The Universe's Mixer

With things more calm, and Sam Winchester (or Sam Winchester(s)) at least reasonably assured that they were not, in fact, still in a box in Hell with Satan, Lestat considered his good deeds done for the week. He only was capable of so many, after all. And everybody knew that.

Those who'd been missing were returned, and he longed to poke at their brains. He intended to, and had, just a bit. They'd been some other place, and he got a reasonable picture of that place, but he still wanted to know more. He was certain it was where Sam had come from, second Sam.

Lestat decided on finding someone he knew had been gone, and getting to the bottom of this. Honour. Honour'd been missing, and he could easily find her, and she would be quite open about her experiences--at least, he knew she was comfortable enough with him to tell him how it'd been there, and perhaps the logistics of how she'd ended up there. He could fill in the blanks from others who'd been gone, too.

He set out for her cottage immediately once the sun was low enough, which, now that he had Eric's blood, was just a little earlier, a few minutes, than it'd been before, with the added bonus of no longer going 'dead' during the day.

He made sure he had something to offer her, and at least the pretense of a real, honest visit. It was not that he did not wish to see her, just that Lestat's motives were never without selfishness. He'd found a very nicely bound copy of Shakespeare's complete works for her, and tucked it in one pale hand, close to his non-beating heart.

At the cottage door, he knocked. And waited as the sun continued its slow decent toward the horizon.

Often rage was likened to fire in the veins, fire in the eyes, fire in the heart. But Erik was shivering this night, as he sat motionless in Box 5 overlooking the stage. They were two weeks away from the opening night of the season, two weeks away from the opening night for La Traviata, and his Violetta still wasn't off book. His Alfredo was doing better, but only just. It was clear that during the time he'd been away - back in that strange wilderness with that strange lady - no one had bothered to practice!

No one, he mused, save the pianist who had impressed him during auditions earlier in the year. Dr. Lecter, and Dr. Lecter alone, was spared Erik's wrath. When the opera manager could bear no more of it, he finally stood from his chair.

"The soprano," he called from his space, "Is dismissed. Permanently. Pack your things; be out of this building by tonight at midnight. You will be paid for two weeks notice, although God help you, you don't deserve it. The rest of you lot, practice until you know your own parts. Opening night is in two weeks, technical week is in 5 days, and most of you are in poor condition. I will bring you your new soprano tomorrow evening."

His voice had retained the ice of the rage shaking him now, an ice he left behind him to fill the theater when he stepped away from his box and out into the corridor. He didn't stop walking until he was outside, on the steps of his Opera House. Rage still cloaked him. He set a black-gloved hand on the pillar just outside the door and took a breath of summer night air.

Maddening. Maddening. In this moment, he could have stacked barrels of gunpowder beneath this building and let it all burn. At last, Erik stalked down the opera house steps. If he stayed, he feared he would destroy something important.

Lois had been chasing down answers on what had happened to the people who had disappeared and suddenly reappeared not too long ago. At least, she'd been attempting to chase down answers but had gotten quite a lot of misdirection and 'no comment' from those who might or might not have been involved. Her editor was breathing down her neck and so she'd been pulling a few more all-nighters lately.

Hence the coffee. Lois was pretty sure that even the most unreasonable of editors wouldn't begrudge their reporters a coffee break. Or even a breakfast break.

Lois was starving and she would argue that any good reporter kept themselves well-fed and well-caffeinated. Which was why she'd stopped in at a little cafe that had fantastic lattes and a nice selection of doughnuts.

She was currently holed up in the corner chasing down leads on the internet via her phone, all the while juggling the jelly doughnut and extra grande latte that were currently her lifeblood.