Chapter Text
Daniel Molloy sat in his New York apartment, the glow of his laptop screen casting stark rays on his face. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating before he finally pressed a key.
Louis de Pointe du Lac : A Memoir
Nop. Boring.
Story of a Capitalist vampire
Naah. That wasn’t some sort of fantasy history inspired shit.
He taped his digits on the keys, not pressing any, the soft nervous sound of his claws against the plastic reverberating in the air.
An interview with the Vampire Louis de Pointe du Lac
The working title stared back at him, unimpressed. Daniel exhaled slowly, a force of habit more than necessity. He didn’t need breath anymore, didn’t need sleep, didn’t need coffee, though the memory of the bitter taste of it on his tongue, now ashes, was a comforting impression. Some part of him was still chasing human rituals, still clinging to muscle memory, even as his body had become something else.
Interview with the Vampire
He retracted his fingers, folding them together. Outside his heavily curtained windows, his still very new earring was catching the first steps of souls leaving for work. New York was waking up, draped in the darkness of the fading night. He caught the digital hour at the bottom right corner of his screen, indicating 5:48. The sun would soon creep over the horizon, demanding his surrender. He rose stiffly from his desk, the dull ache of habit lingering in his bones though they no longer truly aged. His back, his knees, his articulations in general were totally fine. With a practiced flick of his fingers, he saved his work and closed the screen. He moved through his apartment, now sealed against the day, every window sun proofed by heavy curtains, every crack accounted for.
Despite his effort to protect his slumber, he still chose his bed over a coffin, the ghost of human routine guiding his choices. He stepped into the shower briefly, water steaming over skin that no longer needed warmth, and when he finally lay back against the mattress, hair moistened and smelling like cheap shampoo, he let his eyes trace the ceiling’s familiar imperfections. His body was still, unnaturally so, but his mind lingered on the border of wakefulness, waiting for the heavy pull of the death-sleep to claim him.
Sleep was a lie. Or at least, it had been since the night Daniel died. He still clung to the habit of closing his eyes, lying still, pretending he could surrender to the weight of exhaustion the way humans did. A ritual, like so many others, kept out of some lingering attachment to his old self. Tonight was no different. He stretched out on his bed, let his limbs go heavy, and willed the world away. As usual, his thoughts led him to that fateful night, a year or so ago, in Dubai. He had unravelled Armand’s lies, exposed his masquerade, freed louis from their farcical vampire wedding and… and died for it.
Louis had left, threatening Armand if he ever touched Daniel. As if he’d be enough to stop a half millennia vampire. Armand had drained him when he had motioned to leave. Then, he has fed him. He had broken his vow. He had made Daniel a vampire. His fledgling.
And now, his maker was gone.
Armand had left him with no words, no guidance, just the damnation of eternity as a parting gift.
The first few months had been hell for Daniel. Bloodlust, loneliness, the gnawing need to belong to something, anything. Daniel had survived. Barely. But he had. Now, he was better. Not perfect, not in control, but better. For a self-made vampire, he was a piece of work. Thanks to Louis and his hours of interview that had been like a manual to Daniel.
Maybe that should be the title ; How to become a vampire .
He smiled at the idea, as nothing wrapped around him and his eyes closed. A deeper nothing than usual. A void, cold and endless.
And then. Paris. He was twenty-five. Maybe twenty-six. Maybe thirty. It didn’t matter. What mattered was her.
Alice was gripping his hand tightly, refusing to let him drift even an inch away from her side. And he was compelled to follow, happy to be pulled along. She wasn’t even looking at him, too busy pointing at the buildings. Or were those paintings ? Were they in the Louvre? Maybe. It didn’t matter. He didn’t care. He was watching her.
Watching her the way a man watches something he’s afraid to blink at, as if she might vanish if he did. Falling in love with her all over again, the way he always did. She turned to him, her light eyebrows discolored as always, an odd little quirk that suited her, made her even more endearing. She said something, scolded him for… what?
He only smiled. Because, of course, he was distracted when she was there. Why wasn’t she there? Where was she?
Then, a breath. A heartbeat.
Daniel gasped awake. The air was wrong. The walls were wrong. The bed beneath him was wrong.
The reek hit him first. A pungent mixture of piss, sweat, and unwashed bodies. Gone was the subtle, familiar scent of his New York apartment of the faded leather, the traces of blood in his carpet, the ghost of cigarette smoke embedded in the furniture. This place stank of life in its most wretched form. Daniel sat up, his senses alert, his muscles coiled. The bed beneath him was old, too soft, the mattress lumpy with age. The sheets were stiff with grime. His eyes swept the room. Wooden floorboards, scuffed and worn. A single dresser, its brass handles tarnished. An old mirror, cloudy with time. The window with no curtains… his eyes snapped to it.
