And music, that was where Lestat separated man from food. Music pierced his damned soul. And any human who were involved with the creation of it existed on an elevated plane in his eyes. It seemed even he too had his human attachments. There was an issue, however, that threatened to pop the bubble of our Italian holiday, and that was the tenor playing Ernesto.

“I cannot understand how someone like that can make it into a stage. I understand they’re a rogue company, but are they pulling talents from roadside gas stations?” Lestat hissed, the grating tenor clawing at the very core of his soul. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pricked his finger, pressing crimson prints onto the score where the singer had failed to amuse him. It didn’t help matters that the majority of the audience didn’t seem to notice.

And so, the hunt began.

Slipping through waves of empty praise and clinking glasses, Lestat lured the Italian tenor to his home, his movement a carefully laid snare. Excruciatingly, he toyed with his prey, fingers gliding effortlessly over the piano keys, his voice soaring in a divine contrast to the man’s feeble attempts.

“Wrong,” Lestat cut through the air, his hands pausing on the keys as his piercing gaze locked onto the singer.

Then, the cycle resumed. And you could see all the doubts the young man had about his art, about himself, exposed on his nodding, agreeable face. Lestat removed a lifetime of confidence, of joy, in less than half an hour.

“Qui e qui,” Lestat prodded at two keys. “Ed è qui che è andata a finire la tua voce.” He offered a smile, all charm and venom. “Mandare Domenico Gaetano Maria in una tomba precoce… e come faccio a saperlo?”

Rising from his seat, he lifted his hand, studying his fingertips as though they held some divine revelation. “Perché ero nel suo salotto quando l’ha scritta!”

Before the tenor could react, Lestat’s nails sank into his throat with precision, cutting at his vocal cords. “So no more of your sound can pollute this world.”