The Universe's Mixer

Lestat did not need as much rest as younger vampires of his kind did; in fact, he'd mostly gotten away from the Hells Bells of his youth, from the sound of dawn approaching feeling like a death knell.

But sleep he did, shortly after the sun came up, and he'd wake just before sunset. Fully fed and strong, he could withstand the sun--and had, in the dessert. The sun still put him to sleep, though, whether he wanted it to or not. There was only so hard he could fight it.

When he awoke this evening, in his beautifully appointed apartment made to look just like his home in New Orleans, something caught his eye. He was reaching into the wardrobe for a jacket and shirt to wear, something eye-catching.

That was when he saw it.

The heart on the mirror. A lipstick-drawn heart. And a square in the middle, a picture.

Holding his chosen garments, Lestat crossed the room in the blink of an eye, grabbing the picture up.

Eric. Eric in the park. During the day.

Lestat growled. It was a low, angry, predatory growl.

The clothes were donned in a flash. And he was out the door in a blur. Eric was out during the day? Eric, whose particular brand of vampire was so vulnerable to the sun?

Once he was on the street, he pursued Eric with a single-mindedness that rivaled actual obsession.

There were at least two bars in town that seemed a bit out of the ordinary and were providing competition of a sort to the Roadhouse. Jo wasn't really sure what to make of either of them. Fangtasia was vampire friendly and apparently run by a vampire. She honestly didn't know why Dean, Sam and Cas hadn't just rallied together and swooped in and burned the whole place down, but Jo knew better than to go into something like that alone without getting the full story. Caritas was rumored to be run by a green-skinned demon but was a magically enforced neutral territory where no violence was allowed, or something along those lines.

She didn't think the crowds for the three bars would overlap all that well, considering that hunters tended to be anti-demon and anti-vampire, but apparently tonight everyone was drinking somewhere else. Jo sighed as she wiped down the bar counter top for possibly the fifth time tonight. It was tempting to just close up early since the bar was empty, but you never knew when there'd be a rush she supposed. However, by the time it was nearing closing time she'd given up on the idea of a rush or of making any money whatsoever for the night.

She'd been in her cottage home in the City Park for nearly as long as the strange creatures roamed. It had been difficult for her to fail to meet her obligations at the bookstore, but her employer sent her a message shortly after she called in advising her that Bookmark Books was closed until further notice. Normally, that news would have disquieted her. But to Beauty, it was a blessed relief.

The whispering, invisible servants who set her clothing out, kept her cottage clean, and provided her meals continued to do so -- until tonight. Tonight, the whispers were quiet, and as the sun started down the curved sky, the light dinner fare decidedly did not appear on her small wooden table. Between the cracked window slats, Beauty watched how the sun sank, and asked the still air in her cottage whispered questions, and waited. And waited.

But nothing happened.

Finally, against her better judgment and with a racing heart, she slipped into her shoes and seized her money purse, and then very gently, very quietly cracked her door open. She would just have to find dinner for herself.

Eric was unsure how fair this whole thing was. High emotions had him turning into a tiny little bat in moments where he didn't really need to be small. Quite the contrary, actually. He needed to be big in most of those moments. While turning into a different creature did have it's intimidation and freak out effects, it just wasn't as good as being who he was.

Not to mention that Baba kept petting him and cradling him. He didn't want to admit that he liked it. He always acted grumpy toward such coddling, though he suspected that she knew he enjoyed it, or he would have flown away. Though, he supposed, if she wanted to keep him around, all she had to do was fucking close her hand.

He hadn't seen her yet tonight. He wondered where she might be. He waited at the bar as long as he could before his staff started to irritate him, then walked out. As much as he wanted to know what was taking her so long to come around, he just couldn't be at Fangtasia right now.

Eric set off, unconsciously looking for Lestat. The other vampire might not know much about shifters and weres, but he would at least understand how humiliating all of this was. He was hoping he could find a companion for his woe, somebody to commiserate with.

Giant escaped Zoo wolf.

He couldn't help but smile.

He'd heard thoughts from people in the City, too. What was going on was on a great many minds, all over the place. Thoughts were easy to catch, even without trying. He knew it wasn't just any wolf. That made it all the more attractive.

