided to go in the underground quarters, approaching the dark room where the iron maiden was kept, a place Santiago usually avoided when Armand was nearby. But Santiago, emboldened by his long-unpunished cruelty, had grown careless. He could not even remember the number of times he had defied Armand, only for the later to outmatch him and humiliate him for his insubordination.
- Santiago. Armand’s voice echoed in the cells. Where is Olympe ?
- She is resting. In her tomb. She has been there for eight days. A few more weeks to go, perhaps.
- Eight days ? Tomb ? What tomb, Santiago ?
The latter did not even need to answer, Armand lifted his hand and closed his eyes. His sensed picked the harsh breathing of a young woman in a cell nearby, hidden behind the walls. The breathing of someone starving, bleeding, freezing madness due to having been locked in a cage for too long. He promptly switched the cell and moved to the one in which Olympe had been locked, being met with an imposing Iron Maiden. And inside, Olympe, pale and trembling, her eyes wide with fear and exhaustion. Her mouth was dry, her eyes were red like blood.
- Master, Maître, ma beauté ! she sang, banging her head in a sheer madness due to her starvation coupled with isolation and stiffness. Pretty, pretty thing to kill, Santi Santa Satan !
- What is this, Santiago ?! Armand snarled, using his powers to push Santiago on a wall nearby. You dare use such a device on my creation ?! You dare defy my direct orders ?!
- She was disobedient ! Santiago gasped
- And this is your solution ?! I told you, no permanent harm ! This is barbaric ! Had you not been such a strong vampire, I would have had you banished and locked in a coffin for your idiocy !
Armand stared right into his eyes, making him fall down on the ground after letting his powers loose for a bit. Santiago coughed and groaned at the impact, but did not say a word. He was mortified, Armand had never been this violent towards him. Neither in bed, nor outside. It was at this precise moment he realised Olympe was a valuable tool to Armand, and not just a puppet to play with.
- You are to never be near Olympe again. he hissed. Never touch her, never speak to her, never look at her. And if you dare even thinking about her, I’ll make sure to have your head put on a stake.
- O-oui, Maître.
Without a notice, Santiago left. Armand proceeded to free Olympe from the Iron Maiden, having gone mostly mad due to this starvation, isolation, fear, disgust. She had started talking to herself, singing in French, banging her head against the Iron Maiden’s head, causing her a bruise on the forehead, where beautiful face was covered with blue veins which indicated the degree of her starvation. This punishment, which had been repeated so often, had destroyed her free spirit and had rendered her scared of everything, and Armand could easily notice it when she stepped out of the hidden cell, clutching onto his arm like a lifeline.
- Ma pauvre petite colombe… he whispered, picking her up to avoid her any exhausting walk. Let’s go get you fed before you faint.
Instead of giving her regular blood, he proceeded carrying her away to what once had been his own room, which he had shared so often with Marius more than a century ago. He cradled Olympe like a child, allowing her to latch onto his neck, not even wincing when her fangs pierced through her skin, allowing to drink. He did not say a word while she almost drained him dry, savouring his ancient blood like the best liquor that had been provided to her. He did not wish to interrupt her for these ten minutes that felt like a few seconds for a man like him. He knew, he could feel how broken she was. And he was going to take advantage of this new weakness, this emptiness that had been made by Santiago. Had he not intervened, Olympe would have been driven insane, and would have wrecked the entire palace in one mere minute.
Olympe finished feeding, her fangs retracted slowly, she did not leave Armand’s embrace. He kept holding her, rocking her back and forth from this opulent bed surrounded with heavy curtains, he kept stroking her hair. She had no energy to thank him, she had no energy to look at him. But when she did, he smiled. She was as beautiful as Joséphine, even prettier.
- No one will love you like I do, no one. he purred. Your parents and Lestat did not love you, they took you away from me.
- You love me… she whispered
- I love you, ma petite colombe adorée. And no one will take you away from me.
This smile, so fake, filled with an hypocrisy only Armand was able to display, made her trust him further. He was the only one who loved her. Lestat’s face, his beautiful traits, his golden hair, Louis’ green eyes, sweet smile and soft voice, Claudia’s mischief, her giggles, her ideas… they were mostly being forgotten. And here, cradled in the shadows of a large canopy bed until the sunrise, she had forgotten who she was. She had forgotten her spirit. She did not dance, she did not paint, she did not play piano. She did not exist for anything else but provide blood for Armand’s experiments she sometimes saw around the palace, sometimes not. She was alone, lost, lonely, with the rare conversations being with the servants, her fledglings she never even wanted, stuck with her here.
Time was frozen, nights were so similar that, at some point, Olympe believed she was living the same hours every single day. Her existence was a cycle of compliance and obedience, her past had turned into a dream, and her future was nothing better than a long and endless stay in the golden cage she was locked in.
Years still passed slowly. From Saint-Cyr, Olympe did not witness the terrible fight that had occurred when Claudia came back from college in 1930, when Lestat had tossed Louis from the sky and left him broken and needing to be nursed back to health. She did not witness the townhouse in Rue Royale becoming a mess. And, mostly, she did not even realise that her shadow still lingered there, so often, when Claudia would be alone to help Louis walk, when they would walk around her bedroom that had been abandoned and left as it was in 1920, when they would try pushing Lestat away from the house for his affair with Antoinette, despite the numerous gifts he could offer them.
And at some point, Claudia even told him, when he had brought a book for Louis to read, how disgusting he was. Not because he wanted to win them back, but because of Olympe. His daughter, Olympe. Lestat had never stopped looking around the United States to find her, but his obsession over Louis had made his daughter’s absence turn into grief rather than a frantic research like the one he had done earlier. And there, with his gift box, in 1935, when he wanted to win them back again, Claudia made sure to spit the truth to his face.
- You have better stuff to do than run after Louis and me. she said. You should look for your daughter.
- I do look for my daughter, merci. Lestat responded, wincing. And besides, I don’t see you do it either. Perhaps you forgot about her ?
- We did not. You, on the other hand, definitely did.
And Lestat had not forgotten, not fully. Every single night, she would use his mind gift to locate her. He would try talking to the French Coven, but nobody responded. He even wandered around a few states, screaming his daughter’s name over and over again, begging anything above or under him to give her back to him. In 1935, it had been fifteen years. Fifteen years of pain, silent agony, madness for a father who, at this point, barely held any hopes in having Olympe being brought back to him. His family had crumbled down, and now Claudia and Louis were plotting to kill him without him knowing. There was nothing left of the sheer happiness they had lived with during the late 1910s. Lestat was brought back into the family in 1937, on the seventeenth anniversary of Olympe’s disappearance. And nothing was the same anyway.
Meanwhile, in Saint-Cyr, Olympe was still a perfect shadow of herself. Armand had decided to loosen the bridle a little, granting Olympe the possibility to indulge herself in sexual parties and orgies with a few members of the coven or her fledglings. Santiago was the only exception, not trusted to be around this poor girl anyway. Girl… no. Olympe was not a girl anymore. As of 1937, she was turning thirty-five years old. And the fashions of the palace, the decoration, the way to talk was still stuck in 1920 in a way to make Olympe forget about the time passing outside. Armand had even started granting her the wish to look through the windows, reminding her constantly about the world being at war, about her being a perfect target, about being in danger. And it had undoubtedly resulted in Olympe being awfully scared to even dare looking outside for more than a minute.
The iron maiden had been melted to create perfect chandeliers to decorate the numerous rooms of the palace, but Olympe’s trauma would never leave. She was scared of small spaces and was even struggling, at some point, to sleep in her own coffin. The starvation Santiago had made her go through was enough to make her withdraw in her quarters whenever she wanted to feed, being afraid her blood would be stolen by anyone, or that she would end up starving again. And Armand took advantage of her vulnerability.
Three or four times a week, he would come over and talk to her. He would make her smile and be kind enough to her to make her forget about the situation she was in. His experiments on new fledglings were an absolute success, and he never hesitated telling her about how great her blood was, how strong these new generations of vampire were, because of her. His beautiful pureblood, his gem. But also warned her about the dangers of the outside world, over and over again. He warned her about Lestat finding her back and locking her into a coffin to have her from himself. Olympe was too broken to even fight against these injunctions : as of January 1940, she had spend more than the half of her life away from him. Taught to despise him. Taught to dread his presence, dread the day he would try having her back.
- And remember, ma petite colombe. Armand whispered, rubbing her cheek with the tip of his fingers. The only reason why Lestat wants you back is to hurt us. Me, the coven… and you. So he would deprive all of us of our common purpose.
- Promise me he’ll never come close. Olympe said, genuinely believing what Armand was saying
- I promise you. He will never touch you, I won’t let him. He will never touch again.
And never touching his daughter again was probably what was going to happen for the time being. While the war had started over a few months ago in Europe, Louis, Lestat and Claudia held a party at their house to celebrate Mardi Gras, having orchestrated the entire event to kill Lestat. The plan was simple : poison their guests, have Lestat feed on one of them, slit his throat to incapacitate him, then proceed to throw him in the incinerator to have him die slowly. This was mostly Claudia’s plan, but Louis was absolutely willing to participate to it.
In the latests hours of the night, this 6 February, 1940, after having poisoned Tom Anderson with laudanum and Arsenic and watched Lestat drink from him, Claudia had been overly excited to see him painfully drop on his knees after having fallen ill. She laughed when she watched him crawl away, when Louis had to slit his throat. Right after the act, while Louis was screaming and sobbing, she proceeded to simply kneel before an agonising Lestat and smirk.
- Ol… Olympe… Lestat gasped
He started hallucinating, bleeding like crazy. This was certainly not enough to kill him, of course, given that he had Akasha’s blood in his veins. He saw Olympe there, wearing a beautiful dress reminding him of his mother’s ones, back int he 1780s, a beautiful Chemise à la Reine, her hair flowing around, smiling at him with wide open arms. Her voice sounded like the one of an angel, a soft melody he had almost forgotten, echoing in his mind as tears of blood started streaming down his pale cheeks.
- Mon… bébé… he murmured
- Here we go, call for her, call for the child you left behind !
Claudia looked at him with wide opened eyes, laughing at the situation, initiating his agony with a sarcasm she had inherited from him. Claudia wanted to throw him in the incinerator, which would definitely work to kill him once and for all, in a a way. But Louis’ cries as he held Lestat’s agonising body did not help anyone in the room. Claudia felt no remorse, not an ounce, nothing. To her eyes, Lestat was the cause of all this mess, the root of their dysfunctional existence.
- Oh, maybe she’s dead, maybe not. Claudia said. But if I ever find her alive, I’ll tell her about the monster you were. How you abandoned her to her fate. I’ll do that.
- No… No… I…-
- You abandoned her, Lestat. I’m sure she hates you, wherever she is !
Lestat gasped, his body almost limp on the ground has he was slowly loosing his ability to speak. He managed to murmur a few words Louis could not hear, but words Claudia wrote in her journal with his blood. The blood of her maker. The one who had made her life a living hell with her being trapped in the body of a child while being well into her thirties.
- Mets moi dans mon cercueil, Louis, Louis…
Louis refused to burn Lestat’s body in the incinerator, he cried all along, unable to process it. Instead, he just proceeded to put the body in a trunk to be taken to a dump on the next day while he and Claudia left for Europe. They packed a few belongings with them, including a necklace that belonged to Olympe, and one of her pictures from the night before her strange disappearance. They believed she was possibly in Europe, but hopes were still thin. Now that they had slowed Lestat down, they were free to move wherever they wanted in order to track other vampires, and Claudia, deep down, knew they were going to finally find Olympe there.
In the trunk, put away on piles of garbages in the dump, Lestat fed on rats, managing to regain some strength despite the terrible situation, having been betrayed by his lover and fledgling, feeling horribly hurt. And while he was recovering, in his endless trance, he could only think about her. About Olympe. Alone in the trunk, alone, left away by the entire world abandoned like an old tool no one would need, each night, he tried reaching out to her. He called her name, sang. He wanted to get better, not only for Justice against Louis and Claudia, but also to finally be able to see her again. He hoped, oh, he hoped she was not dead. And the next ten years , he knew he had to continue his fight for her.
But Olympe, from where she was, did not even bother about Lestat’s fate. She did not even remember much about him anyway, but more about Louis and Claudia. When she mentioned their existence to Armand, he was not as unkind as for Lestat, but preferred never to have her speak about them. Instead, he redirected her to the countless vampire orgies she was having, to the discreet vampire gatherings they started having in secrecy during WWII, where the coven, and several vampires from Europe, would meet, chat, and where Olympe, as a gem on a crown, would be exposed, seated on a large arm chair, silent and barely showing any emotion aside form a nod, or the echo of a sweet « Bonsoir ».
And yet, while she was reading a book on her own in the library, on the night of Lestat’s murder, she suddenly felt a cold wind blow on her, a soft whisper echo around the room, the voice of a man. She shivered before looking around the room, her eyes wide open before Armand came in, as if it was a coincidence. Nobody had felt Lestat’s death but Olympe herself, and she proceeded not to react. She preferred not to.
- I brought you a new book, ma petite colombe. Armand smiled, sitting next to her. I believe you would love « Pride and Prejudice » ?
- Oh ! Olympe nodded. Thank you, Maître. I love Jane Austen’s works.
- Let’s read it together, shall we ?
She needed and sat next to Armand as he proceeded to start reading the book with her. She felt a strange sense of comfort around him, despite the situation she was in. She did not see him as her captor, but rather as a figure she could trust. After all, wasn’t he the one who had demanded Santiago to stop being around her ? He had saved her from the iron maiden himself, so she could not help it anymore. In a way, Armand had replaced the entire family she once had in New Orleans. He would, like Lestat, offer to feed from him. He would, like Louis, offer to read to her. He would, like Claudia, be enough of a chatter to keep her social needs fulfilled, knowing she wasn’t however, not the social bird she once had been. This constant isolation had turned Olympe into an introvert who was too scared to dance or even talk too loud, something which was rather pleasant for someone like Armand who enjoyed silent company.
Olympe did not even seem to care anymore. The outside world was terrifying, she did not care about her fledglings either. Most of them barely survived for a week until either accidentally dying because of the sunlight, or simply committing suicide due to the sheer desperation being a vampire was implying. The only familiar face among these undead people walking around the palace were either the French coven, or the undead medic who was tasked to draw her blood every single day, ever since the war had started.
- It’s in case we run out of preys. Armand had commented when the new rule had been implemented in Olympe’s life. With the Nazis approaching, we better stay safe and have your blood ready for our survival.
Olympe did not mind it much. The blood that was brought to her in silver chalices was good enough to keep her occupied. Overtime, she had become numb, expressionless, like a statue in a museum. She barely reacted when the needles would make their way through her skin, when Armand was coaxing her to drink the blood the fledglings of the palace where bringing for her to survive. She did not dance, but still enjoyed listening to music on that old gramophone that was itself stuck in the 1920s, with old musics of that time. Musics she loved listening to in her old bedroom in New Orleans, now an empty room in what was soon to become an empty shack.
Time had been frozen. As of June 1940, Germany invaded France and started occupying Paris. Olympe only got aware when Armand himself told her, to make her thoughts of leaving this place vanish, that France was at war. He had managed to make the location of this place remain hidden, miraculously protecting his precious pureblood, his endless textbooks, his experiments safe without being caught. And Olympe, sweet Olympe, had no idea these were no longer the 1920s anymore. Secluded from the world, she was not aware of the existence of a new type of cars, a new fashion, radios, even the very first prototypes of television were being put to use, despite their horrendously expensive price due to it being a very new and futuristic luxury.
Armand was proud of this beautiful lie he had made Olympe believe into. He was proud to have locked her away, having made her believe the world would want her dead as soon as she would step out. She was his, entirely his. His anomaly. Secluded, paraded during gatherings at the Chateau de Romanus, not even asking questions about the world outside.
But it was about to change. And Armand was soon to bring one man who would accidentally shift Olympe’s beliefs.
A man who would soon make turn her away from her « purpose ».
A first friend in decades of isolation.
Chapter 7: Just a Medic
Notes:
This chapter is mostly focused on the a secondary OC. Shorter, yes, but my inspiration is running low af
Cheers !
Chapter Text
Years had passed, France was still at war, and Olympe did not seem to care much about it anyway. Locked away in the palace, barely even looking outside, too bothered with the orgies she indulged herself with, she did not seem to be much preoccupied about what was going on in the rest of the country. Four years had passed since the occupation of Paris had started. Four years that had not even mattered for someone like Olympe, isolated and all alone, despite constantly being met with people in the corridors of this beautiful yet suffocating place.
In early 1944, the palace was filled with fledglings, Olympe’s fledglings. Perfectly made with Armand draining them, and then proceeding to feed them Olympe’s blood, a process that allowed him not to become a maker, something that was repulsing to his eyes. Besides, Olympe’s blood, pure, perfect and quite possibly powerful, increased his chances to create stronger fledglings. Some of them were receiving Gifts rather quickly compared to other regular vampires who had to wait for a few decades to see one appear. Olympe knew that these vampires, either newer or older, were hers, but did not seem to care much about it. Little mattered at this point. She did not care about time, people, passions she once had. In fact, Olympe was more of an empty shell than the woman she once had been and, unfortunately for them, fledglings were not even a concern for her.
Perhaps thirty of them were living there, rare were the ones who had the right to move back to their place, judging it to be far too dangerous for them to be exposed during nighttime, especially with the global curfew of the country. Olympe had herself warned a few of them not to leave, expressing that this place was quite possibly better than any other one in France. But, for some, Olympe had appeared to show some mercy, encouraging the mourning ones, those who had lost their wives, husbands, children, grandchildren, to end their suffering and join them once and for all.
Armand had grown fond of Olympe’s calm attitude, of her numbness regarding the time passing. When he had announced her they were in 1944, she did not even flinch, and simply whispered a soft « Already ? » without even pushing the subject further. He had decided to bring another ward to the palace that night, someone who would replace the late maintenance man who had accidentally left the window open during the day and had burned to ashes. A new one was definitely welcome. And, while looking for strong-willed volunteers to join him while being in Paris, he had stepped into a random prison, having heard the soft hum of a man whose voice was filled with sadness and regret. The soft melody of the « Chant des Partisans ».
Philippe de Lachan, Armand heard that name from a conversation two guards were having in a room nearby the cells. Last son of an old noble family whose title was worth nothing to the French Republic, Philippe was a man who had devoted his entire life in helping people, having studied medicine and obtained a certificate in the late 1930s. He had joined the Resistance in 1941 and had served as a private medic and a messenger until having been caught two days ago. His face, as white as snow, was covered in bruises, he had recently been tortured and nearly blinded by his captors. His ocean blue eyes were both circled in dark holes, indicating the exhaustion and the pain of a man who had fought both physically and mentally. Philippe was scheduled to be executed at dawn, and was humming his melancholy while awaiting the police to take him to the scaffold.
- Montez, descendez des collines camarades… Sortez de la paille, les fusils, la mitraille, les grenades…
Seated on a wooden bed that was held to the stone wall by heavy chains, larger than the size of his head, Philippe was humming a protest against the world, against his life about to be cut short, about his idiocy. He ran his bruised hand over the wall, his mind replaying the faces of the people he had helped, the messages he had carried, the smiles of his friends who had either died or fled Paris. He had no regrets, no. He just felt a deep sadness for the life he would not get to live.
But suddenly, he felt a presence in his cell. Something cold coming from one of the shadowy corners of his last room. Armand was there, hiding, but made sure to get his voice heard.
