The Universe's Mixer

Lestat sat on his balcony, watching the City.

His eyes shone in the failing light, but his body was utterly still. He watched passersby in the early evening air, one eyebrow raised, a distant expression on his face.

He was growing tired of loss.

Lestat's time in the City was not short. He had, he knew, been here for six or seven years. He could not be fully certain; it wasn't as though he'd ticked off marks on his wall or anything like that.

But it was growing.

He looked to the people that he found interesting to keep him both entertained and on the wagon, so to speak. When those people could not be found, Lestat grew more and more upset with his circumstances.

He felt toyed with.

It occurred to him the previous evening that he had not seen his pseudo-grandson in a while. Logan. So he'd reached for him, looked for him.

And Logan was gone.

Well, then, Lestat reasoned, Veronica, his bright girlfriend, she should be very easy to find, very easy to hear over the din of minds in this place.

And Veronica was gone, too.

In a corner of his heart that was full of cobwebs and reserved for romantic notions, Lestat hoped that they'd ended up back in the same place again, together. But he could not know that was a true thing, and he'd lost two more people that he found worthwhile.

He did not like being at the mercy of this place.

And so, he felt feverishly among the minds of the people passing below for someone interesting.

A distraction. Someone to make him not care that he didn't seem to have a way out, while so many others did.

Since he'd briefly met Logan Echolls, or rather... since he'd seen him at Eric's wedding, Lestat had kept quiet track of the boy.

He felt he had to.

Some of Lestat's blood ran in Eric's veins, now. And Eric had created this boy. He could not help but feel a little twinge of responsibility, wanted or not.

To his surprise and amusement, Logan and Veronica Mars, his favorite investigator, were an item. Even before Lestat found that out, he'd kept track of Veronica, too. He truly enjoyed her. He wished he could tell her that he was the one who'd given her the career-making tip off.

One day he would. When it was beneficial.

He'd tracked Logan tonight, stayed hidden, seen him take Veronica out on the fire escape, seen him use the Cloud Gift to take her on a joyride. Logan didn't know how lucky he was to be able to do such a thing; most fledgelings of Lestat's kind could not fly. Lestat himself only could because of Akasha.

Seeing Logan and Veronica entwined and flying reminded him of Akasha. Lestat lowered his eyes and set his jaw, reminding himself for the umpteenth time that Akasha was gone, that it was better that way.

He waited for Logan to leave, which he knew the boy would. His immortality was too new yet; he would likely not trust himself to stay the night with Veronica.

When Logan left the building, Lestat was waiting, standing across the street, bathed in the light of a streetlight. His hands were in his pockets to show he meant no threat.

Lestat took it upon himself to watch the more... interesting... citizens of the City. He always had.

He kept tabs, silently. He sought out their minds--where they were, what they did, who they saw, who they loved. He hardly ever approached, but Lestat was nothing if not a terrible voyeur. He always had been; he was in love with the idea of a lot of different people's lives. Drunk on it. As it was in the beginning, it now and ever shall be...

He'd taken an interest in both Bruce Banners.

The first one wasn't all that interesting; he taught classes. He knew River attended them. Snore.

But the second one...

Lestat smiled to himself.

He, of course, kept tabs on Veronica Mars. Since dropping her the hint about River, and especially since Logan was now a vampire, Lestat watched her. He saw Jesse Reeves in her, and that had both potential and danger to it. She could be quite a vampire, if things went a certain way. Or she could destroy a lot of comfort, if not outright destroy lives.

Today, Lestat was more blatant about his tab-keeping. He was following Bruce Banner.

The streets were crowded enough for him to do so almost unseen, and if he was seen, well, it was easy to become just another face in the crowd. I'm nothing strange. Just keep walking...

He wanted to meet Hulk. And he smiled at the thought of it as he rounded a corner, watching Banner cross a street, the street light above him buzzing with electricity.