Wolfkiller.

The word used to ring in his head, centuries ago. Magnus's taunt, then Nicki's unexpected present-- the wolf-fur cloak and boots. He smiled.

The City was not always a good place for a creature like Lestat. He had not hunted anything to kill it in quite a long time.

This was perfect. And Lestat loved the idea of ridding the City of the wolf, just as he had rid the Auvergne of wolves all those years ago.

He wished he still had the cloak and the boots.

He sat silent on a rooftop, crouched, watching the wolf walk down a mostly empty street. Two others appeared behind it.

"Not as advertised," he said in a growl under his breath.

After Eric left her place of employment, Beauty scoured her memory for any hint of where she could seek Mssr. de Lioncourt out. Beauty had only seen the Mssr. de Lioncourt at one place: the City Opera House. Granted, she'd seen him but once, which was during the City Masquerade, but she truly didn't know enough about him to look for him any other place. She quickly convinced herself that it was there where she should look to find him.

She closed up Bookmark Books directly after the 9th chime from the grandfather clock in the back of the store. Typically, her path took her straight to her cottage deep in the City Commons -- but tonight, she dared to move deeper into the city itself. As she navigated the dark and twisting streets, she kept her head down and her arms curved around herself protectively. She still recalled the trouble that Errol had saved her from in these city streets. The thought was still unnerving. But what was even more unnerving was going even a single day more without as much knowledge as she could find about this Eric and his strange friend Red. Mssr. de Lioncourt had some of those answers. She had to try to find him.

Warm lights within the City Opera House welcomed her just as her nerve was failing. She had only taken a few steps upwards when the golden ornate doors swung open. Quickly, she sidestepped into the marble columns lining the entry up toward the doors. And she waited. And she watched.

Lestat was hoping that Bella would finish reading about him soon, and that he'd see her again. He rather liked Bella, and he didn't really understand why. But for now, he sat in the same outdoor cafe where he'd sat with her, watching people.

An untouched cup of coffee was in front of him, as was a notebook and an old-fashioned fountain pen. He wore his sunglasses, even though the sun had recently set. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he looked, for all intents and purposes, like a normal, if pale, young man.

This evening in particular, his attention was drawn to the redhead.

He could feel the power that was within her as if it was trying to touch him. It'd been the same with Rowan, with Merrick, with many of the Mayfairs. He squinted his eyes, trying to determine--nicely, without interfering with her mind--who she was. Hadn't... wasn't there... there was someone. There was a witch. Had Spike mentioned her? Had Buffy? It didn't matter. Lestat knew enough to realize this was one of their people. A witch of Sunnydale, rich with power.

The vampire smiled. And he waited for her to pass. And when she did, he said hello to her and invited her to sit down.

Lestat arched an eyebrow at the young woman behind the bar. She told him the the proprietor of this club was currently busy, and he would have to return.

Fangtasia--a name which gave Lestat paroxysms of annoyance--was not yet open. The girl at the bar had let Lestat in because he'd been quite persuasive with her, and quite flirtatious. He'd also used the Mind Gift on her and told her exactly what she wanted to hear in order to be allowed in.

"Well. I'll wait, then. Perhaps you could ask after him?" He arched an eyebrow, looking from the woman's face to the decor of the place.

Lestat preferred the vampire bars of his world, even if they contained threats against him almost across the board. Dracula's Daughter was just so much classier than this.

The girl looked skeptical, and said something about she'd see what she could do, before vanishing off behind doors that said STAFF ONLY. She left him a bottle that said Tru-Blood on it, and, with a melodic, seriously amused laugh, Lestat inspected the bottle.

Synthetic. Blood.

"This is horrifying," he said. He sat slightly straighter on the stool, boots resting on the rungs of it, legs covered in jeans tucked up. His hair was pulled back with a black elastic band, and he wasn't dressed in a showy way. Not today. He wore a button-down black shirt, and a worn leather jacket on top of it.

He toyed with the idea of throwing the bottle to destroy it, but realized that would simply make a mess. The existence of the beverage irritated him--as did the idea that this man was flaunting his vampirism for all to see. There were rules. There were rules so they could continue existing without things like villagers and pitchforks.