- Ahem.
Armand coughed, yet did not move until a few more seconds, meticulously stepping out of the shadow, dressed in his perfect suit and a black hat on his head. He remained at a safe distance, refusing to startle Philippe. He knew that even a few hours away from his execution, any normal man would scream.
- Monsieur de Lachan. he nodded
- Who are you ? Philippe cocked a brow. The guards said they would come at dawn. It's still too early.
- I am not with the guards. I am here to make an offer. And you're right, it is still too early. But also early for you to die.
Philippe tilted his head as Armand approached him carefully. Armand’s ethereal physique, his jet black hair brushed perfectly, his dark skin glowing slightly in the penumbra, his perfect outfit and these strange eyes… all of that made him look like a peculiar mixture between an angel and demon from Botticelli’s paintings dressed in modern clothes with a black hat. But, in a way, to Philippe’s eyes, Armand looked like a young boy. Probably in his late teens, or possibly early twenties.
- An offer ? Great. Philippe rolled his eyes, letting out a humourless laugh. Now I have hallucinations.
This answer was what made Armand fall for this young man. He was perfect. Even in his last moments, right before the scaffold, Philippe could display some sort of humour, despite his situation being both dramatic and hopeless. Philippe had a spark Armand had rarely seen in people, only in a few, amongst which was Lestat de Lioncourt himself. And when he closed his eyes, Armand felt a strong energy, yet an impressive kindness.
- Still. Armand smiled. I am no hallucination. Want me to prove it to you ?
- No need to. Given how you’re dressed, I suppose you're a priest, and you’ve come to hear my final confession ? I don’t have much to say.
- I am a different kind of saviour. I’m a vampire.
- A vampire ? Oh, mon petit, Bram Stocker’s writings are just tales, didn’t your mother teach you ?
Armand used his vampire speed to get right next to Philippe, whose eyes snapped open. He tried to process what this mysterious man had just told him and shook his head for a moment before meeting his gaze, closer this time. Armand proceeded to kneel down in front of him and looked right into his eyes. Philippe shivered, their colour was unnatural and, as of 1944, coloured lenses were not a fashion item just yet. And without even correcting him verbally, Armand had made sure to display his wisdom by a glance. A simple glance that made Philippe understand that this man he had called « mon petit » was ten generations older than him, if not even more.
- I am here to make an offer, Philippe. Armand gently said, his gaze piercing enough to get to his soul. I see a deep well of compassion, a will to protect and to serve. That is a rare thing, and a valuable one. I could grant you immortality for your will to save lives, mon petit.
Philippe’s eyes widened, especially when Armand passed his long fingers on his cheeks, but it felt like a feather was touching him. He had called him the way he had done just a few seconds ago, but something in his voice sounded comforting, more mature than his entire physical being. He was tired, exhausted even, probably going insane with the fear of tomorrow’s execution, the eagerness to get this done, to finally join his family wherever they were resting. But Armand, with this soft voice, had managed to hypnotise him like he had done with so many people before him. And this offer, as weird as it could be, if not even impossible, was still something he could barely think of without being either repulsed or worried.
- I am scheduled for execution in a few hours. he said
- And ? Armand tilted his head
- Well. I don’t think I should…-
- It is a choice you no longer have. Accept my offer, and your execution will never happen. You will leave with me to a safe haven, away from all this mess. You well serve someone who needs you. A little girl who needs you. I will grant you immortality, mon enfant.
These words echoed in his mind like a sweet melody, a call. Immortality. The ability to continue helping people, to defy death, to live on, never to stop, never to even think about a failure, as his father often called him. But at what cost ? Anything, Philippe would do anything to survive this night, he would do anything to be able to pursue his desire to help people. He would do anything to escape Death. He looked up slightly, brushing his brown curls from his face.
- And if I refuse ? he asked, his voice sounding like a murmur
- Then you will indeed be shot in the morning. Armand shrugged with a nonchalant sigh. And that beautiful soul of yours will simply cease to exist with a bullet in his head. A sad ending for such a hopeful man like you. Destined to a beautiful future people would envy.
Philippe closed his eyes, looking through the small barred window before a tear ran down his cheek. Where was the choice anyway ? Anything was better for him, anything. He wanted to survive, to keep helping, he wanted to keep being a medic, and he did not care about the cost anymore. He did not. He just wanted to live. Whatever Armand was suggesting was both terrifying and exciting, and he closed his eyes again before looking back at Armand. And all of the sudden, he did no longer look like a man, but like a child.
- Will it hurt ? Philippe asked, fear in his eyes
- A little bit. But I’ll make sure to keep it as painless as I can.
- Then I accept.
Armand smiled and nodded. This young man was going to be a maintenance man, mostly, but his purpose would be to help fledglings to survive in Saint-Cyr, heal them… and quite possibly heal Olympe in case of an emergency. Armand was less present, and someone trustworthy was definitely what he needed to ensure his beautiful caged bird would not fall into something worse than the spiral she was already in.
- Lay down, mon petit.
Armand softly helped Philippe lay on the bed and bit his neck, draining him dry, sparing some of his blood in a small flask he was going to give Olympe. Philippe whimpered, tears rolling down his cheeks when he felt life being drained from him, his breath stopping, his heart slowing down rapidly… until Armand gently helped him up a little for him to be half-seated, forcing his head against his shoulder. Philippe’s entire body was limp and devoid of any will to move, even a little. His vision was blurry, which caused Armand to smile further at his disorientation. He proceeded opening a bottle containing some thick red liquid. Olympe’s blood.
- Open your mouth, slowly. There we go.
Philippe barely acknowledged the order and did so, swallowing Olympe’s blood before feeling dizzy, trembling, he gasped, feeling life exit his body, and clung onto Armand while he started shaking, burying his head against his shoulder. He could hear his heartbeat slow down, his lungs stopped working. And Armand, all along, did what he would have done to any other fledgling that was transforming into his embrace : he held him. Rubbing his hair, whispering soothing words until Philippe’s eyes, once coloured like the ocean, turned icy blue, and a loud gasp was heard in the prison cell.
- Welcome, Philippe. he cooed at the newborn vampire
For the night, Philippe was kept at the Theatre des Vampires, the only safe place to escape German troops during the curfew. He slept in Armand’s coffin for the entire day and night, with Celeste having been selected to watch over his recovery, until being woken up to be taken to Saint-Cyr. Armand made sure to have him washed and clean-shaved, his hair trimmed and brushed perfectly, his clothes changed for better. He needed to look at least presentable for the rest of the fledglings, despite Armand knew Olympe would not even notice this new presence anyway. It was Estelle who picked some better clothes for him, out of Santiago’s personal wardrobe that was still very small, making sure to promise him that his apartment at Place des Vosges would remain occupied and paid for in case of an emergency.
During the ride to Saint-Cyr, Armand explained Philippe about his mission as a maintenance man, what he would have to do and what not. He also explained him that, as a medic, he would be in charge to check on all fledglings in the palace. The thirty three of them, as he said. Philippe had nodded, still distracted by each sound, each giggle, each distant thought he could hear from anyone around him, human or not. When he settled in the Chateau de Romanus, Philippe was quick to find his place, managing his best to quit acquainted with a vast majority of the fledglings that lived there. But still, he never met the « little girl » Armand had once described him, and whenever he asked, other fledglings would shake their heads.
- There’s no little girl in here. they would say. Only grown vampires.
By day, he was a ghost in the echoing silence of the palace, confined to the hidden room with the rest of the male fledglings, while female ones shared another hidden room across the corridor. By night, he was the palace's new maintenance man but also, due to his past profession, a part-time medic. He repaired antique mechanisms nobody wished to touch, cleaned and polished furniture until his reflection would be seen and, possibly too often, tended the mundane injuries of the other fledglings, whether accidental or voluntary. His hands, once trained to suture wounds and mend broken bones, now cleaned away the dust of decades and replaced a faulty latch. He did not mind much, he obeyed Armand’s command. He respected him too much to complain, he had saved his life, after all !
Just a week after having entered into the Chateau de Romanus, Philippe accidentally met her. He met Olympe. He was tasked with cleaning the floor of a private gallery, adjacent to her rooms. While he was trying his absolute best to polish the floor, a group of fledglings passed by in a haste, not a word was being said. they carried an empty silver bowl and several empty crystal vials. Then, Olympe appeared calmly, almost floating, like a ghost. An ancient spirit hidden in the body of a woman who would never age.
Armand had described her as a little girl, but a woman had appeared instead, forever frozen at age twenty-five, having naturally stopped aging at the age the human’s brain was supposed to stop developing. She was forty-two years old, her auburn haired pinned carefully in Marcel waves, dressed in an ivory dress that looked awfully outdated for a woman of 1944, with a low waistline and a loose top, a skirt going towards her ankle and, mostly, lace gloves she usually wore so often. She moved with an ethereal grace, he feet barely touching the ground, and did not look at him. She simply made her way to a nearby room where the boy who had worked for Armand for so so many years proceeded to help her sit and draw her blood. Olympe had grown accustomed to this, looking ahead, her icy blue eyes focused on something beyond the walls of the palace, behind the curtains, possibly.
Philippe, hidden in the shadows, felt immediately attracted to this young woman, like a magnet. He noted her stillness, the unnatural calm in a situation not many people enjoyed and even dreaded, but felt incredibly captivated by her aura, this presence, almost magical, if not unreal. He could not help but stare, hidden away, as the small vials were getting filled with her blood, some to be given to Armand for the following hunts for fledglings, some to be stored away in case of an emergency. And Olympe remained there, not even bothering about it, not even acknowledging she was being stared at. She was too used to it anyway.
- I see you've found something to entertain you.
- Agh !
Armand had appeared nearby Philippe and proceeded closing the door leading to the room where Olympe was. He proceeded looking back at Armand, his eyes as wide as the moon shining outside, petrified about having done something bad. And Armand’s stern gaze, devoid of any emotion, did not help.
- M-Maître, I was- Philippe began
- Staring at my creation, I know. Armand nodded, a hint of possessiveness in his tone. This young woman is the reason why you are here, the reason why you’re still on Earth.
- I… I thought she was a child. You said she was a little girl.
- It doesn’t change anything. Do not look upon her in that way. She is not for you. You will forget this moment and attend to your other duties. There is a lot of cleaning to do.
Without even another word, Armand left Philippe to his duties. He proceeded cleaning the floor again, polishing it longly, expecting Olympe to walk out again, but she never did. She did not exit the rooms that were assigned to her, possibly out of boredom or because she simply refused to, which was often a reason for her constant isolation. Later, in the headquarters he shared with other male fledglings, Philippe bent over to Pierre’s coffin. Pierre was charged of bringing blood to Olympe every now and then and was one of the rare fledglings to be able to exit the palace.
- Hey. Who is that woman who gets her blood drawn there ? Philippe asked
- Oh ? It’s Mademoiselle Olympe. The Headmistress. She is the Maître’s protégée. Nobody knows how she was made, they say she was born a vampire. And he brought her from New Orleans where she was living with an ancient one… I don’t remember. Listan ? Lestan ?
- Lestat, Pierre. another fledgling, Vincent, groaned. We are not supposed to talk about it.
- Well. If Monsieur de Lachan is to stay with us, he needs to know. We don’t know much about here anyway, sorry to tell you.
- Yeah… a third fledgling, Pham, whispered. She rarely talks to anyone aside from the Maître and some members of the Paris coven. When she talks to us, it’s when she needs something or in moments of carnal pleasure. Otherwise ? She’s just a silent woman, a ghost. If not worse. Nobody knows her. And I even doubt she knows anything about herself. That’s probably why she is this cold with people.
Philippe nodded, registering every single information in a corner of his memory. He needed to know her, unlike the rest of them. There was something magnetic he could feel, not love. Sheer admiration, a desire to help. And he knew Olympe had to be helped. From the moment he had set eyes on her, he could feel it he had to help her, to heal her, to provide her with a presence that was not the one of Armand. And what the rest of the fledglings had told him only fuelled his intrigue. The next days, he thought about her instead of resting. He knew there was little to chance for them to even talk someday, but he still could not get her out of his mind. He had seen her just for a few seconds, and it felt like he had known her since birth.
Just a few weeks later, Philippe heard the sharp scream of someone outside, burning at dawn. He rushed towards the door but, blocked by sunlight, was only met with a pile of ashes. It was Marcel Valiant, one of the strongest fledglings of the palace, serving as a guard. He had decided to go outside to see a final sunrise. Philippe buried him after dawn, and Armand came to see him, causing the rest of the fledglings to return to their activities.
- Philippe. he nodded. You will replace Marcel as Olympe’s guard. You will serve her directly. It is an honour, Philippe. An immense honour.
- Do I need to say anything to her ?
- No, your silence should be enough.
Armand led him to the gallery where Philippe had first seen Olympe. She was standing there, gazing at one of the portraits. The one of a man with blonde hair, looking about Santiago’s age, possibly Marius de Romanus himself, whom she had never met, or at least not yet. She did not turn to Armand when he entered, too focused into staring at the portrait which, in away, reminded her of Lestat, even if she had mostly forgotten about him, her clouded mind, filled with gaps of memories that had been shattered over the years by Armand’s constant lies.
- Olympe, ma petite colombe. Armand announced softly, making sure Philippe would acknowledge Olympe was still rather young. Marcel has died this morning.
- I told him to join his wife. Olympe nodded, her voice distant
- Yes. And I decided to bring you a new personal guard.
Olympe proceeded to turn her head, her icy blue eyes met Philippe’s. He looked younger, possibly around her real age, kindness radiated from his eyes. He was not as rough as Marcel, or as cold as the rest of the male fledglings. Something else radiated form him, something beautiful that had accidentally triggered an emotion nobody had seen in a while, not even Armand. At least in a trivial situation like this one, meeting a new guard after the last one had decided, per her advice, to expose himself to sunrise in order to join his deceased wife.
She smiled.
Even Armand did not believe it.
- Bienvenue, Monsieur. she nodded gently, approaching Philippe and holding out her hand for him to shake it. I am Olympe de Valmont, your maker.
Philippe took a few seconds to process how sweet her voice had just sounded. So ethereal, so lovely, like the one of a skilled singer. Her smile, so genuine and beautiful, made his undead heart stop beating for a moment. She was absolutely not cold as he expected. He gathered his thoughts before catching her hand and shaking it softly.
- Philippe de Lachan, Mademoiselle. he managed to say. I’m honoured.
- Please. Olympe shrugged. Don’t be. You’ll actually find it pretty boring.
Philippe smiled and nervously chuckled. Armand, however, made sure to limit this interaction. He gently coaxed Olympe to go to the library, having brought her a special edition of Oscar Wilde’s book « The Happy Prince and Other Tales » he had managed to get via his connexions with the United Kingdom, remaining alone with Philippe when she left them.
- Your duties are simple. You are to be her constant shadow whenever she leaves her room. You will ensure her safety, you will fulfil her every need, and you will ensure that she never leaves the confines of the palace. The world is at war against us, and Olympe is a prize many would kill to have.
- Yes, Maître.
- And I shall not tolerate you trying to deviate her from her duty as a pureblood. Nor being too close to her emotionally.
Again, he nodded. Armand’s words sounded more terrifying than an actual command or, to his memory, the Gestapo agents who had caught him a few months ago and told him he was going to be executed. Philippe was a smart man who could feel how possessive Armand was of this young woman, but also how devoted Olympe was to him. She seemed to love Armand deeply, to trust him, to respect him. Not because of his age and him being an ancient being, but because, to her eyes, he was keeping her safe, sheltered from the outside world who wished her dead.
However, Philippe was a medic before having been a maintenance man and a personal guard. He had dedicated his entire life to help people, to heal them, to listen to them… to study them. And Olympe’s unique existence was worth an entire essay to his eyes. She was a sweet creature, a lovely face that looked like she had been made of porcelain, icy blue eyes filled with melancholy and hopelessness. He could feel her solitude, her pain regarding so many different things, but the numbness to the passage of time. Philippe was not blind to the fact that this palace was filled with stuff that were, at least, crafted twenty years ago, if not even more. Like Olympe’s favourite gramophone, for instance.
- And you will not attempt anything shady against her. Armand said. Do you understand ? No sneaking her out unless I accept it, which I definitely wont. At least not for the time being.
- Yes, Maître, of course.
Armand nodded, but Philippe kept analysing this situation too much. He understood that Armand did not view Olympe as a being, but rather as a prisoner, as a possession. The Headmistress was, in fact, a bird in a golden cage, kept away from the outside world for him to conduct his experiments on her. Philippe knew a lot about these methods used to keep someone under control : Instilling fear, telling them lies, telling them the world as against them. This was exactly what Armand had done to Olympe. While not having physically abused him like Santiago had done, he was constantly abusing her mentally, manipulating her with his countless lies to keep her here. And despite Philippe was in his early thirties, his outside point of view of their dynamic was what had triggered Armand’s sudden concern. Philippe was young, yes, but he was smart, possibly as smart as Lestat was.
- Good. Armand concluded
Philippe would obey Armand’s command, becoming Olympe’s official personal guard that night. He respected him for having granted him the possibility to survive, but felt a strange resentment towards him because of what he was witnessing whenever Armand was visiting the palace. Armand would always have Olympe feed on him, coax her into having her blood drawn, tell her how horrible the outside world was, causing her to be even scared to look through the window. Philippe had no say in it, silently standing in a shadowy corner of each room Olympe would walk into. Due to the luxury she was living in, he had expected her to be a little spoiled, but it was quite the contrary. She was, despite her strange birth Nature had rejected, the epitome of kindness.
Every night, she would ask him how he was doing. She would even share the blood other fledglings were bringing her. With him, she was smiling, even laughing, something she had done rarely these past twenty-five years. She did not see him as a servant, nor as a potential love interest. She viewed this young man as a friend, someone gentle enough to help her in her crippling solitude. She started feeling embarrassed whenever he had to keep an eye on her in the orgies Armand was still organising for Olympe to feel some carnal pleasure like a regular human being. But as of 1945, she decided to stop having these, preferring to be alone, or in smaller gatherings. Vampire ones were less numerous as the war was about to end, but she still managed to push through it, having developed what appeared to be social anxiety over the years.
But Philippe went past it anyway. At dusk, when the sun was about to rise, he always made sure Olympe’s coffin was slightly opened, knowing about her fear of being locked away and unable to go out from a small space. He had heard Santiago tell the rest of the coven about it, back on the day when he had been brought to the Theatre des Vampires and slept there to rest after his turning. He always made sure she was having enough blood in her room in case of an emergency, he always made sure to support her when she was worried, or to withdraw when she did not need his company. The ambiguity of this woman was what was strange yet interesting to learn about. She needed care while secluding herself further.
One night, he spotted Olympe in a study, staring at a while canvas. It had been a while since she had painted, probably a few years, but Olympe did not count it anyway, having lost the notion of time, perpetually trapped in 1920, the year where her freedom had turned into a wall that surrounded her. He headed over to a cupboard and brought her painting tools, gently setting them on a side table for her to reach, causing her to tilt her head before looking at him.
- I thought that you maybe would like to paint ? he smiled
- Oh… that’s sweet, thank you. she smiled. But I paint horribly.
- Please, don’t say this. You know, beauty is a subjective concept. The Maître told me you were an excellent painter, I would like to see it myself.