It was a usual night. A very usual night, which meant boring. Pam was dressed in some of her fetishistic finest, black leather, corset, heels. Her hair was pulled up in a severe bun; a leather collar with a very nice buckle wrapped bout her neck. She seemed very comfortable in the gear even if it wasn't her normal. She rested her hands on the counter as she waited for the tourist to stop staring and order.

There were hunters on the other side of the bar who looked very much like they wanted to end the vampires who were serving the humans in the "nicer" side of the bar. There were vampires who were watching the hunters as if they wouldn't have minded feeding or scaring them. Pam wouldn't have minded scaring many of them brainless; then again, she honestly wondered how much brain these hunter types really had.

Yes, just a usual night in Purgatory. Just another night of brainless bore.

The soul-themed presents left outside his door over Christmas had been momentarily ignored and hidden before Dean could see them. But Sam hadn't forgotten. No, he certainly hadn't. This needed to be addressed. As soon as his brother was gone.

They had been signed Lestat. Sam didn't know who this person was or if it was actually that particular Lestat. Hey, if Dean was banging the Black Canary, he supposed anyone could be here. No matter how crazy fictional.

Ordinarily, Sam's first instinct would be to just kill whoever it was that seemed to know about his lack of a soul. But he needed information first. He needed to know who else might know and he needed to know how this Lestat had found out at all. He needed to make sure that there was no chance anyone else could put the pieces together.

It wasn't that difficult to find the listing for the only Lestat in the phonebook. Sam showed up outside a lavish building and rang the doorbell without a hint of hesitation. He was armed as always, but not in an obvious way. Each weapon was hidden under clothing, ready to be snatched up if needed.

The long stretch of night drew heavily over her, silvered her eyelids, cocooned her with warm lethargy, wrapped in the scent of the lavender just over her porch rail. High overhead, above the eternal springtime boughs, the moon began its slow descent. It was, Beauty thought wryly, well past her bedtime. Her thoughts were meandering in only the way a very tired mind would allow. Half-formed ideas pressed into others; patchwork.

She'd dressed carefully, selecting a dress that caught the moonlight and jewelry that glowed under it. Beauty hadn't wanted him to miss her accidentally. Every half hour after the sun set, she repeated the same ritual: she stood from the small sitting area she'd created - just two chairs and a tiny end table from the living room - and walked to the steps leading into her garden. "Lestat," she said quietly, very aware that her roommate was sleeping. And then, perhaps more importantly, she all but yelled his name silently in her head.

If the gifts that'd been arriving at her cottage were any indication, Lestat came often. She'd never been awake to find him hovering over her bed or creeping through her hallways. Tonight, she swore, it would be different. Tonight, she'd have her answers from him.

She waited on the steps, her dark eyes surveying the park as it stretched out before her. She could see nothing - no one. But she knew that it didn't mean he wasn't there. Lestat. So many talents, he had. And because of her foolishness, she'd hurt this gifted man.

"Lestat," she said again.

He kept to the shadows.

Once, at this place, he'd met a girl named Bella Swan. She'd been sweet and a little dull and one-dimensional, and easy to talk to for all of those reasons. Tonight, Lestat was looking for a similar experience.

But he wanted to end it with the opening of human veins.

He hung around outside the cafe entrance, watching the people come and go, reading minds to find someone interesting.

Or evil.

Or pure. Pure like Honour. Oh, God, that'd be perfect. He'd have to start doing that. And leaving the girls outside her door.

He watched the approaching people, too, casually acting like he was waiting for someone, offering half-smiles when necessary.

That was what hunting was all about, right?

Opening night for Verdi's La Traviata ran as smoothly as the City Opera House manager designed it. He allotted a certain number of complimentary tickets to be distributed by high-performing members of his production. Those lucky enough to receive these tickets were placed on a special guest list and personally escorted by the house staff to their box seats. The manager himself claimed a seat in Box 5, which was otherwise empty.