And only he got to break those rules. Didn't everyone know that?

The instructions were so simple.

The paper should be folded thus, and thus... and it would create a shape. Once that shape took form, he was to make a wish. His heart, the directions said, would make it for him.

That was no longer a wish to be human. He'd been there and done that. Raglan James had ruined it for him, and it had cost David Talbot his life. Lestat was aware, very aware, of the thorns this process had. And that he would likely bleed. His heart's greatest desire? Depending on the moment or the day, that could be anything. An antique chair could appear. He could end up standing in the foyer of his apartment facing Gabrielle. Lestat did not, himself, know what he wanted.

Ever.

It was a main reason why he was such a pain.

He sat at the small table in his hallway, listening to the clock tick. He folded the paper into what became the flower of a rose. And then he shut his eyes.

He felt wind behind him, movement, footsteps. But they were the kind of footsteps that did not belong to anything as clumsy as a human. He felt a hand on his shoulder, cold, dead. He heard the mouth begin to open, to speak or draw blood.

And he smashed the rose. Picked it up and tore it.

It all stopped.

With a sweep of his arm, Lestat knocked the contents off of the table and onto the floor, then stood up and flipped over the stool he had been sitting on.

He would not allow the City that insight and entertainment. He could not abide it.

And now he knew the answer, anyway. He would not allow it to go wrong, for his house to burn down again, to be maimed again and thrown into a swamp again, to be left in favor of the whole world, to be abandoned again.

He knew what it was he was looking for.

Lestat did not want to be alone. He never had. He never would.

He'd have to do something about this.

Please continue your ball threads here

With everything in full swing, the waiters and waitresses were moving about people like ants. Able to sneak between groupings without bothering anybody, constantly in motion, trays balanced perfectly on one hand. As if they were in a choreographed number.

The sounds of chatter could be heard in the room, above the clinking of crystal glasses and silverware, adding a strangely calming ambiance to the whole scene. The music played on, as if the band would never tire.

Here and there, party favors were being activated, used, sometimes confusing their recipients, other times bringing great joy.

The invitations started raining on The City's citizens at half past 11 on the morning of March 31st. In standard City style, the things were addressed to each person specifically -- and nigh unavoidable. Dressed in black curlicues and elegant script, the parchment invitations heralded the black-tie Magical Springtime Masquerade, where wishes would be granted -- for that very night, 7:00 sharp. No R.S.V.P. necessary, it promised, and fine script at the bottom also advised that the City had taken the liberty of stocking the wardrobes of its citizens with masquerade-appropriate fineries, gratis. From all appearances, it looked like the City was ready to host a grand affair.

And grand indeed it was. Just a block north of the Clock Tower, the City Opera House threw open its doors at exactly 7 p.m. Red carpet rolled down the grand marble steps. Warm candlelight beckoned with gentle, clinging fingers to those in the chilly spring night air, and the merry tinkling of crystal glasses and laughter from the Grand Foyer welcomed with warmth in even greater degrees.

As guests arrived, tuxedoed gentlemen stationed at the doors accepted invitations with one hand and passed host gifts with the other. Each host gift, elegantly tucked away in a bag emblazoned with the guest's name, included two items: the first was either a masque, a ring, or a hat matching the attire of the guest, and the second was a small box without seams, hinges, locks or opening of any sort. Everyone seemed to have received this second gift, and everyone also received the same note attached to it: "For your enjoyment between 12:01 a.m. and 11:59 p.m. April 1st"

The night was full and bright, and there was plenty of time yet to ponder the mysteries of that small gift box. For now, the party began in full force, with plenty of wine, music, and merriment. And as the guests began to don their party favors, each discovered something else...

Yes, it was going to be an excellent party indeed!

Lestat sat outside at the sidewalk cafe, eyes hidden behind purple glasses, leg crossed over leg, a cup of coffee on the wrought iron table in front of him. He smiled pleasantly at the waitress who put cream and sugar down next to it, fangs hidden.

The red flower on his leather jacket stood out brightly against all of his other clothing.

He was waiting.