Olympe nodded and shrugged before proceeding to paint a beautiful representation of a garden between walls, with a fountain in the middle. Magnolias and jasmines, decorating most of it, candlelights on a table she painted close to what appeared to be an incinerator. This was the garden of the Rue Royale townhouse, where she had lived for so long before having been brought here. She could still remember it, she her shattered memories piecing themselves together to create this representation of the garden she used to love spending time into.
- Beautiful. Philippe was shocked to see how quick she had painted such a beautiful piece. And very detailed.
- I used to walk in this garden, very often. Alone, or with my father. He had hair like gold, that’s all I can recall.
After some time, she proceeded painting a man, his back turned. He had golden hair going down his shoulders, dressed in a fancy suit. It was Lestat, but she refused to say his name, believing what Armand had said about him. Philippe nodded, acknowledging the man was her father until she painted another man on the right, close to the fountain, dark-skinned, wearing a beige suit. And then, a girl on the edge of the fountain, dark-skinned too, wearing a sailor dress and red bows in her hair.
- And who are these people ? Philippe asked
- This is my second father, and my sister. Olympe nodded calmly, not even bothering on how unconventional the family would have looked to the eyes of someone like Philippe, a catholic. Louis and Claudia. We lived together in New Orleans.
- A black man ? Your father was a…
- Yes. But my father also loved women, in a way that was only his. But yes, this black man, here, was the man he chose to live with.
- This… this is very interesting.
Philippe analysed the painting. Ever since he had become a vampire, he did not value religion as much as he had done back in a day. Olympe’s family was unconventional, strange to his eyes, but he loved listening to her stories about these people she seemed to miss deeply. Especially her sister, Claudia, a vampire forever trapped in the body of a fourteen-year-old girl despite she was almost as old as Olympe. Philippe could listen to Olympe talk about her family for hours, he wished he could bring them all to her just to see her happy. But he had other ideas in mind to make Olympe smile further, especially once Olympe told him she had practiced ballet for a while and had stopped after being brought to Saint-Cyr.
One night, he had managed to get her a vinyl record of Giselle, Lestat’s favourite ballet, but also the first one she had seen when she was four years old. He watched her fingers move slightly and then proceeded to coax her into dancing. Olympe initially refused, but could not help it. Despite it had been more than twenty years since her last performance, her strength was uncanny, so were her moves. She hopped around the library, did a few pirouettes, twirled elegantly for Philippe’s delight. And at this moment, he felt it. He felt how close they were. Not romantically, no. They were becoming close friends, and it had been a while since Olympe had ever been this close to someone. Especially to someone like Philippe.
Very often, she asked him about his family, to which Philippe responded with the same answer : They are dead or gone missing. She asked him about his job as a medic, she loved watching him heal some fledglings in the palace, and even requested to have him nearby her whenever her blood had to be drawn. This friendship felt like a threat for Armand who had no say about it, having himself started a relationship with none other than Louis de Pointe du Lac himself, in mid 1945.
Louis and Claudia had fled New Orleans for Europe after Lestat’s attempted murder, travelled around the area during WWII until settling in Paris just recently. Louis had met Armand in a park late at night, and had been welcomed to the Theatre des Vampires with Claudia, where Lestat’s portrait was still exposed as the cofounder of the coven. This had led Louis and Claudia to keep the attempted murder of Lestat a secret, as killing, or even try to kill their maker was considered a crime leading to a death sentence. Nonetheless, neither Louis nor Claudia were aware about Olympe’s presence so close, in the same country, just a few cities away, easy to reach with a motorcycle.
Armand forbid his coven to even speak about Olympe, preferring to get to know Louis and Claudia more before revealing them the existence of a vampire that was born undead, despite they already knew about her anyway. They were still looking for her but they did not mention anything to the coven, not trusting them enough either. Santiago had often expressed his utter disdain for Louis never conforming himself to the laws and Armand’s leadership. Everyone was well aware of Louis and Armand’s hidden relationship, which caused enough jealousy to many coven members due to Louis receiving preferential treatment compared with the rest of them. But the most outraged person was quite possibly Claudia who, upon learning about Louis having become Armand’s new partner, lashed out, forced to wear her Baby Lulu’s costume all the time.
- Well, good for fucking you ! You and him ! Him and you ! You and fucking him ! Picked another one over me !
Louis relationship with Armand was a subject that often made Claudia fight against him until she resigned to it. Armand did not like her having been made so young and, also, for being so similar to Lestat in terms of behaviour. She was as hypocrite as he was, she had similar ways to talk, similar ways to act. The gazes she was sending, the way she was hunting. Armand did not know about their connections with Olympe, neither that Louis was a second father to her, nor that Claudia was her sister. Louis had never mentioned her, but Claudia did tell Armand once about Olympe, not naming her. About that poor girl that had been taken away. She had told him when he had pinned her down on a wall and forced her to wear her Baby Lulu’s dress due to her poor performance at the Theatre des Vampires.
- You know, if my sister was there, she would have kicked you in the balls for doing this to me.
- Oh. Well. Your sister is not here to do so, unfortunately. Baby Lulu.
Claudia, ever the rebel she had always been, fiercer than Lestat himself, had found a way to feel some subtle freedom away from the coven’s strict rules, away from Santiago’s judgemental sights and snarky comments. She was not appreciated there, living on borrowed time due to her having been turned into a vampire when she was a child. And her entire existence was a crime. She had found a seamstress, Madeleine, whose shop still managed to remain open, despite the Nazi crosses frequently drawn on it for her having smiled to a German soldier during the occupation. Claudia would spend hours there after her performances, not just getting new dresses, but talking to Madeleine, a woman who treated her not as a child, but as an equal. As the woman she really was. Claudia was in her forties, stuck in the body of a child. This had felt like a random fact about her until very recently, when most of her life started to consist into being belittled by the entire world. By strangers and the coven, and sometimes by Louis himself.
One night, as Madeleine took her measures for a new dress Claudia had requested to just change a little from her frilly blue Baby Lulu dress she was forced to wear all the time. While Madeleine started rummaging though yellow fabrics she had. Cotton, linen, silk, lace… Claudia had requested a dress coloured like the sun she barely missed, something womanly, something different. She passed her fingers on the cotton fabric, perfect looking, even a little shiny. She remembered when Lestat referred to her as his sunshine.
- I need a dress like this. she said softly. A yellow dress. A yellow that is as bright as sunshine. My father always told me I was his sunshine.
- Oh, that’s lovely. Madeleine nodded
- I once had a sister... she was his sunshine, too. She's been gone for a long time.
Madeleine tilted her head empathically. She proceeded to lean on the table on which she had disposed the fabric. All these hours she had spent with Claudia and she had never heard her talk about her family. No. She had never heard anything about her « Father », her sister. Only about Louis, whom she always introduced as a friend or a brother, rather than a father he once had been to her, back in New Orleans, when things were still going great.
- She’s gone ? she asked. Did she leave, or…-
- Yeah. Claudia said, gazing at her reflection for a moment. It’s been a while. One night, she just left and we had no sign of her. Not one of them. But I’m sure she is still alive. I don’t know. I just can’t find her.
- Then she is. If you believe she is still alive, then she definitely is. Your brain wouldn't crazy to tell you to look for a ghost.
Madeleine was right. Claudia was not an idiot, and her brain certainly wasn’t either, not after all these years. Contrary to Louis, Claudia had never stopped believing Olympe was alive. She had tried for so many years to reach out to her mentally, only to be met with silence. But she could feel it, she could feel her sister was still alive. And Madeleine’s affirmation made her push through, further, deeper. She knew there was something she could reach, perhaps even her older sister herself. And never ever told Louis about these numerous hours during daytime she spent trying to reach out for Olympe, each time breaking a new wall to get to her. She knew it would work. And Madeleine had triggered her will to find her once and for all.
As of March 1950, Claudia asked Madeleine if she wanted to be her companion, which she accepted. Claudia, due to her small body, could not turn her, so she asked Armand who refused, being repulsed towards the idea of having a fledgling of his own, despite the peculiar process he was using to create new fledglings for Olympe, draining them dry and giving them her blood so they would not be related to him. So, instead, Madeleine was turned into a vampire by Louis himself. However, Armand had been forced by Santiago to betray Louis and Claudia after the coven had found her journal in which she had written Lestat’s final words with his blood. He was about to give the coven their location to have them brought back to the Theatre des Vampires.
Claudia and Madeleine wanted to leave Paris to travel around Europe, then possibly move back to the United States Madeleine wished to visit. But before leaving, they had decided to join Louis and Armand at a cafe to say goodbye. They laughed, they smiled, the ladies were put at ease, Madeleine even made a few witty comments. They were alright, they were going to start a new life, a new adventure.
Armand smiled, gazing at Louis with fondness before bending over to reach his ear, letting his soft breathe tickle him a little while the ladies just kept chatting.
- Taking a stretch. he whispered, dropping a delicate kiss on Louis’ temple. Order me another, love. he said
Time went too fast. Armand left to stand at the door, Santiago arrived with a bunch of bags, the coven followed. Armand froze the entire cafe for the coven to successfully abduct them. They screamed, kicked when they got seized, when their bodies got trapped into these huge backs made to carry a grown human being. Armand did not even look, well aware of what he had done, of the betrayal he had orchestrated in a reunion that was mostly made of laughs and smiles.
They were taken to the Theatre des Vampire were they got tortured separately. After freeing himself from his bad, Louis witnessed Claudia kicking until being thrown in the metal crate where rats started feeding on her flesh, causing her to scream and cry while banging on the crates walls. Santiago, on the other hand, proceeded to play mind games with Madeleine to torture psychically, only worse than what he had done with Olympe. Claudia screamed louder and louder until they brought the three on stage, and, while she mentally sobbed for her sister, in a final act of hope, knowing her end was just too near to be avoided, she finally heard something. A voice, as sweet as Chopin’s most beautiful melody, a voice she had not heard int he last thirty years.
- Claudia ? Olympe’s voice echoed in her mind. Claudia ? Is that you ?
Chapter 8: Spring
Notes:
Yes, a scene in there is absolutely based on Max Richter's recomposition.
Chapter Text
Olympe was reading a book in the study while Philippe had left the room to fetch for some blood in the grand kitchen where stocks had been made by Celeste recently, having decided to switch her genre for something more philosophical tonight. Armand had brought her a German edition of Emmanuel Kant’s « Kritik der Urteilskraft », or « Critique of the Power of Judgment » per her request to read books in other languages than French and English. She had the opportunity to read a few books in Russian but also in Arabic, but tonight, Kant was the author she wanted to study more. She enjoyed this time away from the rest of her fledglings, the private library of the palace was her favourite location to simply rest on her own without feeling watched over, or criticised for her relationship with Philippe. They were close, only Philippe was able to make her smile. Especially when he imitated various accents when she was reading around him.
Over the last few months, Armand's visits had become less frequent, and mostly shorter, but the sessions of her blood being drawn, instead, kept growing longer, causing Olympe to remain in her rooms more often, almost fainting more than once for an experiment that was almost finished. At least, this was probably the reason why Armand was around less often than before.
While he used to come several times a week to keep Olympe company and fill her mind with his countless lies about the outside world, he now only appeared every two weeks for a short time. His relationship with Louis, which Olympe knew nothing about, took up too much of his time for him to care for his magnificent pureblood, who was safe in the hands of Philippe, a man he was forcing himself to trust despite the deep friendship between Olympe and him. A friendship that Armand didn't greatly tolerate, but had accepted nonetheless, having no choice since he was not entirely there to fully control her. He still used his abilities to talk to her mentally, every night, to ensure she was doing fine at the palace, promising her an new book when he would come back.
Olympe was still terrified of the outside world, but with Philippe coaxing her, had managed to look through the window to see what was outside. From her fear was emerging a soft curiosity, a wish to leave, but a wall of thoughts was avoiding her to do so. She could not leave this place, not without Armand telling her it was time. But in her library, hidden behind the heavy velvet curtains which blocked any view of the outside, while she was reading, she heard a voice in her head. A scream. The scream of someone she had known, someone she had been close to. Her sister.
- Olympe ! Claudia shouted
She shivered, looking around. At first, she thought it was her imagination, but Claudia had managed to pierce through the countless barriers and brick walls Armand had built around her mind to avoid people reaching out to her. Olympe titled her head, shaking it before Claudia’s voice screamed again, louder this time. And suddenly, Olympe understood it. She understood Claudia had just managed to reach out to her, after three decades of having her isolated from the rest of the world. Olympe stood and promptly walked towards the chimney, trying to open her mind further to be able to talk with her.
- Claudia ? Claudia ? Is that you ?
- Oh my god, Olympe ! Olympe ! You can hear me ! You can hear me ! God, I missed your voice ! Where are you ?
- In… I think I’m in France. They all talk in French. I can see Versailles’ Grand Trianon from a window. Where are you ?
- You’re in France too ? And you’re alive ! Gods I missed you ! So much, so much !
- What ? « Too » ? Claudia, where are you ?
Olympe’s eyes welled with tears suddenly. She felt a little dizzy, placing her hand on the wall nearby, both smiling and about to cry. Claudia had managed it. She had managed to get to her. She had managed to find a gap, a breech, anything that allowed them to communicate, after three entire decades desperately trying to talk to Olympe again !
- I’m going to tell Louis you’re alive ! Claudia’s voice echoed. Oh my god he won’t believe me !
- Claudia, where are you ? You have to tell me where you are, please !
- I don’t have time. Olympe, they’ll kill me soon.
- What ?! Who ?!
Olympe’s slow heartbeat started increasing at a frightening rate, she leaned on the wall, clutching on the wallpaper, both happy and desperate.
- Claudia, where are you ? she insisted mentally. Please, tell me where you are, I’ll come and get you, I’ll be there in a minute !
- I don’t have time, sister ! I love you, I love you ! I love y-
- Claudia ?
The silence that had suddenly invaded Olympe’s mind, she kept calling her sister. Her long nails dug a hole in the wallpaper, she kicked a chair nearby, passed a hand nervously in her perfectly brushed 1920s updo. Her entire body went rigid when she understood what had just happened. Her hands moved to her pale face. Tears of blood started to flowing on her cheeks, she let out a loud scream of agony that melted into her heavy sobs. Sobs she had not shared with anyone for a while, which caused Philippe to let go of his tray with glasses of blood and run inside the room, placing his hands on her shoulders.
- Olympe ! What is it ? What happened ? Are you hurt ?!
- She's gone ! Olympe sobbed. My sister ! My poor Claudia ! She’s gone !
Without another word, understanding this sudden cry, Philippe proceeded to hug Olympe close to him, enough to break her bones in the process, had he decided to do so. He held her for hours he did not even count, watching his white shirt be stained with her red tears, rocking her back and forth when she tried explaining him what had happened, how she had managed to have an established mental communication with her younger sister, how devastated she was about not having been able to be there to say goodbye to her. But all these words came into a gibberish mixture of French, Arabic and English with a hint of Italian, her brain processing what had just happened. Olympe had lived for thirty years secluded in a palace, unable to reach to her family mentally, and only Claudia, that evening, had managed to do it. Only Claudia had managed to break Armand’s invisible walls.
But poor Claudia, too excited about it, while holding Madeleine who crumbled into ashes in her arms as the sun was burning them, did not manage to tell Louis. And, while looking at Lestat before her body vanished into ashes, she looked at a final figure of comfort, telling him, by a glance, that their research were not vain. He was her father, who had never been one in the first place. And that night, the coven was about to see Louis’ rage.
Helped by Armand after having been sentenced to be banished, or entombed, Louis had escaped his prison to burn the entire Theatre des Vampires to the ground, killing all vampires that did not manage to flee, including Santiago he decapitated without a remorse after he told him what they had done to Claudia’s ashes. Had Louis known what he had done to Olympe during her seclusion, he would have done worse. So much worse.
- Say that shit about Claudia to my face. he said, kicking Santiago’s head
Later that same night, Armand and Louis found Lestat alone in what appeared to be Magnus’ lair and, to his face, announced they were a couple. Lestat remained expressionless, still broken inside due to him having been a direct witness of his child’s death on stage, a death Armand was him for, despite he had little to do with it. And right before they left, Lestat sighed, with a sass that was only his, watching his former lover follow Armand back to the outside world, simply huffed.
- Enjoy him. Let's see how long it holds. he said nonchalantly
The lie had been built. Armand had saved Louis, not Lestat who, using his mind gift, had managed to manipulate the audience’s final judgement into banishing Louis, having lacked energy to do the same for both Claudia and Madeleine. Lestat knew about this lie, but accepted it. He accepted to let Louis go with a man who would either break him further, or heal him from the relationship the two of them had been in before his attempted murder. But taking Lestat’s former lover and companion was not enough for Armand who wanted more of it. Much more, just to make Lestat suffer. He had decided to meet up with him in the most strange place of Paris, a place where humans ventured only in groups, only to lie to his face again, with a topic he was sure would break Lestat down into tiny pieces of the flamboyant man he once had been. Olympe. His Olympe.
In the depths of the Catacombs of Paris, Armand found Lestat, alone, still processing the terrible news of Armand now being Louis’ companion, standing nearby a set of skulls on display. He looked exhausted after the trial, having been subjected to a mental torture himself, having sobbed after Louis had announced his relationship with Armand, having sobbed after having been a direct witness to Claudia’s death. The catacombs were a place of comfort for Lestat who wished to grieve peacefully, away from human’s sight.
- Lestat. Armand purred, crossing his hands behind her back. I bring you news.
- What news, Armand ? You took the man I love, my daughter has just died to the hands of the coven, what else do you want ?
- I have news about your daughter, eldest one.
Lestat’s eyes widened, his pupils dilated suddenly. He hurried over to Armand, grabbing him by the collar, scanning his face as tears started welling up. He wanted to know it, he wanted to hear it. To hear that his daughter was alive after all these years of constant research.
- You found her ? You found Olympe ?
- Olympe de Valmont ? Yes. I’m afraid to announce you she had passed away.
- What ?!
- It has been a while already. She passed away a few years after arriving here. Exposure to sunlight.
- Non… Non !
Armand simply shrugged, having rehearsed this moment in his head for nights, countless nights, just to see Lestat’s smirk, his nonchalant expression, his beautiful blue eyes go from sheer happiness to devastation. And, as good as an actor he was, he had even proceeded to take one of Olympe’s prized possessions she had brought with her from New Orleans after having been abducted. A small pendant with her name on it.
- NON ! Lestat screamed, throwing Armand on a wall.
- I wish it wasn’t true. But unfortunately, she died right before me. I warned her about sunlight, I did ! But poor little thing refused to trust me. My pureblood was a waste, in the end.
- LIAR !
- I tried saving her. I did. But it did not work, I’m sorry.
Armand smoothly reached into his pocket and took out a the beautiful golden pendant that belonged to Olympe, one of the countless accessories she had in her collection of jewellery she mostly never wore due to her being constantly loving old clothes from an era that was now too far in time to anyone’s eyes. Lestat let go of him, grabbing the pendant and suddenly, his crumbled on the ground like a destroyed edifice, his needs hitting the bones they were walking onto in a loud thud.
- Non… non… non, non, non…
Tiny droplets of blood started falling on his pale hands as Olympe’s soft baby coos echoed in his brain like a distant melody. His memory started tricking him into hearing Olympe’s voice from different places in the catacombs. He could hear her laugh, talk, babble, giggle, sing, cry. He could hear Joséphine and Georges weep over the situation, guilt plaguing him further. He had lost it all. He had lost the man he loved, he had lost his daughters. And, once more time, just like a curse, he was all alone. All over again.
