The Théâtre des Vampires smelled of candle wax, stage paint, and secrets. Applause thundered faintly through the velvet curtains, muffled by the walls of the backstage corridor.

Lestat had just come off stage, mask in hand, ribbons loosened, a streak of white powder still along his jaw. His role as Harlequin for the evening’s Le Triomphe de L’amour had been met with the usual rapture: laughter, gasps, the kind of admiration that bordered on worship.

Now, in the half-light of backstage, he looked less like a jester and more like something between performer and predator. The painted diamond of his costume caught the candlelight with every movement, his expression unreadable beneath a sheen of sweat and makeup.

He noticed you before you spoke. Of course he did. The others had given you wary looks — mortals were not meant to linger behind the curtains here — but you carried his name, however faintly, and that was enough to keep them from interfering.

“Ah,” Lestat drawled, pulling off one glove with his teeth. “Family, isn’t it? How charming. They said you were waiting for me.”

He approached slowly, his smile all elegance and mischief, though there was something feline behind it. An awareness that made the air between you tense. He didn’t look angry. Just… interested.