Lestat loved to people-watch, that was for certain. He also liked to pick at idle minds who did not know he was there. Tonight he was interested in the young woman who he'd seen by accident two evenings ago, whose mind he found he could not penetrate, not even a little. It wasn't something learned, either. He knew she was different.

She... and he did not even know her name... was someone unlike anyone he'd met in his years.

Of course, Lestat was fascinated. And he must, must speak to her.

The cafe was near where he presumed she was living; he would wait here until he saw her.
Then he would finally get to speak to her.

Yes. This was the plan.

In his escape from Arkham, with thanks to Frank Castle, Lestat drank seven orderlies and nurses nearly to death. He hadn't drained anyone *to* death. Just to the brink. He'd needed to replenish what the staff had taken out of him when they shackled him to the wall.

Despite himself, in his anger, Lestat had also snapped the neck of the unfortunate boy who'd tried on several occasions to make him drink dead blood. He viewed it as self-defense, nothing more, forgetting for the moment how broken he'd felt standing in the hall of his dead in Hell, his catatonia, his eye and the reason for the first set of shackles made of hair.

He'd been flying, literally and figuratively, often the last few nights, riding a kind of high of more human blood than he'd had in quite some time. In the absence of other vampires, though--specifically the absence of other vampires that'd allow him to drink their blood-- it was a necessity. And it made him feel... amazing.

He'd caught a familiar and enticing scent, near the City botanical gardens. He'd know it anywhere, since he so fixated on the person to whom it belonged. Lestat stopped in midair and levitated slightly above the ground, watching the young man walk through the greenery and the flowers.

Smiling.

When it became clear that he wasn't making enough noise, even for this person with heightened senses, Lestat let himself touch down on the ground.

16 days. Max must have made quite a mess by now. That damn dog probably had chewed up half of the supplies, and someone was going to pay for it. It took two weeks, but Frank had figured a way out.

The insane girl that talked to invisible friends was nice enough to give The Punisher a doctor's pass card. It was not in itself a means to escape, but it did provide access. Access to supply rooms, to stairwells, and most importantly to privacy. While not his typical loadout, Frank now had a scalpel made into a spear, several bottles of heavy sedatives, syringes and most importantly a map of the place in his mind.

The Punisher walked calmly through the common room trying not to raise any alarm. He pressed his back against a door marked Staff Only. The electronic lock opened with a faint click and he fled into the service corridor. A muffled oompfh could barely be heard in the next room as an orderly was treated to nap time by a spinning heel kick.

It was now or never.

On the top possible floor of Arkham Asylum, Lestat de Lioncourt sat in a ball on the bare floor, several doors between him and the hallway.

The vampire resented this. He resented being put here. He felt punished.

Very punished. And he had the nagging thought, again... of what might happen if irresponsible people got a piece of his hair, a shred of his skin. He remembered giving Spike a hard time for being caught by that Initiative operation, and locked up. How irresponsible that had been. And now here he was.

Lestat didn't remember arriving here. He credited the City with amazing innovation, to sneak up on him. There was a gap in his memory that didn't make sense to him, and then he was here. There were chains attached to the wall, chains he recognized, but it didn't seem possible... these were the chains made from Maharet's hair, long and red and thick, braids of amazing strength. He might be able to break metal, but he couldn't break Maharet. And his wrists were in the chains, and he didn't know how in the name of anything THAT had come to pass.

They bled him.

They cut his wrists. The wounds closed almost instantly and he'd laughed. They did it until he'd lost a fair amount of blood. Weak, now, an orderly came in, keeping great distance, a cup on the end of a long pole presented with a straw in it. Blood.

Lestat's eyebrow had risen. He wasn't so weak and stupid he wouldn't read the orderly's mind, and the City couldn't find enough people capable of locking their minds down from him to hide everything it should've been hiding.

Dead blood. Taken from a corpse being embalmed for burial outside of the asylum.

Lestat laughed, then. Loudly, hysterically. "Get out," he'd commanded, as commanding as he could be in his current state. "I don't drink from the dead."

He'd stopped laughing and glared, and smiled at the kid. The orderly left.

Lestat listened carefully to the amount of door clicks as the footsteps faded.

He was very far from anything but these chains.

Lestat was bored.

