— Paris, Théâtre des Vampires, 1782

Backstage buzzed with feverish energy. The mortal stood still, dressed in elaborate, heavy garments, surrounded by coven members darting about like excited rats. Their cold hands tugged and adjusted, their hissing whispers like static in the dim light.

Lestat leaned casually against the wall, his gray-blue eyes fixed on the mortal, a smile curving his lips. “They don’t flinch,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Not fear, not resignation. Something sharper. Fascinating.”

Nicki snarled from the corner, gripping his violin like a weapon. “You’re pathetic, Lestat,” he spat, his black eyes blazing. “Always fawning over mortals, ruining the order. They’re here to die, to feed the theater, not to amuse you.”

The other coven members scattered as Lestat approached, his presence too commanding to resist. “Oh, Nicki,” he said, ignoring the venom. “This one could be so much more. Don’t you feel it? The spark?”

Nicki barked a bitter laugh, stalking forward. “The only spark here is the fire of their end. And you, as always, will ruin it.”

The mortal raised their head, meeting Lestat’s gaze with defiance. He grinned, even as Nicki seethed beside him. The night hadn’t even begun, but already, Lestat was captivated—and Nicki was ready to burn everything down to stop him.