- Mon bébé… Mon pauvre bébé… he whimpered
Lestat’s first whimpers turned into silent cries, but he could not contain them. Grief had swallowed him too fast. a first scream came out of his mouth as Armand left him, a smirk on his face. Then, a second one. And a third one. Until he kicked into a pile of bones, realising that everything he had wanted in his life, a family, a protection, was now gone forever. Louis was no longer his, Claudia and Olympe were dead. He was going to live with he ghosts of his family for the rest of his life, and at this moment, as a dying king in a castle of bones, all he wanted was to finish it all.
- Joséphine, oh ! Oh Joséphine ! he sobbed like a child, punching the nearby skull away. I’m sorry ! I’m sorry ! Je n’ai pas pu la sauver !… J’aurais… j’aurais du…!
He remained there, in Paris, just for a few more days, not even aware that, soon enough, his daughter would walk just above his head without him knowing. Without him sensing anything, having shut himself down completely, to everyone. To Louis, to Armand. To the world. He wanted to go back to New Orleans, and he would hide there. Grieve there. Forever alone.
A week later, in the quietness of the Place des Vosges’s shadowy corners of the restaurants by late afternoon, Louis had decided to meet Armand. Not to prepare their way out just yet, just to talk about this horrible grief plaguing him. Just like Lestat, he believed the same thing. That not only Claudia was dead, but also Olympe. And while they chatted carefully hidden away from sunlight, Louis left out a heavy sigh, watching a father play with his daughter nearby the central statue of Louis XIV, beautiful decorating the park. The red bricks of the surrounded buildings reminded him of Olympe’s hair colour.
- They’re gone, Armand. Louis said, watching the father and his daughter. My two daughters are gone. My Claudia, my poor Claudia.
- And what’s the name of your second daughter ? Armand smiled while gazing away, placing a hand on Louis’. You never told me about her.
- Oh. That’s because it’s been a while since she’s gone. Her name was Olympe.
Armand moved his head up a little, shifting his hat to look at Louis with surprise. Olympe. Probably a coincidence. This name, despite being French, could have easily been popular in Louisiana. Louis, despite being a gay man, could have fathered a child by accident back when he was a human. But instead of shutting off the subject and moving to another topic after a few blessings, Armand just tilted his head, encouraging Louis to go further into a piece of his backstory he had never heard before.
- Olympe ? he asked, his mental voice a feigned question. You had a daughter named Olympe ?
- Yes. Louis whispered, looking up at the statue. The most beautiful creature I ever saw. She was with Lestat, and I moved in to take her as my own too. He had raised her but she called me « Daddy ». Too often, and I always loved it. She was a pureblood, Lestat never fully told me what it meant. It’s been thirty years already…
- Thirty years since what ?
- Since she left us all.
Armand’s face went from one filled with compassion to the one of a man who had suddenly learnt something rather tragic. This was no coincidence, not at all. The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. The pureblood Lestat had stolen. The child Louis had spoken of. The daughter he, Armand, had willingly locked away and brainwashed for this past thirty years to believe the world was against her, that Lestat was the cause of all this trouble. The daughter he had lied about to Lestat, claiming she was dead just to break him down further. The truth was right before him. He had not just killed Claudia, Louis’ sister or daughter figure, he had also stolen Olympe accidentally from him. From her second father. Her second father who was none other than Louis, his lover, the man with whom he had shared so much for the last five years. The man he wanted to flee with, now that there was no coven, no more rules. And he knew, so much, that Olympe was soon to flee the palace, he could sense her heartbeat from afar.
- Louis… he said with a soft voice. There is someone I’d like to you to meet.
- Someone ? Louis tilted his head. I’m not in a mood to meet anyone, I’m good with you.
- No, not in that sense.
Armand was already planning everything. He had lied so much about it, he had never told Louis about Olympe, not that Louis had told him something either. He had lied to Lestat that she was dead, he had lied to Louis about the reason of his survival was him, and not his former lover who had managed to manipulate crowds just to save him. He had lied to Louis about Lestat being the main cause of Claudia’s death, this lie was about to extent to Olympe and, thankfully enough, she was broken enough for him to say too much. Between the simple repetition of having told her she had willingly chose to come here and possibly a single quote like « Lestat killed Claudia » would be enough words to convince her something had gone wrong.
- Who is this person, Armand ? Louis demanded
- You’ll see soon enough. I promise.
That same evening, at the Château de Romanus in Saint-Cyr, the ground had started shaking violently, making the entirety of the palace vibrate. Echoes of the voice of a girl could be heard around the area, whispers and screams that passed through endless rooms and corridors, causing most of the fledglings to flee or retreat somewhere else. It was not Mother Nature raging against Olympe’s existence, having mostly accepted her presence on her grounds. No, this was something else, someone else. Olympe heard a scream from a corridor and had opened the door leading to it.
- Olympe ! a voice sounded, too high pitched to be recognised
- What the-
- Flee ! Flee !
Olympe had spent the last week grieving, having battled so many suicidal thoughts over the last few days where she gad constantly tried to expose herself to the rising sun, to end the pain. And yet, Philippe had always been here to sense it. He was always quick to notice, which had caused him to sleep with her in her coffin to make sure to stop her before the act. but Philippe had always been there, always stopping her. That call she heard, her name, was enough to make her shiver, but when the grounded started violently shaking, clutched on a nearby column.
- Philippe ! she screamed as a loud crack was heard nearby, as if an entire room had been destroyed. What is happening ?!
Philippe who had been away just for a few minutes to gather a set of white canvases, had sprint through the corridors to join Olympe during the first earthquake, having been stopped mid way when one of the walls had crumbled down right before him, exposing a small area of the corridor to sunlight.
- The castle’s crumbling ! he hurried over and grabbed her hand. We need to go !
- What ?! But we-
- No buts, Olympe ! We need to leave !
Olympe did not have time to protest, Philippe yanked her out of the room in a haste, running with her in the corridors. Walls were crumbling around them, pillars barely held anything in place at all. This earthquake, so precisely localised on the castle’s grounds, was making the entire palace shake. Fledglings could be heard screaming upstairs, probably trapped or accidentally exposed to sunlight. Philippe could not help them this time, his target was to get Olympe out of there. Fledglings were free to leave as much as they wanted, Olympe had not seen the outside world for too long.
- The door to the stables is other there ! Philippe pointed a door at the end of a glass corridor that looked like Versailles’ Galerie des Glaces. Let’s go ! Cars and motorcycles are parked there !
- Motor-what ?!
- You’ll see ! Let’s go !
The windows were slightly tainted in black to avoid the last rays of sunlight to pass through and burn any vampires who dared being around the area. Olympe turned back as they were running, watching the grand hall collapse, gasping of terror when the bricks, shattered columns and broken doors blocked heir way back to the inside. Everything she had known for the last thirty years was disappearing right before her eyes. The earthquake did not stop at all, it kept going. Philippe had managed to drag her halfway through the corridor, when suddenly, it was not a high pitched command she could hear. It was a scream. Claudia’s scream.
- Claudia…! Olympe gasped
Windows started breaking at the sound of this loud scream, Claudia’s spirit was begging her sister to flee this wretched place once and for all. Sunlight poured in like an ocean of deadly gold. There was no more coven, no more rules to abide to, no more Maître, nothing. Olympe had to be set free from it, and Claudia was sure to scare her sister enough to make her run away. The windows all around Olympe and Philippe were shattering, causing both Olympe and Philippe to bend down to protect themselves in the shadows. They managed to make their way outside while the rest of the corridor was now crumbling due to Claudia’s wrath. Her wrath and happiness that Olympe was about to be set free.
- Flee ! her voice was heard
But upon opening the door to the outside, Olympe suddenly froze, unable to set foot in the courtyard. Sun was about to fully disappear in the west, Philippe stood there in the shadows, reaching his hand to her. The earthquake had not stopped, it was still violently going, as if Claudia’s last forces wanted Olympe to be far away from Saint-Cyr, to be free, after so many years spent secluded from the outside world for Armand’s pure selfish experiment.
- I can’t… Olympe panicked. The Maître said I should only leave when he commands !
- Olympe, the castle’s crumbling down ! I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to end up crushed under the weight of these rocks ! Please !
- I…I… I can’t ! The world is at war, they will kill me if they see me ! And... and-
- It’s okay Olympe, it’s okay. I’m right here, it’s okay.
Olympe looked back, noticing the entire corridor was now exposed to sunlight. She took a step forward in the courtyard, a soft wind blew on her, the earthquake stopped immediately. Philippe did not give Olympe time to acknowledge she was outside, he ran straight to the stables to retrieve a motorcycle, the last vehicle that had remained there. And thankfully enough, he knew how to drive one ! He climbed on it, wrapped Olympe in the blanket and helped her behind him, covering their heads with the helmets that had been left there. This was possibly Marcel’s motorcycle, considering how dusty it was, having not been moved in almost six years. Olympe instinctively wrapped her arms around Philippe’s waist as he patted her delicate hand.
- Close your eyes, it’s okay. he smiled. You’ll open them when you’ll be ready.
- Okay…
Olympe closed her eyes and buried her head in Philippe’s shirt as he started driving away, passing by the open gates of the now destroyed Chateau de Romanus, of which some dust was escaping. Quite possibly the unfortunate fledglings that had been stuck there and had been exposed to sunlight, unable to free themselves from the stones crushing them. Philippe kept riding on what appeared to be a country road, making sure to avoid cities in order not to startle Olympe, who could not open her eyes just yet, until finally managing. And suddenly, something felt different, like a surreal dream of something she had known so long ago. Freedom was ahead, and it was certainly an illusion.
She felt the cold wind of an April evening caress her skin and play with her Charleston dress that went bellow her knee, getting her thighs exposed due to the motorcycle's speed. She looked around, her hands clutching on his shirt further, she shifted to sit up straight and looked around and got suddenly mesmerised by everything surrounding her. The sun had just set down, making the sky look like a beautiful painting of heaven, purple, blue, yellow, beige, pink, with a hint of brown and white, making her almost let go of Philippe while she was looking at it. The trees were tall, mostly oaks on this road, with leaves already covering its branches. Golden wheat fields felt endless, never ending in the horizon, causing her to stare further, wishing Philippe would follow them. The valley was beautiful, filled with trees she could see form afar, looking exactly what had seen so often on the paintings of the palace, or even in the books she loved reading still. She held onto Philippe before her right hand let go of him to feel the wind blow on it.
It felt like a dream. She had long forgotten what it felt like, what the outside world even sounded and smelled, how busy everyone was, how nature was still very much alive behind those walls that kept her away from it. She wanted to reach out to everything, but the wind blowing on her was enough for her to stop thinking about anything else. It was spring. The first spring she had the right to experience after almost thirty years secluded in a palace, not allowed to go outside, and, at some point even, not allowed to watch the countryside through the window. It felt surreal, this sudden wave of sensations, as sweet or powerful they could be, almost overwhelmed her.
The road was long enough towards Paris and Philippe did not have the choice to pass through a town on their way to the capital. He had followed road signs to get there and had thankfully dodged every village whenever another possibility was offered, but he could not prevent it anymore. The closer they were to the city, the numerous the towns would be, making it impossible to find a way around them. He had sensed her shift when they were riding on the country road, but he was still worried on how she would react in the presence of regular human beings.
- We’ll have to pass by a town, okay ? he told Olympe. You keep holding onto me.
- Okay ! Olympe nodded
- Good. Everything’s gonna be alright.
Philippe nodded and made his way towards a town close to Paris. He proceeded driving around the area calmly, not wanting to have the police arrest them or give them a fine for speeding. To him, this was a rather common place to pass by, but for Olympe, the story was different, entirely.
She looked around with wide eyes. She had never been in a French town before, only at Le Havre, but the memory of the area was too vague for her to fully remember what it looked like. The end of WWII was still very near, French flags were always decorating balconies in the street they had to go through. Olympe had rarely seen this flag, only in Lestat’s old books when she was a child, and still. This was the very first time she was seeing France… outside. Not through books, not through paintings. No. With her ow eyes.
- Oh my god. she whispered
After a minute or two in town, she spotted cars, so different that the ones she had known before. Bigger, in different shapes, different colours. There were no horses, no carriages. Just cars, only cars. Then, while they were riding around town, she spotted a group of ladies dressed in the latest fashion of 1950. Smaller waists, lovely fitted shirts, full or tight fitting skirts, or even, for some, pants. The shape of the waist was defined beautifully. The hair was worn short for most, others had their locks brushed perfectly, going to their shoulders. Olympe even noticed children, dressed so differently than the ones she had seen before, back in New Orleans, so were men, looking less formal, more practical. While she had remained stuck in a loop that did not go beyond 1920, time had passed outside, things had changed, and so did fashion.
The more they ventured around town, the more Olympe was mesmerised about all the things she had missed when being in Saint-Cyr. Evolving fashions, evolving cars, evolving arts. But mostly, what struck her was when Philippe had to slow down, passing by a shop that was crowded with the very new prototypes of televisions that were currently sold in France. All of them, smaller or bigger, were exposed behind a glass window, switched on, displaying the image of what appeared to be a movie « La Beauté du diable », or « Beauty and the Devil », directed by René Clair. Olympe shivered, almost terrified, and tugged Philippe’s shirt.
- Philippe ! What is that ?
- It’s a television. Philippe calmly answered. You’ve been been to a cinema before you came to France ?
- Yes ?
- Then, let’s just say televisions are small cinema screens.
Olympe nodded and kept looking around, absolutely marvelled by the surrounding. The world had changed so much in these last thirty years, while she was stuck in Saint-Cyr, not even acknowledging that time was passing, and creations, evolutions and destructions were made. She had only heard about WWII briefly despite having been close to sites like Paris or Versailles, and she had so much to catch up with ! So much to learn, so much to understand ! Mankind had progressed while she had been stuck in Saint-Cyr, and she had been the only entity that did not move past 1920.
They kept riding, Paris was crowded, much more than these small towns in which Olympe had gotten a little accustomed to humans, their new fashion, their technology, the way they moved, the way they chatted, the way children were playing. She was experiencing a whirlwind of emotions : joy, sadness, fear, excitement, and not even able to keep herself from bouncing on her seat when Philippe would stop at red lights to have her look around. Olympe analysed shops, the new fashions « en vogue », new faces exposed like Simone Signoret locally and, internationally, a young Marilyn Monroe. Olympe was lost watching everything, so scared, so thrilled to discover a world she never had the opportunity to analyse, a world filled with humans, numerous, possibly so many creeps to feed on.
- We’ll be there soon, hold on.
They arrived at the Place des Vosges rather quickly, Philippe proceeded to park the motorcycle nearby the alcoves to make sure, in case Armand was looking for them, to have them spot it right here. Celeste had promised him to pay for his apartment while he would be working in Saint-Cyr, the place, from the outside, still seemed to be clean. A pouring rain started falling, and Olympe, instead of joining Philippe closer to the building’s entrance door, proceeded to walk outside, close to a tree, to let raindrops fall on her. She opened her arms wide and twirled with a soft laugh, feeling a strange happiness at being wet to bones, finally free from the golden cage she had been locked into for three entire decades.
Philippe did not stop her, he could not bring himself to do so.
He wanted her to feel it. To feel the wind blow on her, to feel the rain fall on her pale skin, to listen to the leaves in the tree crack. He wanted Olympe to feel the freedom that had been taken away from her for so long, for three entire decades. He wanted her to be able to grieve the death of her sister, her poor sister she had no opportunity to say goodbye to. Claudia. Olympe was sure of it, her sister was the rain that fell on her, it felt like an embrace, a warm hug despite the cold wind that still kept blowing on Place des Vosges.
After she had her moment under the pouring rain, her clothes soaked, her hair, once a perfect bob of pinned golden curls, was just a mess. She laughed and ran to him. And, unexpectedly, she did not decide to stop right before him as she would have done. No. Instead, she jumped into his embrace, her arms circling his shoulders, misty-eyed and ready to scream if she could.
- Thank you. she whispered. Oh, thank you.
- Don’t thank me. Philippe chuckled. Please, let’s get inside. I bet you also hate walking around in wet clothes, don’t you ?
- Absolutely.
Philippe smiled and invited her in. And that night, when he rediscovered his apartment, strangely clean, furnished, not even a thing broken, he thanked Celeste mentally for the promise she had made him. The place was exactly the same as the day the Gestapo had caught him. As cozy and comfortable, well arranged, warm, with some dust on a few stuff he never really used before, but with a specific addition to the bedroom, right beneath the bed. A polished coffin, ready to use. And while Philippe played a Vinyl of Edith Piaf on his gramophone, he waltzed with Olympe for a moment.
- This is so wonderful ! Olympe cheered, dancing with him. There are so many things I want to see ! So many things I have to learn about !
- I’ll show you the world, Olympe. he answered with a soft smile. I promise you that.
- The entire world ?
- Yes. You’ll pick a country, and I’ll make sure to get us there.
Olympe was overjoyed. She tripped, giggled, dreamed and thought about all these possibilities, all these gates that had opened for her to see the new world that was around her, awaiting for them to travel. She trusted Philippe more than she trusted anyone, even Armand whom she had mentally contacted to indicate him where they were and what they were up to, but the sun was soon to rise. And he would, unfortunately for him, not be able to get to her in time. His reign on her had ended and, now that she had tasted freedom on her own, there would be no way she would accept being locked away again.
During daytime, Olympe slept in Philippe’s coffin, the latter having decided he would order a new one tomorrow, presumably for his twin brother who had passed away due to some random illness.
That day, Philippe remained hidden behind a pile of chairs and a heavy blanket that shielded him from the sun. Olympe had insisted in sharing the coffin with him, sleeping with the lid a little open, but Philippe insisted in giving her some space. They were not romantically involved, despite a mutual feeling for each other. But Philippe did not push her, he refused. She had been locked in her golden cage for thirty years, and he was ready to wait another thirty years until, he hoped, his passion would be too hard to contain. He wanted Olympe to live, he wanted her to dream. To experience life, to feel everything again. And he would be by her side to guide her, to answer her doubts, to encourage her. Not because of his purpose or a promise he had made to Armand, or simply because he was her fledgling she did not even request, but because he wanted to. He wanted to see her bloom like the most beautiful flower in a vast garden.
Armand communicated mentally on next late afternoon to demand their exact address to come and check on them. Philippe proceeded to provide him his coordinates with a precision that equalled the one of a man who had served in the Résistance. He and Olympe went on a hunt early to collect some blood to heat up for the visit. Philippe did not know if Armand wanted to take Olympe away, or if he simply wanted to make sure they were alright after escaping a crumbling palace.
- You think he will like heated blood ? Olympe tilted her head softly
- Maybe yes, maybe no. If he doesn’t, we’ll simply go on a hunt with him, and we-
The doorbell rang suddenly.
- Seems like he’s eager to come and visit. Olympe said
She shrugged off while pouring the blood in these beautiful cups Philippe had kept in his cupboard, simple but with no value, while he went to open the door. Armand was standing there, dressed in a fancy black suit, his hat already removed. Behind him remained a shadow. Another person. Not taller, about the same size, yet not perceptible enough for Philippe to determine who it was.
- Maître. Philippe nodded
- No need to call me such way, mon enfant. Armand answered. The coven had been destroyed. Call me Armand.
- Armand. And who is this ?
