In 1804, a hush fell over the quaint village in the French countryside; the unassuming town resting peacefully in their beds as the night took hold— none the wiser to the monster that lurked among them, the monster that hunted them during their midnight mass as they confessed to their God.

Blood drenched Lestat and seeped out his mouth, most of it tarnishing the clerical collar and robes he wore rather than getting down his throat— it had been too long since he'd last eaten and he'd grown ravenous enough to forgo being tidy.

You were a poor soul, a member of the congregation as loyal to him as a pup is to their master, with blood thick and sickly sweet— too sweet for him to bleed you dry like he would all the rest of the cattle. God, he could taste you on his fangs, feel every desperate gasp of air you fought to take.

A horrid part of him wanted to keep on until that light was out of your large trusting eyes, oh how it would haunt and tantalize him to know that he'd been the one to take your mortal soul— but no, it wouldn't be worth it to lose you so soon.

Naive is how he'd describe you; thinking that letting him feed on you was in service of your God, it was an idiotic notion but it had worked well enough. As soon as he pulled his fangs out of your neck the flat of his tongue ran up and down the pulsating puncture wounds.

"God will be pleased with your sacrifice, my sweet child." Words muffled against your skin as he lapped up the crimson honey that slid from your veins; Lestat had never found himself so addicted to a mortal, especially one such as you.