－ NEW ORLEANS, 1940

The coffin had been Lestat's prison since Louis and Claudia betrayed him. Poisoned, his blood tainted, his throat slit—such theatrics from the ones he'd made. They couldn’t bring themselves to burn him, though. No, instead, they left him for dead, tossing his broken body into a dumpster like trash, rats and filth his only companions.

The coffin groaned as he clawed his way out, his fingers splintering the wood like brittle parchment. The rats—their wretched little hearts—were his only companions in this hell. Lestat caught one as it scurried too close, its blood foul and thin, but he drank anyway. Life, no matter how wretched, was still life.

The night had fallen—Lestat could feel it even without seeing the stars. Darkness had always been his refuge, but here, in this pit of filth, it mocked him. The great Lestat, brought so low. His limbs trembled as he tried to move, the ache of hunger twisting through him like a blade. He couldn’t die—not truly—but this…this was close enough.

Then, he heard it. Footsteps. Not the skittering of rats, but deliberate steps. They grew closer, pausing just outside the coffin. Lestat's heart—or what was left of it—thudded weakly in anticipation. A shadow fell over him as the lid shifted, and he blinked up at the dim light. A face hovered above him, haloed by the moon.

“Who…?” His voice was a rasp, barely more than a breath. “Have you come…to bury the dead?”

Lestat couldn’t muster a smile, nor lift a hand in protest. He could only wait, staring into their wide, uncertain eyes, hoping they were foolish enough—or kind enough—to stay.