Armand did not answer, he just proceeded looking back to make the figure move closer. It was Louis, whose eyes were wide open as he gazed at Philippe, his entire presence radiating desperation, anger and exhaustion over the last few events that had definitely managed to eradicate any signs of happiness in his undead soul. He gazed at Philippe, surprised to see another vampire, so handsome and sweet-voiced. He looked young very young, he could sense he had been turned a few years ago, and not decades like him.
- I’m Louis. he answered, still dead serious, catching his hand to shake it
- Philippe de Lachan. Philippe nodded as they shook hands. Pleasure to meet you.
- Is she there ? Armand asked
- Yes, yes she is in the kitchen. She is pouring some blood for us.
Despite the situation and the fact that Olympe was no longer locked away for his own purposes, Armand could not help but feel relief over this situation. Philippe had saved her life and Armand felt, despite a small animosity, that he was someone he could trust further to keep his perfect pureblood safe. There would be no more experiments, no more constant blood drawing, he had achieved it. He had achieved his goal of making strong fledglings and had her blood stored in suitcases he hid from Louis in case he needed to make a few more experiments.
- We are there, ma petite colombe. Armand announced
- « We » ? Olympe asked, carrying the tray. Are we expecting more visitors, Philippe ? If I knew, I would have made-
Olympe suddenly froze into place when she noticed, behind Armand, that Louis was there. Her hands instantly let go of the tray, causing the cups of blood to shatter once they hit the ground. She could not move, her hands trembled, not out of fear because Armand was there, but because her father, her second father, was right here, standing at the door.
- Dad ?
Without even caring about any conventions or how Olympe might take it, Louis bolted towards her, his arms wide open. He did not say a word while approaching her, just a gasp echoed as he needed to make sure she was not a ghost, not a dream, not an hallucination. His daughter was right here, after so many years. Tears rendered his vision blurry, blood blocking his way, his legs were trembling. He dit not just run… no. He launched himself at her, wrapping his arms around her tightly, as if afraid she was an illusion that would vanish if he didn’t hold her close enough.
- Olympe…!
He held her, his heart pounded rhythmically, faster than ever. He was a grieving man on the verge of seeing the light himself, but here… his daughter. His other daughter, alive, seemingly doing well, already dressed in today’s fashion. For thirty years, he had desperately looked for her, having ended up abandoning his purpose, genuinely believing she was dead. For thirty years, he had never forgotten about her presence, her sweet scent that had not changed, his flowing auburn hair that appeared a little longer than before. He had never forgotten about any of it. And now, she was right here, in his arms.
- Oh, my sweet little sugar ! he let out a sob, his fists clutching on her white shirt. My beautiful baby ! You’re alive ! How, how ?
- The… the Maître took care of me. Olympe whispered softly. He protected me. Since 1920. I came here on my own, I… he took me in…
- For thirty years ? Armand, why didn’t you tell me ?
- I did not know you both were related. Armand smiled. Besides, Olympe being a pureblood had to be a secret that needed to be kept. We did not know you enough. But had I known you were related, I would have told you all about it.
- I see.
Olympe could not believe it one bit. Their reunion was the result of a perfect storm of circumstances, indeed. From Louis and Claudia ending up in France to Armand’s betrayal, leading to the destruction of the coven and now… this. A father, who had been made to believe his ex-lover had wanted his death and the one of Claudia, running away with the one of had betrayed him, and a daughter, whose memory, fragmented like a puzzle game after years of isolation and unseen psychological abuse, reunited in this rather spacious apartment in a city Lestat had once loved producing himself into.
- Lemme look at you ! Louis hiccuped
He gently moved back, cupping Olympe’s face between his trembling hands. Oh, how beautiful she looked ! Older than the girl that had been taken away from them when she was eighteen, indeed. She looked like a regular twenty-five year old, and her eyes, once so full of life and mischief, were now full of sorrow. Her traits were thinner, her round cheeks had vanished, so did the little fat she had until her late teens.
- My god… you’re so beautiful… he smiled, his trembling voice betraying his calm. You look so grown, I can’t… I can’t believe it’s been thirty years… I will never let go of you, ever again. Not ever again !
- You’re really here ? Olympe asked, her hand moving up to caress his cheek, feeling Louis’ cold skin. Daddy, you’re really here ?
- Yes, sugar. Yes ! And trust me I’m not going anywhere, not without you, not anymore !
Olympe nodded, smiled, blood tears started running down her pale cheeks. She struggled to keep her composure, she wanted to crumble down into his embrace, but so many years of pushing herself away from people due to a constant isolation orchestrated by Armand made it hard to fully live the present moment. Instead of embracing him back, Olympe kept stroking Louis’ cheek, smelling his perfume, the same cologne he had once used when they lived in New Orleans, a familiar scent that had never truly left her, her memories of him being quite sweet and filled with love and sympathy.
They remained there for a moment, Philippe just watched before Armand decided to intervene. He had his own purpose, his own needs, and there was one more lie to tell to keep Olympe under his exclusive control. One more thing that would seal her away from Lestat. He needed to make sure that the lie he had told him about her being dead would keep living.
- Ma petite colombe. he softly said, stepping closer. There is something you need to know about Claudia.
- She died. Olympe nodded. I did not even get to say goodbye properly… She was executed, that’s all I know.
- There’s more to it. You remember Lestat, do you ?
Olympe’s eyes widened as she gently let go of Louis for a moment. Philippe approached, this word sounded familiar. He could recall other fledglings mention him. But he did not know he was, in fact, Olympe’s father, and would probably not know about it for a while.
- Lestat was the one who wanted Louis and Claudia dead. Armand hummed. He orchestrated their deaths, he planned to have them executed. He abandoned them, Olympe. Abandoned us all.
- Armand… Louis interrupted
- What ? Olympe gasped, absolutely shocked despite her shattered memories of Lestat being mostly negative. No, he… he could not have done such thing.
- I saved Louis from his execution, but Claudia… oh, poor Claudia. He just watched her being reduced to ashes.
- She was his daughter ! He could not have done that, he- he loved her !
Armand shrugged before moving closer to Olympe, placing his hands on her thin shoulders. He looked right into her eyes and one gaze, this gaze, made Olympe believe him like he was her god.
- Lestat was never your protector, ma petite. He was your captor, he held you away, and a monster who would have let his family die. And you too.
- No… no… Olympe proceeded turning her head to Louis. Is that what happened ?
- Yes sugar. Louis responded, himself plagued with Armand’s lies. I was sentenced to be banished instead of burned because Armand saved me. I burned the entire coven to the ground. And trust me, I will never allow Lestat to be anywhere near you again.
Olympe’s eyes widened of shock. She could not believe it, but the way Louis looked at her, the way Armand was always so convincing, the way the tale had just dropped on her shoulders was enough for her to fall for it. Her eyes, once illuminated for a strong love for Lestat, suddenly showed anger, betrayal. She was not going to forgive him, never. Not only had he taken her away from Armand when she was a newborn, he had also destroyed the family she once had loved.
Her eyes were not the only thing that reacted to the news. Her mind suddenly proceeded to create a strong mental barrier to prevent Lestat from contacting her. Her body shifted slightly as her eyes, gorged with red tears, stopped blinking for a moment, indicating she had severed a link herself. She had severed the bond she still had with Lestat.
And Armand, internally, was smiling.
He watched the pureblood with pride. He had made up the perfect lie to keep them away from each other. Lestat believed his daughter was dead, he would never try contacting her. And Olympe, having managed to block Lestat mentally, having severed their once loving bond, would never respond anyway. He had made sure to have Lestat pay for his betrayal, and for his sole existence, by taking away one of his most precious things. A daughter, his daughter, who, despite not being related to him biologically, shared his blood through her mother. But a girl that was not his in the first place. She was Armand’s creation, and he was absolutely not willing to let her go back to him, not anymore.
- I do not want to hear any of him. Olympe said, her gaze almost hollow. I do not wish to see him, or having him mentioned. Lestat de Lioncourt is a dead man to me.
- Fine. Armand nodded, cupping her cheek. We will keep you safe, away from this man. Won’t we, Philippe ?
For his spot, Philippe nodded and sighed. He did not know Lestat, but he supposed that he was probably the blonde haired man Olympe used to paint so often back in Saint-Cyr, in that marvellous house in Rue Royale. However, he could sense something was wrong in Armand’s speech. The echo of a lie, so well built that it felt real. He could see it through his smile, through his actions, through Louis’ teary eyes. Philippe had no choice but accept that too. Maybe it was true. But at the moment, he did not care much about the truth, the lies, Armand’s sayings or even the Bible itself. What he saw was Olympe reuniting with her father after thirty years being separated of him.
Just as expected, Louis did not let go of Olympe. He refused to have her away from him, even for a short amount of time. They talked so much, too much, and Armand was always around to make sure no wrong information would accidentally slip out of their mouths. His plan was so simple yet so well built, he had destroyed their lives and remodelled them to fit his own narrative. They had plans to travel, plans to move around the world. Louis desired to follow, so did Armand.
- First, we will visit France. Olympe nodded eagerly, while Louis had his arm wrapped around her shoulders. Philippe promised me to have me visit Nice ! And Marseilles ! Oh, and also Lyon ! And the entire Bretagne ! Then, we’ll visit Italy, or Spain, or Hungary ! Or maybe even Poland ! And, of course, we must visit Greece !
- That’s a lot of countries, ma petite colombe. Armand chuckled
- I want to make sure to have Olympe understand the world we live in. Philippe said, checking his globe before looking back towards Armand’s direction. Time has changed since 1920.
- We will follow you anywhere you want us to, sugar. Louis smiled.
Armand nodded. He could feel the bond Philippe and Olympe shared, which was both displeasing but reassuring at once. His pureblood was in good hands, and now that he had grown fond of her himself, he wanted to make sure she was safe and sound. So around the world they would travel. Louis was not going to let go of her so soon, Armand knew it. He was going to stay there, next to her, for at least a few months without even letting her out of his sight. He wanted to protect her again, just like he had done back in New Orleans. He wanted to make sure Olympe would never be taken away from him again. By no one. And Philippe was not the type to do that. On the contrary. Louis was already fond of him, despite having known him for a few minutes. Not because of his handsome face or beautiful eyes, but because of the attention and affection he was providing Olympe with without being too invasive. It was not what he had lived with Lestat, that’s for sure. It was totally different. And he wished Olympe never to experience what he had to go through with Lestat. Never.
Besides, at this point, he did not even know if Lestat had decided to survive on his own or cast himself into the light. He did not care anymore, not even one bit. To his eyes, Claudia’s death was entirely his fault, and not Armand’s. Absolutely not Armand’s.
The latter was still overjoyed about his lie, so brutal and cruel, that had isolated Lestat from the last remaining members of his family. And there was nothing he could do to get back to them anyway.
- Anywhere. he smiled
After a travel via the ferry that had lasted for a week, Lestat had managed to return to the beautiful house that once had been his, in Rue Royale, New Orleans. Now, it was just a devastated mansion, abandoned, cursed, a place people feared to even get too close to. The windows were closed, but the interior was empty. As empty as Lestat’s heart at the time being. Rooms were devoid of any furniture, the house had been voluntarily emptied following Louis and Claudia’s departure, when Lestat was living in the dump.
- Je suis rentré… he whispered
He passed through each room, revisiting a house which had so much history within itself, but feeling like an empty shell of what once had been. Decrepit walls with torn wallpapers, missing portraits despite some of them had been left behind, old herringbone parquet flooring that was broken at some places… even dried blood, his blood, still marked the ground of one of his rooms. What had once been the lavish lair of a strange and unholy family was feeling like a frame without its painting. The structure was here, still standing despite fives years of abandonment, thefts, degradation and curses, but what was inside, its family, its furnishings, the peculiar tendencies of its inhabitants, the laughs, the screams, the arguments, the cries… all of this was gone. What was left there were simply ashes. A distant memory of the happiness that once was.
Lestat sat in the empty living room for a moment, gazing at the courtyard that his daughter had once loved playing in. The fountain, surprisingly, was still working, but the flowers had either faded or had overgrown their small spots. There were possibilities that this house would, one day, be bought by another family, renovated, even turned into a museum. Filled with new modern furniture, possibly televisions, and any new technology that would eventually come more widespread int he upcoming years.
But Lestat could not care less. Tonight, for one last night, this house was his again, before he would end up leaving it for good.
He stood up, spent a few minutes in each room before the laugh of a child echoed somewhere in the house, upstairs. A child, even possibly a toddler, as well as small footsteps could be also heard. Lestat’s senses heightened, he proceeded make his way to the staircase, a few pictures, smaller this time, were still hung on the wall, these ones had not been stolen. On some of them, himself. Or Louis, or Claudia. Or the three of them. But one of them, possibly one of his favourites, was still hung on the wall. One he cherished so much, looked so much at after 1920.
A picture of Olympe, when she was celebrating her eighteenth birthday. It was a portrait of her, with her hair styled in a French Side Part Bob she had to cut everyday due to the rapid growth of vampire hair. He remembered the dress he had bought for her on the occasion, made of ocean blue silk with delicate embroidered flowers on her neckline. His favourite dress for her, and the way she had worn it with such pride, how she had smiled whenever he clapped his hands. Lestat was grieving his family, he was grieving his daughters, both of them. His infant death, his little Claudia. His beautiful rose, his adorable Olympe. Two treasures he had both loved and hated all at once, two gems he would have given anything to have around him for the rest of his entire existence, provided that Louis stayed with him.
Thankfully enough, Louis was still alive, despite being with Armand. But Lestat knew, deep down, that he would end up discovering the truth.
However, for the time being, Lestat was grieving the happiness that had once been his. The family he had made, the people he had held close to him, by force or by love. He grieved his daughters, both of them having died after being exposed to sunlight, one executed, one by accident. And while he wondered, he noticed himself in the entrance, playing with Olympe, who was probably no older than six or seven years of old. He was holding her hands, her feet on his, dressed in a perfect white dress going to her knees with a purple sash wrapped around her tiny waist, her hair adorned with a large white bow. She was giggling, and he was smiling. And these soft sounds broke his heart even further. He wanted to collapse, but held onto his feet while watching a vision of himself play with daughter.
- More, more, papa ! the child squealed. Let’s dance all night long !
- Of course, ma chérie. Of course. But papa must leave.
- Oh, again ? Please, stay, just for the night ! You promised to stay !
- I can’t, my sweet little rose. But I promise, I’ll bring you one more doll, or a book, or whatever you want.
He watched the little girl look down and hop from his feet, then watched himself put on a coat and a hat, kissing her forehead before leaving. The little vision of Olympe, in turn, exhaled a soft sigh, turning her head to the ground before she climbed upstairs, passing by Lestat who wanted to comfort her. He wanted to hoist her into his embrace, he wanted to apologise for leaving again, one more time, for his own business, for his own pleasure. Nights out were not just to hunt, they were also for him to have his fill of human lust he still longed to feel. Their gazes, their admiration, the gossips about him. He loved the attention, and this was something that felt too important, perhaps more important than the love he vowed Olympe.
- Pfft. Olympe pouted. It’s always the same with you anyway…
- I’m so sorry… he whispered
He regretted so much, so much ! All these evenings he did not take her with him to go on hunts, to be with her., for his sole interest… All these nights he did not spend with the child he had left at home too often, to the care of nannies. The child he had sheltered from the outside world, only for her to end up being taken away from him. Oh, he wished to go back in time, shake himself and beg him to spend a vast majority of his nights with his child, he wished he had realised he had been lucky to experience happiness.
- Ma chérie…-
He tried touching her shoulder, but instead of feeling her, she vanished into some warm fog. He sighed and proceeded moving upstairs, revisiting the vast floor where all their bedroom had once stood. He went to the safe room, empty, floors were still covered in the blood that had been spilled by his guests during Mardi Gras, back in 1940, when Louis and Claudia had betrayed him and tried killing him. The grand bedroom, empty too. the bathroom ? Partly destroyed, mould was covering the bathtub’s bottom, spiders had made numerous nests there. He moved from room to room, checking Claudia’s, undoubtedly destroyed and decaying after years of having either the windows open and no one to pass a broom in there, before a vision of Louis appeared there, only to pend over him to drop a kiss on his lips.
- I’m out for a hunt, dear. Louis whispered to his head. Stay put until I’m back, okay ?
- Louis, wait-
Louis smiled and moved away towards a storage room. Lestat followed him there, only to be met with an empty room. It had once been a special area to store clothes, mostly small ones that did not fit Olympe anymore, or the clothes from their victims they found too beautiful to burn or to sell, but too outdated to put on, even as a disguise. He remembered when Claudia used to hide in that room with Olympe after she had been turned, only to be able to escape his and Louis’ bedtime when they shared their coffins. Thirty three years seemed to me nothing to the eyes of an undead being, but to Lestat, suddenly, it felt like Claudia had been turned yesterday, especially in this specific room. Not her bedroom, not the safe room. This storage room where so much dump was kept now, from old fabrics to a few crates filled with vases, cutlery, antique brushes… and quite possibly, if dug far enough, clothes from a time that was no longer considered to be fashionable.
- Papa !
Lestat turned himself towards the stairs where he had heard the noise and noticed a teenage Olympe, possibly fifteen years old, running towards him, dressed in her nightgown. Behind her, Claudia. The entire corridor got instantly lit, as if the house was inhabited again. He opened his arms to catch her, she jumped into his arms. He could feel her, he could feel it. He could feel the house’s warmth, he could hear the gramophone play one of Antoinette’s song in the living room, he could hear Louis nearby.
- Girls, let Lestat rest. he said as he passed in the corridor. He’s been on a long hunt.
- Okay, okay. Claudia rolled her eyes. But Uncle Les, you promised us to play chess !
- I… I did.
He could remember. He could remember what had happened. He could remember these nights where Olympe and Claudia teamed to beat him when they were playing chess, never succeeding. He looked at his girls for a moment, then at Louis with his glass of fresh blood, understanding even more that he had lost everything. He had never fully grasped the concept of happiness in his family, having always wanted more attention, more love from everyone, and now… here he was. Missing what should have been essential to his eyes. He was missing the old life where they were happy. This old life where his girls laughed, when his lover enjoyed his presence, when the house was warm and filled with adoration and energy.
His hands found their way to Olympe’s pale face while Claudia moved back to get to Louis in another room. And he cried, so suddenly, at the sight of the child that once had been his, at thee sight of his perfect little girl who would have been a full-bodied woman as of 1950. He cried, knowing she was gone. And this vision of her, so young, smiling, was bittersweet for him.
- Ma pauvre petite fille… he whimpered, gazing at her. Ma pauvre petite chérie… it’s all my fault… I should have… I should have stayed with you…
- It’s okay papa. she answered. We can go on a hunt tomorrow.
- Oh, ma chérie, I wish to go on a hunt with you forever. Oh, forever, just with…-
In one mere blink of an eye, this vision had faded. The corridor returned to its decrepit state, the house looked like a shack again. Lestat left out a soft sigh before moving to what had once been Olympe’s bedroom, a room which had been sacked for its beautiful and fancy furniture. Her dresses were everywhere, some were torn apart, her bed was broken, her coffin was missing. The curtains were dusty and cut, indicating that people had taken more than one opportunity to steal what had once been in Lestat’s sanctuary for his eldest daughter… now gone.
For a few days, Lestat lingered in this house of memories, alone, a crippling sense of agony overcoming his usual pride. He was no longer the bold, bratty and shining Lestat de Lioncourt. He was, just like his house, an empty shell. A grieving man who had nothing left but his memories and the ghosts of the people he once loved so much.
