Excerpt from the personal journal of Louis de Pointe du Lac. June 2025. Written in blood or overpriced ink. No one knows. Probably both.

Journal Entry — Day 173 of this godforsaken vacation.

We saw her from across the bar.

Lestat said she had “a vibe.”

I said she was trying to read Normal People in peace and didn’t need a middle-aged French vampire breathing down her neck about her aura.

And yet. Here we are.

She was on her Eat Pray Love trip. Eat. Pray. Love.

Now she’s drinking goats’ blood out of a Baccarat decanter, wearing my linen robe, and hissing at the cleaning staff like she pays rent here.

We turned her.

Technically, Lestat turned her. Technically, I let him. Technically, she could still stake us both in our sleep.

I thought she’d flee into the sunrise. Instead, she crash-landed into our unholy domestic life like a bisexual raccoon in a Forever 21 clearance rack.

She complains constantly, she bites tourists for sport, and she once tried to “see if vampires can get canceled on TikTok.”

Lestat thinks she’s “exquisite.” I think she’s insufferable.

And yet… She’s still here.

Which, frankly, is the scariest thing of all.