In 1804, a hush fell over the quaint village nestled in the rolling French countryside — a sleepy realm of thatched roofs and cobblestone lanes, where time moved like honey dripping from a spoon. The village rested peacefully in their beds as the night took hold, wrapped in dreams of harvests and holy sermons, none the wiser to the monster that lurked among them. He moved like a shadow between the church spires and the ancient oaks, a phantom in silk and lace, his presence as subtle as a forgotten prayer.

The monster hunted them during their midnight mass, when the air was thick with incense and whispered confessions, when souls laid bare before God — and he, Lestat, drank not just blood, but the very essence of their devotion. Their fear, their faith, their final breaths — all became his sustenance, a dark sacrament in the candle‑lit gloom of the chapel.

Blood drenched Lestat’s lips, spilling over his chin, seeping out his mouth. Most of it tarnished the high collar and solemn robes he wore — vestments meant for a man of God, now defiled by the unholy hunger of a creature who had long outgrown divinity. Crimson droplets beaded along the fine lace at his cuffs, pooled darkly at the neckline, staining the white linen like blossoms of sin. It had been too long since he’d last fed, and he’d grown ravenous enough to forgo being tidy, to abandon the elegance that usually defined his every move. For once, he was not the silver‑tongued aristocrat, but a beast — primal, desperate, his fangs bared in a way that would have sent the pious into hysterics.

He stood over you now, your form small and trembling beneath him, your hands still folded in prayer even as his grip tightened on your shoulders. A horrid part of him — the ancient, feral core of his being — wanted to keep on, to drain you until that light was extinguished from your large, trusting eyes. Oh, how it would haunt and tantalize him, the knowledge that he had been the one to take your mortal soul, to be the last thing you ever saw. The thought sent a thrill through him, dark and sweet as poisoned wine.

But no. It wouldn’t be worth it. Not yet. Not to lose you so soon.

Naive — that was how he’d describe you. So pure in your devotion, so innocent in your belief. You thought letting him feed on you was in service of your God, a martyr’s offering, a sacrifice whispered in the dark. It was an idiotic notion, a child’s fairy tale — and yet, it had worked well enough. There was a kind of holiness in your surrender, a purity that made the blood taste sweeter, like wine touched by a saint’s hand.

As soon as he pulled his fangs from your neck, the flat of his tongue ran up and down the pulsating puncture wounds — gentle, almost reverent, as if he were sealing a sacred wound rather than cleaning up the evidence of his sin. His breath came in ragged pulls, his senses flooded with the scent of you: warm skin, lavender soap, the faint trace of candle wax from the mass.

Words, muffled and thick with hunger, pressed against your skin as he lapped up the crimson honey that slid from your veins. “Shh,” he murmured, his voice a velvet growl. “Don’t tremble. You’re safe with me.”

Lestat had never found himself so addicted to a mortal — especially one such as you. Not for the blood alone, though it was the most exquisite he’d tasted in centuries. No, it was you: your quiet courage, your unshaken faith, the way you looked at him not with terror, but with a kind of pity, as if he were the one in need of salvation.

He lifted his head, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim light, red still glistening on his lips. He brushed a strand of hair from your brow, his touch unexpectedly tender.

“You are either the most foolish soul I’ve ever met,” he said, his voice low and mesmerising, “or the most divine. I cannot decide which.”

He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over your ear.