After spending about two days and three nights in the mansion, Lestat decided to relocate to a tiny creole house at Dumaine Street, recently inhabited after its owner had passed away. Lestat did not ask for more than that. He purchased it without much drama, finding it decent for his solitary life, and ended up secluding himself inside of it. It had a room, a kitchen, a bathroom and a basement. Lestat proceeded purchasing a coffin, comfortable but somewhat cheap for him to rest there. And, in order to avoid living with the ghost of his daughters and of his ex-lover all the time, he fed on a few rats and proceeded to start sleeping. He hoped, oh, he hoped, to be able to sleep for centuries, if not even end up tragically dying during his slumber.
First, it was just for a few hours. Then, for an entire day. Then, for three days. At some point even, he did find the energy to move outside and remained in his coffin, not able to move, plagued with the guilt of his entire existence, of the deaths of his daughters, of his ex-lover leaving him with a man full of lies. He had nothing left to live for than the ashes of a happiness he had never fully understood before. And in his dreams, he saw Claudia, haunting him, blaming him, taunting him. He saw Olympe, comforting him, calming him. He saw Louis, smiling at him.
But while Lestat was entering a long slumber, in France, Olympe was living. She was free, despite Armand’s lies. She was free. And no one would stop her from experimenting what had been denied from her. No one. And especially not Lestat, despite the main reason of this wreck was not the one she had once called papa.
It was Armand.
And his lies were not going to stop yet.
Chapter 9: Dearest Angel
Notes:
A long chapter, with a lot of nonsense and some Daniel Molloy somewhere around.
Chapter Text
Time went on, way too quickly. During the entire 1950s decade, Olympe and Philippe, followed by Louis and Armand travelled around Europe, to various places they usually picked in advance. Cities of France, then Athens, Rome, Florence, Vienna, Madrid, Salamanca, Lisboa, Luxembourg… so many cities Olympe enjoyed visiting, from museums to hidden places, meeting with other covens, other vampires spread around the world. While the first half of the decade had been mostly focused on visiting France’s various cities and regions, the second half had opened her world internationally. It was time for her to go beyond France. Not via a ferry, not via train. No, via plane. And this was an adventure she was terrified of experiencing.
- You mean… we get locked into a big metal tube with windows ? Miles above earth ?
- Yes. Philippe smiled while they packed their luggage. Don’t worry, I booked a private plane thanks to Armand’s help. We will be travelling by night.
Olympe nodded, but this did not help much with her fear. They went to the Orly airport to take off, and Olympe was frightened when she saw this prototype : Douglas DC-6, small enough to fit a maximum of ten people. This was an invention she had heard of as a child thanks to Lestat’s constant stories, but had always wondered how they would survive this close to the sun. Physics were hard to be understood for someone who had only known, until recently, cars, ferries and trains.
She looked at Philippe who greeted the pilot with a warm smile, followed by Armand who simply nodded. Her feet felt like they were glued on the ground, she did not manage to step forward while Louis coaxed her on the stairs. She was frozen, analysing the aircraft with fear in her icy blue eyes brimming with tears. And Louis was quick to get back to her and wrap his arm around her waist.
- It’s okay, sugar. We wouldn’t all board on that plane if we weren’t sure it’s safe.
- But we’re not gonna die on it, are we ? she asked
- Of course not !
Louis coaxed Olympe inside the plane and guided her to a seat that was facing Philippe’s, sitting right next to her as they closed all small shades that provided them with a view of the outside, but not the one next to her. He and Philippe proceeded explaining how plane physics worked for her to be a little reassured, but it did not seem to help. Even Armand tried to comfort her, but Olympe was too scared to even register their voices. Louis kissed her temple, rubbed his hand with the tip of his fingers, humming a few words of comfort that managed to make their way to her brain.
Armand sat next to Philippe and watched Olympe grab Louis’ hand, clutching on it like a lifeline. He was somewhat amused to see a woman this old in the eternal body of a lady going through her quarter life crisis, a woman who had experienced abuse, constant lies, physical torture, be scared of something this trivial, especially knowing she had the Cloud Gift, a gift she had not used since 1920.
But when the plane took off, Olympe suddenly stopped being scared. It reminded her of a time she used to fly above the clouds, just to frighten Lestat for a bit or disobey his simple command. It felt almost natural for her to watch the city lights with a smile, but she had forgotten how to fly. She had forgotten how to rise in the sky, having longly been conditioned not to show her gifts. And Armand, ever so manipulative, had proceeded telling her that her capacities were too deadly for her to use them as she wished, causing her to shut them down and act like a regular vampire, only using her supernatural speed when necessary, or mind gift to communicate with him, Louis and Philippe exclusively.
- It’s beautiful ! she exclaimed every time they were in the sky
- Of course it is. Armand would smile
- It’s insane ! Who would have thought humans would make so many discoveries ? And end up flying in the sky to go to another country ?
Philippe and Olympe decided to settle in Osaka, in Japan, having fallen in love with its different climate, different culture, different traditions. The streets were bustling with activity, the smell of new foods they could not even try was something that had seduced her. Olympe found herself mesmerised by the elegant mixture of traditional houses and temples, and new modern buildings. She would watch ladies, sometimes dressed in kimonos, yukatas in summer festivals, stroll around the streets with men dressed in suits or hakamas, fascinated by the way traditions were kept intact despite a new era that was beginning in the 1960s. She even learned the language by taking night classes, blending herself into the crowd decide her typical white features that made many folks look at her with surprise, but her politeness was uncanny. She wanted to learn about the country she was living in. Indeed, changing countries did not stop Olympe from having a very specific target when it came to victims : older men creeping on younger girls. And anywhere she had went, she had always found enough of them to stay full for a while.
Somewhere in 1965, they celebrated New Years Eve in Tokyo, where Olympe and Philippe had decided to settle in the district of Asakusa. Neon signs lit up the night, illuminating the streets and giving it an incredibly futuristic vibe. Crowds were denser than anything Olympe had ever experienced, and her increasing social anxiety did not help much. Here, the cultural fusion was even more pronounced. Teenagers wore denim and listened to Elvis Presley or various occidental singers, despite traditions never got erased. Olympe was fascinated by this culture, so different compared with the ones she grew up with. Always holding onto Philippe’s hand, she enjoyed each districts, shops, darker alleys, technologies that were still a rarity in other countries. They had even managed to make Louis and Armand stay for a while with them.
Olympe and Philippe’s bond had morphed into a strong friendship, the two of them hunting together, but romantically speaking, moved on separate paths. Olympe enjoying playing with people in nightclubs, one night shots mostly, not caring much about the laws when it came to her private « plays », as she called them. She seduced, danced, kissed, had sex, sometimes even drained dry these people she knew would never remember her, and so did Philippe. They both knew that a city as big and crowded as Tokyo would never really remember their names. Their identities would fade into the crowd like two grains of sand in the Sahara.
Per Armand’s request, Philippe and Olympe proceeded moving to Kyoto somewhere in early 1968. Louis had started being too noticed, not only because of his skin colour but also because of his attitude, having caused a few issues in Asakusa. Relocating in Kyoto, in the Higashiyama-ku ward, this new area offered them more peace and quiet than the bustling streets of Tokyo. Armand had desired this area for its calmness and had managed to buy the small house in Ninenzaka Street, feeding every once in a while amongst the random people who passed by, so did Philippe and Olympe, whose hunger did not seem not to be manageable. But Louis, on the other hand, fed so often that even the police got involved when a few corpses were discovered in the Shirakawa Canal with strange bite-marks in their necks. Louis was starting to become a danger for himself and for his family.
On a Monday, July 21, 1969, they were gathered around the TV to watch the Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon, right in late morning. Olympe was mesmerised, so incredibly surprised. She did not expect such thing to ever happen, having not fully followed the recent news about Apollo 11. But, seated next to Armand who had his arm wrapped around her shoulders while Louis was getting a few glasses of blood ready and Philippe was sitting on the ground with his journal, she could not help but stare at the progress mankind had made. Olympe, even in terms of human age, was not incredibly old, neither was Philippe. But never in the world would a soul who had seen carriages turn into motorcars and then to regular cars witness the first steps of a man on the satellite she loved so much.
- One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.
- Well, merveilleux ! Philippe said. We can actually get on the moon !
- They did it ? Louis asked from the kitchen
- Yeah !
Olympe’s eyes were wide open as she stared at the TV screen. Over the last nineteen years, she had grown accustomed to the use of these new technologies she found interesting, but never, not one in her lifetime, would she have imagined witnessing something so incredible, so futuristic. She felt both blessed and amazed to be alive to witness this incredible moment of history !
- Do you think, someday, random people will be able to fly to the moon ? she asked
- Maybe, ma petite colombe. Armand smiled, kissing her temple so softly like he always did. But for the time being, we all belong on Earth. Humans, animals… and vampires.
- Besides, how would you expect to feed on the moon ? Louis chuckled. Humans might have these suits put on.
- It must be quite cold out there too.
Time went on too fast and, in the early seventies, they moved in San Francisco together, in an apartment close to the gay bars Louis loved spending his time at. Armand and Louis slept in a shared coffin while Olympe and Philippe, also in the same bedroom, slept in two separate ones, hidden under the bed. All windows of the apartment were covered with journal papers in order to filter sunlight, making them able to roam are around this small area during daytime. It was Philippe’s idea and, as peculiar as it was, allowed them to stay up later and experience what humans experienced when the sun was high in the sky.
Armand did not seem to enjoy Louis’ gradual slip into depression, watching him waste himself on drunken men while he helplessly stared at his companion while keeping Olympe and Philippe in the dark, mostly. The two of them had also noticed Louis’ mental health degrading at a rapid pace, also trying to provide him with random distractions. Olympe often took him to hippie gatherings nearby the Golden Gate Bridge, but it always ended up in massacres. Philippe tried talking him on walks around museums, but again, it did not help. And Armand ? He followed him in gay bars in search of victims while he rarely indulged himself, witnessing Louis’ attention shift on so many young men which could have been his great-grandchildren in that decade.
Killings were numerous, a hundred of gay men, younger and older, who had done nothing but to cross his road, had been brought to this apartment for Louis to drain them dry, put them in plastic bags and toss them away like pure garbage, not expecting anyone to miss them anyway. Armand participated, indeed, so did Olympe and Philippe, whose killings were discreet compared with Louis’, which were either too extravagant for a life of silence vampires had to live, or too numerous for them to keep hiding the bodies.
- I’m so tired of cleaning up the mess, Louis ! Armand snarled one night. We do not need to indulge ourselves this often !
- Well, I’m hungry ! Louis answered. And I don’t care !
- You’re not hungry ! You’re just desperate ! Your attitude is going to kill us all, starting with our children !
- We are predators, not house cats ! We live the way we want, we kill ! Our kids know this, more than you and your housewife manners do !
In an attempt not to make things too suspicious, Olympe found a job as a barmaid at a nightclub, and sometimes during daytime, pretexting she suffered of a serious photosensitivity which made her react to sunlight in a rather dramatic way, just like an allergy. Philippe had found a job as a nighttime doctor at a local clinic, treating every patient with the respect and dignity they deserved. Armand had warned them about not growing too fond of humans, but accepted their decision to take jobs in order to provide them with some money while he and Louis would indulge themselves in gay bars.
At some point, somewhere in early September 1973, Olympe herself confronted Louis about the numerous killings, grabbing him by the shoulder as Armand wrapped another body in a plastic bag to dump him to a location only he knew about. The body of a boy, possibly just eighteen, or twenty at most, hair gold and brown, eyes like charcoal, skin slightly tanned, granting him a surfer look Louis greatly appreciated. He had drained him dry after a few minutes talking and charming him in the back of a gay bar. That kid was a random college student who wanted to become a teacher someday.
Olympe and Philippe had often found themselves around these people : gay, bisexuals, lesbians, noticing how random humans treated them like outcasts, contagious people, believing that one touch would make them any straight person turn like them, away from their god. Olympe, loving both men and women herself, had personally grown fond of this community, protecting them by draining dry the people who dared attacking them, and Philippe followed, not finding much people to his taste, refusing to kill the last hippies that walked around the streets of San Francisco, like Scott McKenzie would have sang years ago. While Olympe preferred creeps, men or women, Philippe had developed a refined taste violent people in general.
To the eyes of Armand, who felt mostly powerless when Louis was committing his constant crimes, the two « children », as he called them often, were far more reasonable than a vampire who was in his late 90s. He trusted them more than he trusted his companion and, in the loudest silence, kept cleaning after Louis, almost every single night.
- How many of these kids are you going to drain dry ?! Olympe snarled at Louis while pointing at the corpse. They might have a family ! Friends ! Maybe they’re even related to the police ?!
- Oh, now you care about our victims, huh ?! Louis shouted back, pushing her away slightly. They are outcasts, just like us !
- What if some are not ?! You lure kids in our home ! You kill them without a second thought, saying it’s hunger while you just can’t control it !
- Olympe. Armand interjected. Please, do not interfere in Louis’ business. You are right, yes, this is dangerous, but we should…-
Olympe stepped back and cracked her fingers. Her eyes turned pitch black, but she refused to hurt her father. The man he had just drank from was a drug addict named Tim, at least she could see it on the badge that hang from his pants.
- You’re gonna get us caught and killed with that shitty business of yours. she said
- At least, I get fed. I don’t restrain myself like Armand does ! Louis responded, pointing at Armand
- Eccentric killings don’t get you fed, they just provide you with the sensation of having created a morbid work of art !
- Alright, that's enough. Armand sighed
He proceeded grabbing Louis by the shoulders and murmured him soothing words while he gazed at Olympe who wanted to get further into the argument. And next to him, only to hurt him further, he hallucinated. He hallucinated of Lestat, standing right here, his hand on her back.
- You…-
He could not deny it, Lestat and Olympe looked incredibly alike despite not being family related, since his blood flew in her veins as her mother had once been his fledgling. Olympe had the same piercing gaze, especially when she was angry. She had the exact same frown when she was disappointed. Despite being kinder, a pure anomaly when it came to vampires needing to feed on blood, bloodthirsty predators hunting down humans and animals, no one could deny how different yet similar Olympe was compared with Lestat. Despite he was an hallucination, possibly provoked by the amount of drugs Louis had consumed through the blood of his victims, he could not help but think it. Before being his daughter, Olympe was definitely Lestat’s.
And Louis frowned when Armand tried pushing him towards the bed to calm him down, but it did not work. Louis watched the vision of Lestat murmur something at Olympe’s ear, which felt so real that he could not help pushing forward to get to him, but his eyes suddenly locked on his daughter who stared at him with the exact same intensity. With an identical mixture of adoration, care, and utter disgust at times. She loved him, not like Lestat or Armand did, but was also repulsed by his latest acts.
- You think you’re better than me, don't you ?! Louis snapped at Olympe. You’re hiding the predator within you ! You also have a specific category to kill !
- Louis, stop. Armand pushed him down the bed. Olympe, stop responding to your…-
- You try being so different but you’re exactly like your monstrous father ! You’re even worse than that ! The devil hidden under porcelain skin ! You’re a monster ! Worse than any of us ! A monster created to kill !
- I might be a monster, but at least, I don’t kill innocent men who happened to pass by me at a bar.
Olympe stormed outside, coming across Philippe who followed her. And Armand, angry at the chaotic situation this could have triggered, pushed Louis away for him to finally sit down on the bed.
- Well, congratulations ! he sarcastically clapped his hands. You definitely know how to talk to women !
- Don’t tell me how I should interact with my daughter, Armand.
- I’m not trying, but you’re not yourself anymore. And this is impacting us. All of us.
That night, and for the next two days that followed, Olympe and Philippe did not come back to the apartment, only telling Armand about their current location. They had temporarily relocated in a random hotel where they shared a room with twin beds, where Olympe complained, feeling helpless with her father’s mental state, feeling disappointed, devastated. She wished she could have done something, she wished she could have helped him, but Louis was shutting the door each time anyone tried, sinking further in his madness, the brutal killings of a vast amount of innocent man society treated as outcasts, mistakes, sinners, contagious people that did not deserve help or recognition, neither from their peers, nor from him.
And at the same time, at a gay club named Polynesian Mary’s, Louis met a man who was probably going to change his life in the next few decades. A twenty-year-old journalist who was just at the very start of his career, recording random people he found interesting, having ended up in a gay bar for a few drinks.
His name was Daniel Molloy.
Unlike Armand, who had happened to be there when they met, Louis got instantly fascinated by this boy, by his willingness to listen to him, to his jokes, to his charismatic personality that was filled with youth and discovery. He was so intrigued that he invited him to his apartment and granted him the right to get an interview of him. Louis recalled everything he knew, from his hatred towards Lestat to his domestic life in New Orleans with him and their two girls, one pureblood called Olympe, another one who was forever a child, called Claudia.
But after ten hours, things escalated, Daniel demanding to be granted the Dark Gift. Louis attacked him but, instead of killing him, drained him enough to keep him alive. Armand intervened rather quickly in early morning, and a fight between the two ensued as he listened to the interview’ record while Daniel was unconscious.
- My daughter was my sister, was my throw pillow. Armand mocked in desperation, emulating what Louis might have said during the interview. Well, he wouldn't look at me kindly. Lestat. Lestat. Lestat. Lestat. Lestat. Lestat. Lestat. Lestat. Lestat. Lestat…
- I talked shit about him the whole time ! So what ?!
- The name ! Unuttered in our home for 23 years, said over and over again until it was pounding in my brain like a hammer !
- Our problems… aren’t about him.
- And you threw her name around just for cover, but it always circled back to him.
Armand still managed to keep his voice down, despite feeling outraged, pained after having called Lestat over and over and over again. He hated him, hated his name, hated what he once had been. He hated the way he made Louis sick, he hated even imagining that his companion was having hallucinations of his former lover. He had managed, for twenty three years, to make Olympe and Louis grow a strong hatred for him, only for his presence to be looming around them like a constant reminder of Armand’s lie.
- I loved her. Louis whimpered
- But she didn't love you. Armand said, almost heartbroken. Not like he did, not like I have.
- I know… and Olympe, she…-
- She doesn’t love you the same either !
- I know !
Louis felt so dizzy, holding himself onto the kitchen counter, painfully trying to keep his thoughts clear, but was hammered by the the drugs contained in Daniel’s blood. And one more time, he started hallucinating. Not of Lestat circling around him, not this time. He heard Claudia’s sweet voice, her calls for him to join her into the sun. And this is what Louis, without even questioning this strange voices, did. He climbed on the roof the building, exposed his body to the sun, screamed as he fell down on his knees, his skin burning into ashes before Armand dragged him back inside, forcing him on the bed, feeding him his blood before he passed out due to the horrible pain he was feeling, only waking up to the sound of the door opening. Olympe and Philippe had just come back, having managed to dodge sunlight for a few hours until making their way to the apartment safely.
- Are you hurt ? Armand scolded, looking at the two younger vampires
- No, we’re fine. Olympe answered, which caused Armand to notice their voices were still being recorded and switched the recorder off
- Armand…- Louis called from the nearby room, whimpering before letting out a painful sob. Armand !
- Don’t come in there, Olympe, don’t-
Olympe did not listen, she moved past Armand to get to the bedroom and found Louis, burned to a very bad degree, entirely incapacitated, lying on the bed, halfway under a thin blanket, having recently been fed by Armand while he was still asleep, trying to recover. This vision terrified Olympe who felt guilty of this terrible state, having left Louis after an argument. She had not even noticed the TV was on and that Daniel, unable to move, was here, sitting on a chair, unable to feel his body.