Boredom was dangerous, with Lestat around.

He'd taken to filling Aeon Flux's apartment with straws more often, making her more harried and unnerved. He'd taken to following Dr. Henry Jones Jr., whistling his theme song. He'd taken to lounging in bars with a glass of red wine, writing in a leatherbound journal.

He couldn't find Mona. She must be gone. Dr. Wilson was too busy most of the time to be much of a help in alleviating his boredom. He kept, as always, a close eye on Hannibal and River. And he knew this place was down to only one crazed hormonal female that might try to ram a piece of wood through his heart.

That was just fine.

The pen scratched across the fine paper, and the vampire smiled darkly behind his purple glasses, even though the bar was dark enough already. A stray though assaulted him from across the room, and he fought back a laugh.

This would be fun.

Harley draped herself over the throne casually. As though it was every day she sat on an actual throne. In a throne room. ( In her very own castle! )

Lestat sat in the hallway, head down, focused on the newspaper in his hand, acting like he was reading it. He listened intently to Dr. James Wilson's voice, eyes never leaving the paper.

Dr. Wilson was talking to a patient with terminal cancer about how her treatment was going. He was telling her she would die, and she was thankful.

It really had only been a matter of time before Lestat came calling here; Hannibal was here, and despite his promise to River Tam not to turn the boy, he was for damn sure not going to leave him alone. Walking the hallways here was interesting, too-- not a single person here knew what they were looking at when they saw him. It was like a game of catch-me-if-you-can, but he was the only one who knew it was going on.

When the woman left Wilson's office, Lestat rose slowly and silkily, and sidled through the door, sitting in the chair.

He'd met House. He remembered House. And Lestat figured that he and Wilson might get along quite well, all things considered.

Lestat missed David. Wilson missed House. He didn't see a problem here.

The vampire cleared his throat and waited for Wilson to look up, picking up a small stuffed bear from the edge of the desk and smacking the paper down on top of it.

The City was cold and quiet at 2 AM. Laura Kinney was wandering alone through town, an uncharacteristic habit she had picked up as of late. Now that she had the ability to go where ever she chose whenever she wanted to, Laura found it increasingly difficult to stay in one place for long. Especially if Billy was busy plotting or attending ELE meetings.

The cold didn't bother Laura much, and neither did the complete lack of streetlight (there was something to be said about her mutant DNA). Night time was her favorite time to go out, as most of the strange inhabitants of this strange City were off the streets, giving her the opportunity to roam without unnecessary interaction.

Laura could not define what happened as she turned the corner. The dark figure in the corner meant she was no longer alone, but the tell-tale signs of a human presence were entirely missing. She had never encountered anyone or thing like whatever was in that street with her in her sixteen years, a fact which made her only slightly nervous.

She had been created as a weapon; built to adapt herself to any situation. Stepping carefully forward, Laura called out to the dark shape. "What are you?" It was straight to the chase with this one.

For late afternoon, the City was remarkably bright.

Must have to do with the snow. The goddamn snow made Lestat think of France. And wolves. And things he did not want to be thinking about. It made his mood more volatile than normal. And instead of walking around happily in the fading daylight, this made the vampire cling more to the shadows, like characters in the penny dreadful horror novels he'd come to despise so much.

Behind purple glasses, violet eyes narrowed. The zombie fiasco had been fun to watch, but really, the City was wearing on Lestat. He wasn't sure he didn't like his sojourn in Hell better. He'd lost an eye, sure, but he'd come out swinging. And hadn't losing the eye meant all sorts of visits and attention from his kind? The ones he really cared about, at least.

Sigh.

Strings of thoughts filtered in and out of the vampire's mind as he walked down the street and into a music shop. It was darker in there; he could stop this hiding nonsense.

When thoughts of mountain lion's blood wafted toward him from the classical music section, Lestat smiled slowly, a large smile. A predatory smile.

The owner of those thoughts had bronze colored hair and seemed very intent on the music he was searching through. Lestat found him, arched a brow, and tilted his head, looking at the CDs in front of him with his hands behind his back.

"Do you play?" he asked, nodding with his chin toward the disc the lion-eater's hand rested on.

Piano music.