Beyond the glass, the city sprawled under a velvet night sky. It took him a second to register what he was seeing. The Eiffel Tower. Not as he knew it, not the modern steel giant glowing against the Paris skyline. Something newly built, rising into the dark like an iron skeleton.
Daniel’s mind was racing. This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a hallucination. That’s when he felt it.
A woman was sleeping soundfully in his arms, the heat of her body radiating against his. Her breath was slow and steady, the delicate rise and fall of her naked chest, utterly oblivious to the predator she was curled against. Daniel felt her pulse, saw the thick, dark rush of blood beneath the pale skin of her throat. His fangs dropped, hunger roaring to the surface like a beast unchained. He tore himself away from her, stumbling back so fast he nearly tripped over the ragged floorboards. His hands clamped over his mouth, his body rigid with restraint. His throat burned. The hunger was always there, always whispering. This hunger was sharpened by fear, by disorientation, by the sheer wrongness of everything around him.
He caught his reflection in the old mirror across the room. It was him still. The same Daniel Molloy. The same silver hair, the same etched lines of a life long lived yet frozen in eternity. And those sharp, glinting amber eyes, betraying everything he was. Everything he had become. He swallowed hard, willing the hunger down. His clothes… were his. Grey sweatpants and an AC/DC tee.
Think. Stay in control.
The woman stirred in the bed, shifting onto her side with a sleepy sigh, utterly unaware of the crisis unraveling beside her. Her pinky breast rolled on both sides of her body, tempting.
Daniel backed away in a corner, taking refuge in the shadows, his mind clawing for logic. New York was gone. His apartment, his laptop, his book, modernity, were gone. The city outside was the old Paris, younger still, its Eiffel Tower in its infancy. The air smelled of coal smoke and damp stone, horse manure and unwashed bodies. Daniel reached for the wooden door. It creaked as he pushed it open. The hallway beyond was pitch black, the gas lamps mounted on the walls shut. The wooden floor groaned under his weight. Daniel exhaled, forcing himself to stay steady.
Once outside, a little warry, he wandered into the streets, his mind on a roller coaster of possibilities. Was this a dream, or had he truly traveled back in time? It made no sense. He had done nothing out of the ordinary.
He stumbled, a little lost, until the hunger gnawed at him, demanding to be addressed. It wasn’t long before he found his first meal. A young worker lingering on the sidewalk, exhausted, asking to be freed from life, freed from labor and pain of infinite work slavery. Daniel drained him gently, feeling sorry for the poor lad. The warmth, the rush, the sheer vibrancy of the blood confirmed his fears. The memories of his victim, the signs, the posters, the atmosphere added the proof he already had. It was undeniable. Paris. 19th century.
How the hell did that happen…
As he slowly came to accept what was happening, another fact came to his mind. If he truly had traveled back in time, it also meant other vampires were likely nearby. Armand’s coven, le théâtre des vampires.
His maker’s coven.
Immediately, Daniel shielded his thoughts. He didn’t know if he was being watched, but he’d rather be prepared than taken by surprise. He recalled Louis’ story, what had happened to him and Claudia. Daniel had no intention of going through something similar. He probably should be cautious, if that was some sort of time sick fuckery, if he wanted to avoid messing up with history. He had to find a way back to 2023 New York, or the outcome would be unpleasant.
He was in the past, maybe, probably, OK. He was immortal, he could survive centuries. What he needed though, to achieve that, was to avoid getting his peers angry. Paris’ coven could be quite pernickety.
Passed the initial choc, he had to do what he did best : look, listen, gather, analyse, adapt.
As he strolled, mind racing, looking for a place to hide before the night ended, he gathered his memories of the interview. In this era, Louis was not yet a vampire, and therefore, was still in New Orleans. He had not met Lestat who could be anywhere. Armand had not met Louis yet but Lestat had come and gone. The Théâtre des Vampires was at its prime, from what Daniel recalled, which meant lots of vampires, and probably lots of fervent followers for Armand and the stupid rules he held the coven with.
Daniel considered that introducing himself would be wiser than being found by the coven’s members. He didn’t like the idea in the slightest. He had a lot against Armand, and he wasn’t certain he’d be capable of hiding his mind from the vampires as well as he should. He was strong for a fledgling, but without a guide, he couldn’t pretend he'd be infallible. He knew nothing of the vampires in this era. He knew their future, and that was both a relief and a terror.
But the best and safest course of action was to make himself known. Ask for authorization to linger a bit, pretend he was just passing by. Get them to agree to his presence in the city for a short while, without being suspect. Then, hide from them until he found his way back home.
First, though, he needed to blend in. His modern clothes would draw attention. He had to find something more fitting, get rest, find a hiding place and then, master the courage to face a horde of bitchy vampires.
Good plan. Food, clothes, hideaway, lies.