- Oh my god, dad ! Olympe gasped before running towards him. Oh no no no ! It’s all my fault, I’m so sorry ! It’s all my fault !
- Sugar, it’s not your fault… Louis whimpered, trying to lift his hand to cup Olympe’s cheek. I’m so… so… sorry…
- Don’t move, don’t move. It’s okay. I’m right here. I’m with you.
Her undead heart kept beating incredibly fast. She could not stop herself from worrying, looking around the room to see if there was any source of sunlight to protect him further, gluing journal pages on the window better just in case. Philippe ran inside the room afterwards, having been triggered by Louis’ countless whimpers and mental cries for help.
- What the hell happened ?! Philippe urged Armand as the latter was staring at his lover agonising on the bed
- He drained a drug fiend. Armand answered, turning his head towards Louis.You said the worst things you've ever said to me. And then, you ran outside. And now, you’re convalescent.
Olympe’s eyes widened, she rushed around the room to prepare bandages while Philippe struggled to apply ointments on his skin, shocked by the way Louis had tried killing himself. Everyone in this coven-like group knew about’s Louis’ depression, his inability to see the good in his vampirism, claiming it was a curse. But here, it had went too far. Louis tried apologising to Armand, who kept shaking his head, not even trying to show any compassion anymore.
- The floor slants slightly north. Armand sighed. The boy's blood flowed that way. We should fix that before we sell.
- What boy ? Olympe’s eyes widened
- There…
She slightly bent over Louis to caress his burned skin with her cold hand before he whimpered. The boy. Watching the television in the living room, scared, unable to move, barely even able to turn his eyes from the TV screen. Philippe hummed a few comforting words to him while he applied bandages on his skin, and Armand stared until Olympe exited the room to find Daniel, sitting on a chair.
- And who the fuck is that ?! she exclaimed, moving back into the bedroom, pointing at the young man idly sitting on the chair, sobbing and bleeding
- Don’t bother. Armand glared
- What ? Don’t bother ?! My father has tried ending his life, this guy over there is in agony and you ask me not to bother ?! Who is this boy ?
- NOBODY.
- He’s alive ? Louis whimpered
Louis tried sitting up, only failing miserably. He groaned before Philippe gently coaxed him back on the pillow, carefully enough not to hurt him further. Louis was fully incapacitated, barely even able to see anything, his vision blurry due to the pain he felt.
- The boy ? Armand asked while Daniel was whimpering. The fascinating boy ? He's fine.
Armand made the chair on which Daniel was seated levitate, causing the poor boy to sob while Louis begged him not to hurt him. even Olympe, shocked as she held onto Louis’ hand, could not help but stare at this poor journalist whom Armand made fall on the ground, then moved it up and down like a child playing with his food.
- Don’t ! Louis tried shifting a little on the bed while Philippe carefully held him back
- He’s just fine. Armand answered
- Armand ! Philippe gasped
- He’s fine, you’re fine ! This is fine ! We’re all fine !
Daniel kept being tossed upside down by Armand, sobbing. Everybody watched, Olympe tried moving forward, but Armand’s gaze shifted toward her, before moving towards Philippe. As a medic who had never lost his skills, he knew he could definitely heal Daniel and help him leave, but for the time being, no decision had been made.
- You all stay in there. he said. Especially you, Philippe. Don’t come close to this kid.
- But he…-
- No.
Armand left the room and closed the door while Louis begged him to stop touching their young and unfortunate guest. Daniel had not been drained for a reason, he was fascinating to Louis’ eyes. Nothing could be heard from the other side of the door until the boy could be heard sobbing, and the door opened back again. Olympe tried making her way outside, but for the first time, Armand acted differently with her. Without care, without love. Even Louis, despite being severely burned and incapacitated, tried moving up when Armand grabbed Olympe by the neck so violently, his fangs showing. Philippe stood up immediately, having finished bandaging Louis’ torso after what had felt like hours.
- You will not go and see him. Armand hissed, his grip tightening around her neck
- Armand…- Louis let out a painful gasp. Don’t... hurt my daughter…
- If I see you approach him, I will punish you severely. Worse than what Santiago did to you. Trust me.
- Hey ! Knock if off ! Philippe shouted
He pushed her back, causing Olympe to withdraw. She took a step back, unable to react as Armand had never demonstrated any sort of violence with her before. He looked at her, his wide eyes black, his eyebrows high, his hair messy. Even his fangs were showing. Louis tried moving towards them, but his wounds stopped him instantly, causing him to fall back pitifully on the bed, groaning in pain.
It led Olympe to avoid being at the apartment with Philippe for a second time, the two of them going on separate hunts until she came back one day later, carefully tending Louis’ burned skin with care, kissing his forehead before applying a wet washcloth on it. She watched him moan at the contact and smiled, enjoying seeing him asleep, knowing he was recovering. She still felt an increasing guilt for having left him before, but what could have she done anyway ? Louis was mad, constantly on drugs or drunk on junkie’s blood, Olympe would have helpless no matter what.
- Rest well, dad. I’ll be right here.
Louis managed to moan one more time before, due to his pain, slipping into a deeper slumber, unable to talk, unable to move. He needed rest, perhaps his coffin he first refused getting into and Olympe was going to make sure no one would interrupt him. She wanted to have him healed, hating this sorry of him.
She remained next to him for a few more minutes before existing the room, noticing Daniel in the living room, half asleep on a chair, still unable to feel his entire body, then noticed Armand in the kitchen. She looked down and left the apartment to go upstairs to the roof the building, getting to its edge before she started smoking a cigarette, having seen so many people do so in bars, clubs or restaurants. It procured her no pleasure, no satisfaction, she barely even felt anything when the smoke started playing with the back of her throat. She looked around the city, managing to locate Philippe who was currently draining the body of a random drug addict, surprised he was still standing despite the amount of substances he had absorbed along with his blood.
- I didn’t know you started smoking. Armand said, moving to the edge next to her
- Honestly, I don’t find any pleasure in it. Olympe looked up, taking a drag of her cigarette. I envy humans who like that.
- Me too, sometimes.
Armand looked at Olympe for a moment, not approaching her too closely. She was still probably too scared of him, or wanted nothing to do with him at the time being. He could feel her retract from him, he could even hear her beg him not to touch her. He needed to gain her trust back, especially after his outburst, so sudden and unexpected for her, but for him… it was the result of something that had boiled for too long. The responsibility of the coven, his betrayal, the simple fact that Louis still always found others interesting and never him. He had snapped and Olympe had been his unfortunate target, being the living embodiment that Louis had too many different priorities, and that his daughter was one of his biggest. And she was the living embodiment that Lestat’s blood flowed in her veins.
No matter how hard they tried, Lestat was still following them around.
- The boy’s name is Daniel Molloy, a twenty-year-old journalist. he said. Your father can't stop thinking about him, and I snapped. I know.
- I saw that. Why do you even keep him alive ? I thought we were to drain our victims dry and kill them in case they survived the act.
- I’ll interrogate him further, but we might have to kill him later. I’m not so sure yet, since your father seems to be a little protective of him.
- Good.
- Olympe.
Armand cautiously slid his hand on Olympe’s lower back. She did not move, his soothing voice echoed in her mind, trying to comfort her. To reassure her after his outburst. He wanted to keep her around him, he knew that, if she left with Philippe, Louis would either want to follow them and end everything with him, or would become insanely depressed, more than he already was. Armand could not let that happen, he needed Olympe by his side for their group’s safety.
- I didn’t mean to be like that. he said. I was mad, I would have never hurt you. Not like Santiago did. And I must apologise for my violence.
- You made it rather clear. Olympe said, taking another drag of her cigarette. Don’t worry, I'm not going to talk to this boy.
- Louis and you, you both are precious to me. I was mad at this boy for having managed to fill your father’s mind after his interview.
- Wait, he interviewed him ?
- As foolish as it sounds, yes.
Olympe rolled her eyes and covered her forehead with her pale palm. She could not help but think how stupid Louis had just been. There were rules to respect, and among them, the one related to the fact that vampires had to keep their identities secret. Louis granting an interview to a journalist about his vampirism was risking them to be exposed and killed for disobeying a rule that has once been created for their safety.
- I allow you to see the boy. Armand nodded. But only to keep him alive.
- What else do you want me to do ? I don't bond with humans.
- Considering the job you took, both you and Philippe seem to enjoy being around them. And you know what I think about it, don't you ?
Armand moved to face Olympe after she nodded, gently tilting her chin to have her face him. He could tell she was entirely devoted to him despite the ocean of freedom she was swimming into, just by looking right into her icy blue eyes, so close to Lestat’s colour, so perfect, so luminous. But she was completely different from him. Instead of killing random folks on a whim, Olympe had a range of targets that never included innocent folks. He had taught to restrain herself nonetheless, not only while he kept her in Saint-Cyr, but also later on. This teaching he had given her and Philippe had saved them more than once, especially with Louis’ extravagant killings that did not even satisfy his hunger, but rather a profound pain he felt inside.
- All I want is to keep you safe, ma petite colombe. he purred with the slightest grin he could ever give. I am always worried about everyone of you.
- I know. she smiled back. But please, trust me. I know how to deal with humans.
- Yes, yes. But I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.
Armand leaned forward to kiss her forehead. He had, over the last few years, acquired a parental role towards her, but also towards Philippe who still showed him an immense amount of respect, despite their differing ways to approach humans or life itself. But this simple kiss gesture, so random yet comforting for Olympe, was a way for him to reassert his hidden control on her. He had snapped, indeed, but he still needed to have her around. He still needed to have his perfect pureblood creation close, as a reminder of what he had done, of the miracle her actual presence was, as a way to show other vampires, if he encountered any, that he had defied Nature itself by having participated to the birth of an undead child who grew into the woman she was that day, forever frozen at age twenty-five.
That night, Armand allowed Olympe and Philippe to drink from him as a way for them to accept his apology for him recently snapping. Nothing was truly forgotten, but was at least forgiven. Armand knew Philippe would probably be more protective of Olympe when she would be around him, at least for the next few days. But he did not mind, he needed them by his side, he needed them to stay with him and Louis, to support them for the rest of time.
One early morning, right after everyone had went to their respective coffins, Armand proceeded talking to Daniel, whom he had sat in front of the television for the entire night, not granting him the right to sleep just yet. He had turned around him, watching him, talked to him about life, death, purred to his ear that Louis and Olympe, whose voices had been recorded on a tape, were worse monsters than what he could have ever imagined. Louis was the attacker, Olympe was the torturer, and Armand was the saviour. Philippe was luckily spared from all of this mess. But Armand could not kill Daniel just yet. Especially since he kept begging for his life.
- I’m a bright young reporter with a point of view… Daniel said more than once
Then, possibly the next night, Olympe left her coffin while everyone was still in theirs. She moved towards Daniel who looked up at her and grabbed a bowl of water and a wet washcloth. She wanted to see how he was doing, having been mostly unable to do so as Armand was constantly around him when she was coming back to the apartment to take care of Louis. She approached him with care, sitting down right before him, meeting his green eyes filled with tears. He was just a child to her eyes, a young boy that had a lot to see, a lot to experience. Twenty years old… an age she did not even remember herself, rather than Santiago's torture and the countless times she had been locked in an Iron Maiden for a minor disobedience.
- Hello Daniel. she smiled softly
- Don’t… please don’t hurt me…
- I’m not here to hurt you, I promise.
Daniel fidgeted a little once he saw the washcloth, believing she was probably going to smoother him or strangle him with it, but his body could not move much. He could not control it. She dabbed a small tissue soaked in disinfecting alcohol on his puncture wounds and hummed a soft song before he left out a sob which made Olympe feel incredibly sorry for him. If not even guilty, despite having done nothing but hear his cries and countless moans each time he was awake, and silently watched Armand talk to him. -
- Hey, it’s okay. she whispered
- Plea-please don’t hurt me… Daniel cried. I don’t wanna die here…
- It’s okay. I don’t plan to, it’s not my thing. Besides, I don't like hurting kids.
Olympe proceeded cleaning up the wound and tried a little with Daniel’s stripped shirt that was covered in his blood, but quickly gave up, feeling it was worthless anyway. The boy kept crying, looking at with both hope and devastation at the same time. And when Olympe moved the took the washcloth to his face, he swallowed another sob.
- Easy, Easy. Olympe smiled, dabbing the wet cloth on Daniel’s sweaty forehead
- Wh… why are you doing this to me…
- It’s okay. I care too much about the people I don’t know. I’m so sorry you’re caught in this.
Daniel’s bright eyes kept gazing at Olympe despite his tears. He wanted to reach out to her, he wanted to push her away. According to Armand, Olympe was a monster, possibly worse than Louis himself. The pain he felt in his legs, the dizziness due to the bleeding holes that were still so new in his neck, the fear of loosing his life in an instant… he wanted to scream, but he was too scared. Especially of Olympe who, to his eyes, had tortured him enough for him to be like this.
- Ma’am… I don’t wanna die… he whimpered, sobbing further as his body was entirely limp
- I know, I know. I don’t want you to die either, you’re still so young, it would be a shame.
And Olympe, on the other hand, wanted nothing but to help him. She knew nothing about it. She knew nothing about Armand’s lie. She proceeded pushing a glass of water to Daniel’s lips, coaxing her to drink softly. She rubbed his cheek while he cried, passed the tip of her fingers through his curls while he begged her to let go of him. To her eyes, he was just a child. She was in her early seventies while Daniel was only twenty years old, a young age for both humans and vampires, to young to have his life ended. Olympe knew so much about it, from the poor teenagers who had died back when she was in New Orleans to fledglings that were, at the end of her time in Saint-Cyr, half her age for most. Daniel, to her eyes, was only a child. A boy.
- You are not strong enough to leave, Daniel. she sighed. Only Armand can undo this, I personally can’t.
- Please… Let me go… I don’t feel my body anymore…
- I wish I could, trust me. I wish I could.
She gently cupped his cheek, her gaze filled with different emotions. Compassion, sadness, guilt, anger, exhaustion. And her unique aura, her soft caress, the way she tended him made Daniel’s heart flutter a little, despite his terrible state. He was scared of her, but, on the other hand, was fascinated by her ethereal looks, so strange that he felt like she was not even real.
- You’re beautiful… Daniel whimpered, despite his fear. Angel… like an angel…
- Thank you. Olympe smiled. Please, try to rest, please.
- I don’t want to… You’ll kill me…
- I wont.
Olympe used her mind gift to soothe Daniel, whispering some comforting words, singing old lullabies she had once heard back in New Orleans, in a broken French she still spoke, yet less often than before. Daniel fell asleep on that chair, unable to move further, needing to get more strength before running away on his own.
- You’ll be alright, Daniel. You’ll be alright. her voice sounded, morphing into Armand’s over time
And that night, quite possibly before sunrise, when the sky was still dark and lamplights in the street were still on, while Armand watched Olympe and Philippe sleep in their coffins, opening their lids without waking them up, noticing they were facing each other despite not even being in the same small space. He placed his hands on their foreheads, whispering a few comforting words. Louis self in his own coffin, hardly recovering, not even hearing his companion’s voice.
- Oh, mes enfants… let’s all forget what happened there… he whispered like a lullaby that echoed in their minds. Let’s forget about all of this. The boy was just a journalist that came and left, Olympe and Louis tasted his blood. Don’t worry, our secret will be safe, forever safe.
Armand’s objective was to make sure neither Olympe nor Philippe would remember anything of the last few days, from Daniel’s suffering to Louis’ attempt of suicide. They would only remember his name, the fact that he came for an interview and left soon afterwards. That Louis accidentally stepped into the sun after having drank too much, but this would be a detail he would polish later on. Philippe would not remember preparing Olympe small first aid kit she used to clean Daniel's puncture wounds, and she would not remember seeing him in pain at all. This would be a distant memory, an echo of an era they would probably forget soon enough, believing they would not see Daniel ever again after that night. He was planning on killing him, despite his mind thought about keeping him alive and make him forget about them… mostly.
He moved to Daniel, still sitting on his chair in the kitchen area of the apartment. It caused him to suddenly jolt awake. Armand spoke to him, gently coaxing him into believing he was the Grim Reaper himself, here to go and get him, to lead him to death. He coaxed her into his arms, gently stroking his back, his voice sounding like the softest whisper filled of sensuality and warmth coming from the mouth of the Angel of Death. He bit him in the neck and started draining him again, before Louis stopped him, having managed to get himself dressed despite his burned skin and terrible state.
- I’m cleaning up the mess. After what you've put me through here, I deserve this.
- I know. Louis answered. But I need this one to live. As a testament to our companionship. Of its endurance.
And that night, instead of killing Daniel Molloy, that young twenty-year-old journalist Louis had been fascinated by, who had managed to defy Armand’s manipulative speeches by staying true to himself, got to live, but his memory had to be altered for him to forget about what had happened. While Louis was not there, Armand proceeded to design the situation to his own liking : Louis and Olympe had attacked him. But instead of framing them both as attackers, Armand put most of the blame on Olympe, who did not know anything about it. Her voice could be heard on one of the tapes, making it more believable for Daniel, in case he kept these recordings, that both Louis and Olympe had teamed to attack him, and that Armand had saved him on his own.
- They attacked you, they bit you in the neck. You blacked out.
- They attacked me, they bit me in the neck. I blacked out.
- You woke up in a drug den.
- I woke up in a drug den.
Daniel repeated after Armand, sometimes while Louis was around. To ensure his lie was believable enough, he proceeded manipulating Olympe into thinking she had bitten Daniel too, something she did not even fight against. Even Philippe went along with that plot. Their memories of these days were wiped collectively. Armand had managed to erase three days of the lives of Louis, Daniel, Philippe and Olympe, all at once, just for the simple need to keep his family intact, to keep Louis safe, to keep their secret safe. Daniel was going to live, and there was little to no chance he would end up coming back to them and ask for explanations, at least not in the next few years, that’s for sure.
Olympe did not witness Louis and Armand carry Daniel away to a nearby drug den, having been at her nightshift while Philippe, in order to help both of them, had managed to get the heaviest drugs he could find and inject them into the boys arms. It was a danger now gone, and it forced them to relocate promptly.
They travelled around Southern America, settling in Colombia before moving back to the old continent where Olympe and Philippe decided to settle in Germany, in Western Berlin, somewhere in 1979. The window of their apartment had a clear view on the wall, but they enjoyed the overall ambiance of the city. It’s culture, its various museums they could visit by night, the nighttime bars they happened to linger into. And overtime, Olympe had become less interested in random flings and human parties. She became different, because her eyes started slightly moving towards one man. A man she wanted to set free. Her Philippe, who had been with her for more than thirty years already, and had never really stepped back, not even once.
Somewhere in 1982, while they were alone, Louis and Armand exploring Austria, they went to a nightclub with blasted the latest tunes that were popular in Germany, one of ranging from ballads to techno songs. Scorpions was at its peak, and Nena was about to become popular with an upcoming hit called « Nur geträumt ». A few American tracks could be also heard, as well as British ones, such as the ones, even French tunes were blasted in the nightclub. And, between two cocktails they could not even drink, Olympe gently told Philippe to follow her on the rooftop of the building, close to Bebelplatz. A storm was soon to arrive, distant thunderclaps could be heard in the distance. Philippe followed Olympe on the rooftop of the bar where she stood for a moment before turning her head to him.
- You’re free to go. she sighed
- What do you mean ?
- You’ve been my ward for so many years… I’ve been free for thirty years, even more… I want you to be free too. You deserve it, you deserve a life where you take care of yourself, and where you don’t need to take care of someone else.
Philippe shivered but proceeded stepping forward. Olympe’s simple declaration made a lot of sense to him. It had been thirty-two years since she had been set free, and thirty-eight years since he had been her ward, her medic, her friend, her confident, her partner in crime. She was all he knew, and over the years, he had gotten too close to her. To a point of no-return. He had fallen for this woman he once had to protect, but had never wished to interpose too early, wanting her to heal first. Olympe deserved the right to be loved, to enjoy freedom, to see the world as it was. He had tried giving her back thirty years of her life, and it had only resulted in him accidentally falling for her.
And Olympe, sweet Olympe… had fallen for him too. Not because he took care of her, but because of who he was. Not a medic, not a protector. Just Philippe de Lachan. A kind man, full of sarcasm, good at making jokes. A man, so protective yet vulnerable, eager to chat, eager to explain her everything, the man who had waited for her to come to him whenever she would feel ready. Their bond, as a maker and a fledgling, was already uncanny. But something else was vibrating within them. Something Philippe had restrained, scared she would be too frightened to accept it, too rushed into a forced relationship. Something Olympe had hidden, having been taught to hide, to withdraw, never show, never cry, always endure like the perfect pureblood she always had to be.
- So… Olympe said with a bittersweet voice, practically ready to part ways. I… I want you to be free. Not to have me dependent on you. You taught me so many things, so much stuff… I can only repay you with your freedom.
- My freedom ? Well, in that case, I’ve already chosen.
He gently approached her and took her hands between his. Downstairs, they could hear Germany’s latest hit, « Major Tom (Coming Home) », by Peter Schilling. He liked this song, so did she. He knew about it. He knew a lot about his maker, and he did not want to let it go so easily. And people clapping their hands and cheering at the song only made his desire to express everything he felt stronger, now more than ever.
- And I chose you, Olympe.
- You chose me ? Olympe’s eyes widened. But the world out there..-
- The world out there isn’t you. It’s you I want. Not the world out there.
- Philippe, please. You’re not thinking straight, you’ve been around me for so long and…-
- And I chose you. There might be so many different people out there, attractive, kind, independent, dependent, needing care, needing support… but I chose you. Not because you’re my maker, but because I love you.
Olympe shivered, her legs trembled. She had never heard that sweet declaration before, at least not from the mouth of someone not representing a parental figure for her, such as Armand, Louis or even, through the pieces of her shattered memories, Lestat himself. For decades, she had multiplied flings, playmates, awkward and torrid relationships without even going beyond or falling in love because she knew her companion was already somewhere near. And she was just realising that this companion, who had been her protector, her friend, her biggest help in her moments of agony. That her companion was none other than Philippe, the man she had accidentally fallen in love with during the past thirty years.
- You what ? she tilted her eyes, her eyes as wide as saucers
- I love you. I'm going to be honest, at first, I saw you as a big kid and you were definitely dressed like my mother would have been.
This joke, so Philippe, made Olympe chuckle softly. She looked into his bright blue eyes, noticing they were gorged with tears of blood. Beautiful ruby tears she wanted to wipe away. She wanted to embrace him, to hold him close, to cup his face between her hands, quite possibly to even kiss him… but her body restrained itself, after so many years of playing and playing, having been taught so well by Louis and Armand that relationships were mostly destructive with their lies about Lestat. And, unlike the latter, she did not want to seduce him, she did not force anything, she was not even possessive ! She was going with the flow, and her river was joining his.
- That’s not kind. she chuckled
- I know, mais putain, you were so beautiful, so gentle, so kind ! And ever since we were out of Saint-Cyr, I told myself to accept that fate was not going to allow me to love you. But I stayed ! I stayed because I love you ! And god forbid I’d leave… everything would make me go back to you. I can’t get away from you, and I know, deep down, that you feel the same for me. You were just taught not to show it.
Olympe’s heart stopped and suddenly clutched on Philippe’s hands, looking right into his eyes. He was not lying, he was vulnerable at the moment. His eyes spoke for himself. And, for the first time, Olympe could hear what was going on in his mind, despite being her maker. It was one of her pureblood features she knew nothing about. The impossible ability to communicate with her fledglings.
- You say this because I’m your maker. she looked down for a moment. Because you were assigned to me.
- Do you think I'm dumb enough to stay around a woman for thirty years out of duty ? No. I can tell it. I fell for you. When we were in San Francisco, I had to restrain myself when I saw you with these men, these women, these people you seemed to enjoy. In Colombia, it was even worse. I love you, Olympe, and I’ve been loving you for so long, long enough for my heart to believe it was yours.
- But… your freedom ?
- My freedom is to stay with the woman I love. You are the one I chose, Olympe. I never wanted to make myself a companion because… I had you. I have you. And should you say no to me, I would understand. I would understand.
These words, full of love, full of vulnerability, made Olympe freeze for a moment before her she let go of his hands, moving hers to cup his face. She had never thought about a companion, having never truly wished for one, but for a while already, having been around Philippe for so long, her heart had also started believing it was his. She could not help it anymore. Thirty years.
Thirty years with him by her side, like a guard, a friend, a brother… and someone in-between, who had waited for her to be ready, who had respected her wishes, who had never pressured her into anything. Especially not a romantic relationship, after so many years being isolated. He had wanted Olympe to experience it on her own, to discover, to understand. He had watched her try in the distance. For thirty years.
And Olympe was realising it.
- You’re serious ? she asked. You… you’re really serious ? You’re serious when you’re saying you love me ? Why did you wait for so long…?
- Of course I am. Philippe nodded, leaning into her hands. I waited because I wanted you to live, after so many years isolated. I wanted you to live.
Suddenly, Olympe did not even wait anymore. She moved close enough, wrapping her arms around his neck to kiss him passionately. Philippe’s hands found their way to the back of her headdress, the other to the his waist, holding her close to him. None of them could stop this long-awaited kiss they both needed, a kiss they both expected. Their bodies felt suddenly fused into one, so much that Olympe accidentally started levitating with Philippe in her arms. He clung onto her and chuckled as their kiss ended, his legs dangling before they both set foot back on earth. Fireworks were launched nearby during a random summer festival. It felt romantic, strangely sensual and rather lovely, a sweet moment that was bonding two souls to another. And when they bit each other and drank, they felt like they were one body.
And that night, that exact same night, a simple kiss had triggered a wave of discoveries for the two of them. Back at the apartment they shared with Armand and Louis whenever they were around, Olympe and Philippe lead a sensual dance that almost wrecked the entire place. Thunderclaps could be heard outside while they enjoyed each other's company to the fullest, each thrust accompanied with a scream combined with the numerous lightings that decorated the light-polluted sky of Berlin making the entire complex tremble. Neither Olympe nor Philippe had expected to find this much people into each other, between drinking their blood to having a sexual intercourse, it felt like an adventure that had just begun.
That night, vases were broken, tables and chairs were wrecked, holes were made in the wall, in the ceiling. Neighbours were even too scared to react to these strange noises. What had first felt like a earthquake was mostly caused because of two vampires. Two vampires in love, who had caused this perfect apartment to turn into a literal crime scene.
And, undoubtedly, when Armand and Louis came back right in the morning for their rest, almost collapsed when they noticed how the living room had turned into a battlefield. The couch was upside down, the table was broken, there were debris of a variety of furnitures everywhere. The fur carpet had been partly burned and torn apart, many frames on the walls were broken, even paintings were covered in blood. They suddenly thought of someone having sacked the apartment, Louis instinctively rushed towards the bedroom where his coffin and the ones of Philippe and Olympe were located, panicked for the « children », as he often called them, and found them there. On the double bed, naked, asleep in each other’s arms, white sheets randomly wrapped around their bodies.
- Get up ! Armand urged them, closing all curtains to block the outside light
It only took Olympe and Philippe a fraction of second to get up and, still wrapped in their sheets like a couple of lovers surprised by their respective spouses, gaze at both Louis and Armand with surprise, shielding their nakedness the way they could. Louis was calm, even smiling at Olympe, knowing exactly what had happened while Armand, on the other hand, was angry, if not even mad. This place looked like a mess, and they needed it to remain perfect. They had a landlord, it was not theirs.
- What the hell happened here ?! Armand snapped
- Huh… Olympe stammered like a scolded child. We were, hum…-
- We… we got carried away ! Philippe exclaimed, lifting his hands in the hair, causing the sheets to fall on the ground, exposing his naked body
Armand’s eyes widened, he felt repulsed by this trivial act, but also surprised to have him defend Olympe so well. He took a deep breath before snarling further.
- Yes, I can see that ! Armand shouted. Now, I told you both, for thirty years, that we need to keep our heads lows ! And look what you've done ?! This place doesn't belong to us, we need to repair every shit you’ve made !
- Armand, please. Louis chuckled. They had fun.
- Fun ? Fun ?! They might have woken the entire district and the police is probably on its way !
- And so what, they’re not here. If they wanted to come, they would have been there earlier.
- Anyway. I want these two to clean up their mess.
Olympe and Philippe spent about a few days repairing everything, buying new furniture to replace the old ones, doing some plumbing, even filling the holes with various coatings to make it look normal. They bought another rug, another set of chairs, cleaned the walls, sipping away their blood while Armand made sure to have the entirety of the neighbours forget about what had just happened. Every now and then, they earned scoldings. Not because of their relationship which was, at least to Louis’ eyes, something rather charming, as he wanted his daughter to experience something « normal », not like what he had to go through with Lestat. They were scolded for their idiotic behaviour. What if the police had intervene ? They would have been caught. Exposed. Worse even, killed. More than once, Armand felt he was the only sane person of this household.
From 1982 onwards, Olympe and Philippe became a couple. They called each other companions, following after Armand and Louis. Their relationship bloomed in trust, common hunts, mutual respect of boundaries, constant conversations whatever the situation was. A rather healthy couple who seemed to be normal from an outside point of view.
However, Armand did not enjoy it. He hated knowing he did not have this much power over Olympe anymore, as if she was slipping away from his controlling grasp. At first, when Olympe and Philippe officialised their companionship, he had tried convincing her not to get romantically involved with anyone too young, too old, too small, to tall, too thin, to curvy, men, women, but Olympe had refused listening to him, despite he held the reins anyway. He was too focused on Louis to fully try breaking every single piece of freedom Olympe had managed to build for herself and for her relationship. But she still believed him, still enjoyed being around him, having him read to her, tell her stories about the Muslim religion he was fascinated and was reconnecting with overtime. Despite slipping away from him, he still controlled a lot of aspects of her life, too many aspects of her life.
Time went on, it passed faster. Olympe and Philippe were distant spectators of the technological revolution of the late 20th century, having barely noticed the late 1980s and most of the 1990s. They watched the fireworks at Time Square to celebrate the new millennium, holding hands while gazing at these incredible colours that kept spreading in the sky above the buildings Olympe barely remembered. From France, they watched the September 11 attacks broadcasted on their television, which only made Olympe even more scared use planes. She cried while watching the news, shocked while Philippe held her. It unfortunately built, within them, a distinct fear of mankind in general, rendering them more reclusive.
While the world was reeling, Armand and Louis moved to Dubai, to a penthouse in one of the Al Sharaf towers Armand had designed himself. It was a move born of necessity, a need for privacy. The 1990s were marked by Louis’ incessant eccentricity when it came to his killings, more flamboyant, theatrical, careless, attraction more attention than a century ago, television and overall media having grown accustomed to monstrous killings such as the ones of Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer. Armand was afraid Louis would end up being spotted, recognised, taken to jail, killed, even, or would end up killing himself. Dubai, a city built from a desert next to the Persian Gulf, was meant to be their haven, exactly as what Armand had planned. A golden cage in which Armand could fully control his companion, and from which Louis could not escape. It as too dangerous outside, there were no hills, no shadows during daytime, and Louis himself preferred being kept inside.
The penthouse was designed for Armand to keep Louis safe from he world, but also to keep the world safe from him. It felt like a mental health hospital he could never leave, a luxurious prison that contained everything he needed. People came in as living beings but came out as bodies in secrecy. The windows were specially treated to block out the sun, allowing Louis to watch the world below without the threat of being burned to ashes for a sudden act of curiosity. Louis could see the city's growth, new buildings get built right before his eyes, he could hear people at clubs, dance and laugh, but he couldn't touch it. The city around him was like a painting, that was held safe behind a glass window, in a same way as Leonardo Da Vinci’s « La Gioconda » was exposed in the Salle des Etats at the Louvre Museum.
Despite all of this, Louis had everything he needed. Books, displayed in a library hung on the ceiling only Armand could reach, numerous modern or ancient paintings adorning the walls, a zen room with a magnolia tree in a garden of rocks, countless men brought to him to be fed from, countless animals, either wild, domesticated or even almost extinct. He did not need to get out, and each time the idea came to his mind, Armand was quick to remind him about But the true intent was clear. It was a lockbox for a creature too dangerous to be left alone into the wild. This apartment, hidden behind a touch of luxury, designed furniture, rare paintings and sculptures which could have made any collector jealous, was a hidden cage with a perfect view on the outside world that was not reachable for someone like Louis.
The bedroom he shared with Armand was definitely what was the most telling regarding their relationship. It was not a place designed for comfort, but for architectural art. The walls around the the area looked like a grid of thin and dark wooden planks, forming a lattice that felt less like a design choice and more like the bars of a cage containing a wild animal. The bed also felt like a sculpture, in the centre of the room, surrounded with stone platforms that descended to it. Nothing in that bedroom, not even the beautiful silky bedsheets, gloomy works of art on the wall, or comfortable couches, felt personal. This room almost looked like a typical reception room, a « chambre d’apparat like in Versailles », as Lestat would have called it, had he seen it.
Louis main consolation in this isolation, which was mirroring the one Olympe had once experienced decades ago, was to listen to his daughter mentally talk to him about her nights, about her passions, about ballet she had decided to practice again to become a ballerina, or about the latest pieces of art she wanted to bring him.
- I found an awesome piece of Basquiat last week ! I’ll absolutely bring it to you !
- Thank you sugar. Thank you.
Undoubtedly, Armand had requested Olympe and Philippe to join them in Dubai, but they had collectively refused, much to Louis’ greatest dismay. Philippe did not enjoy the area, preferring the coldness of Paris and its older buildings, while Olympe was first feeling a little sad due to the lack of vegetation, of plants, finding this penthouse too dull, too empty for her own liking. She did not want to stay confined in there, it felt too impersonal, built to only suit Armand’s subtle needs of controlling the lives of anyone who revolved around him. She also did not wish to stay in a country where women were not men’s equals to the eyes of the law, having seen patriarchy close enough, from her earliest days in Brooklyn to her stay in Chateau de Romanus, to even the cities they had settled to over the last few decades.
- This isn't living. she whispered Philippe as they toured the penthouse. It’s… it’s enduring.
- Yeah. Philippe nodded. Honestly, even an empty graveyard looks more interesting
For the first time in fifty years, Olympe and Philippe officially settled away from them. They refused to move to Dubai permanently, despite having a room there, close to Louis’. While Armand still kept a good mind control on them even from a distance and told them never to use their gifts, no matter the cost was, they were finding their own path, but were always drawn back to him and to Louis. Despite all these decades, including her isolation, Olympe still loved Armand as a semi-parental figure, a protector, a shield against the threat Lestat represented. And still, Olympe decided to follow her passion, and wanted to make one of her dreams come true.
She wanted to become a prima ballerina.
Olympe would probably be known around the world by people who enjoyed ballet, but could not care less about it. The salaries were not forcibly high, but she wanted to try it. She had managed to fake numerous papers to have her candidature accepted at a dancing company producing itself at the Opera Garnier, having passed several examinations and hard trainings to be accepted. Philippe, on the other hand, studied to obtain a medical diploma in order to become a surgeon. A brain surgeon. They lived with the money Louis was sending them until Philippe became the lead Surgeon of the night ward of the Pitié-Salpêtrière University Hospital , in the 13th arrondissement of Paris, skilled enough and earning an excellent salary for them to live comfortably in his apartment in Place des Vosges, an apartment they would not give up just yet, finding it’s location too perfect.
- Leaving ? What for ? Olympe often asked whenever the subject of her and Philippe would be brought back to the table. We have all we need here.
Just after the second lockdown had ended, Olympe officially enrolled to become a ballet dancer at the Opera Garnier with a fake identity card, stating she was only twenty years old, born on July 22, 2001 in Giverny. And people believed it. Naturally, being a vampire, Olympe performed excellently and subsequently, despite the jealousy of her fellow ballet-dancers, became a prima ballerina in 2022. Her kindness had never faded, she was always prone to give main roles to the other girls, granting her enough respect not to have her trainings or representations sabotaged by an « unfortunate puddle of oil on the stage », for example. And Armand learned about about this new fame when, on hers and Philippe’s next trip to Dubai, she told them directly about the upcoming ballets she was about to perform.
- Absolutely not. Armand said
- Come on Armand. Olympe sighed. I’m not known worldwide.
- Yes, but Lestat could find you, especially if he is still alive !
- Honestly ? I doubt he still is. Please, trust me. I’m always safe, especially with Philippe. And with you.
Armand sighed and nodded. He could not avoid Olympe becoming what she always wanted to be, he could not stop her from doing the thing she loved the most. But he was worried, horribly worried, whenever she was having representations in Paris or in other places, afraid Lestat would find her and take her away, breaking his lie into pieces, and would eventually come and get Louis afterwards. Olympe’s passion for ballet, unlike Philippe’s career as a surgeon, forcing them to live around humans and blending into the crowd despite their predatory nature, always triggered numerous arguments between Armand and Louis.
- My daughter is living the life she deserves. he always smiled. And I'm very proud and happy about it.
Louis had a collection of recordings Philippe sent him of all ballets Olympe performed. When looking at her, in her fancy tutus, silk robes, heavy makeup and other accessories that were adapted according to the ballet she was performing, he could never stop thinking about that little girl he and Lestat often too to watch ballet performances at fancy theatres back in New Orleans. She was beautiful, like an angel dancing, and even Armand could not deny it. Olympe danced like a bird in the clouds, twirling and moving around the stage like a ghost in the body of a young woman, much older than what she looked like. As of 2022, Olympe had just turned one-hundred-and-twenty years of age.
And Lestat, that same year, had awakened to the sound of a rock band whose noise had forced him out of his slumber. He, by the force of nature, became a part of their band. He was still a mourning man, depressed even, often coming back to his small shack in New Orleans with his new high tech stuff like a phone or a bluetooth speaker that had been gently given to him by his bassist Alex, even a tablet he did not like using, a gift from his drummer Tough Cookie. He did not watch ballets anymore as it gave him heartbreaking memories of a life that was not his anymore, just a piece of ashes which had to fly in his mind for the eternity. Claudia was haunting him on a daily basis, he could not get her out of his mind, neither her face, nor her last screams. And he did not know that, somewhere in the middle of a crowd, on a stage on in a coffin, his daughter was dancing like an angel. And yet, his other daughter was haunting him.
Uncle Les, your performance will always be as terrible as your ego.
Uncle Les, the sound of your voice feels like a nail scratching a chalkboard.
Uncle Les, you should really shut your mouth, for the greater good. He won't come back.
But time had changed, and Louis had unexpectedly emailed Daniel Molloy, now 69 years old, to offer him a second chance to conduct the interview about a vampire’s life story, against Armand's back.
And Daniel Molloy alone was ready to shatter this house built on lies.