Tonight, the crowd glittered and shone brightly under the warm glow of the opera house. Attending the opera was as much about high art as it was about being seen. With every playbill this night came an invitation to the opening night celebration following after the performance. There, all would get their fill of the glamor brought out by opening night.

When the lights in the auditorium dimmed, so too did the chatter. Then began the orchestra, casting its spell with rich, full-bodied music. The pianist, one Hannibal Lecter, would be remembered by musical types for his mastery. But there was limelight enough for others, as well. The production's Violetta, Ms. Christine Daeé, sang soprano with a curious and heady combination of seduction and fresh youth, while the Flora of the opera, Ms. Enigma, carried the darker mezzo-soprano with an expert's touch. And when the lights came up, it was to the roar of an audience recognizing the triumph it just witnessed.

Once the curtain calls were done, the crowd began filtering down the staircase and into the Grand Foyer, where the night was just beginning. The wine flowed; the violins hummed -- a triumph indeed.

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.

Sam wasn't where he was supposed to be. Again.

Last time, he'd at least met Fred. This time, he was in the middle of a city and the streets were shifting and changing around him. It had to be the city, or City, capital C, that Dean had talked about.

He didn't know why he was currently in the City or where Dean was-either of them. Or even the other Sam. Or both of the Freds. All he knew was that this place was a bit unsettling, even if it did seem to be better kept-up than the postapocalyptic world.

Still, he didn't care if this place had better food or electricity or more comfy accommodations. None of that mattered if he couldn't find his brother (brothers) and his girlfriend.

( OOC )



Bookmark Books.

Beauty stood on the sidewalk the morning of her first day back, bag of warm croissants in one hand and a letter in the other, and let out a satisfied sigh. She was still feeling a little bit under the weather from her unexpected inebriation the night before and the subsequent sleeplessness it brought -- but if she looked just a touch less rested than normal, it was obscured by her excitement to be back at work.

It felt like home.

When she pushed the door open and heard the little bell chime, she couldn't help herself; she laughed. It was a wonderful sound, that bell. Traipsing into the used bookstore, she took a deep breath and filled her lungs with the scent of book glue and old pages and... coffee. The scent caught and tugged at her center. She smiled so widely, her face ached. "I brought croissants!" she called toward the back of the store, where her co-worker was undoubtedly unboxing books to shelve... or, more specifically, reading selections of the new arrivals as he unboxed them. She couldn't stop smiling. Part of her -- the part that had stood before the mirror for longer than needed this morning -- was nervous/excited/nervous to see him. But the other part was still so grateful that he was even here in the first place that she could hardly wait to lay eyes on him again.

Sliding the letter behind the register in the front of the store, she set the croissants by the coffee, found the stash of small paper plates she kept, then set two of the pastries on two plates and turned to bring them back into the store. The tiny bells around her ankle chimed as she moved.

Today, she had visitors coming, which was enough to put an extra spring in her step. Eric and Lestat had both promised to stop by, and she should let Errol know. The rest of the day stretched itself in front of her, filling her imagination with possibilities and excitement. Oh, she really couldn't wait! For now, though -- croissants. And then books. Books! She was bouncing on her toes and it wasn't even 9 a.m. yet.

It was her last day on this so-called 'vacation' -- and if she'd had any sense at all about how she'd asked for the time off, she'd have arranged for tomorrow to be counted within her allotment of vacation as well. It was her 20th birthday, though no one in the City knew it. Then again, Beauty could think of no other way she'd rather spend her birthday than at work, surrounded with the heady scent of old pages and book glue and brewed coffee.

But today -- today was her last free day, and she wanted to spend it in celebration. That's why she'd brought out a large, thick blanket into the City Commons, along with a basket full of fruit, cheese, croissant, and red wine, and finally a very large umbrella. (The umbrella hadn't been her idea, but it'd appeared for her at the door when she went back for her stack of books. With a word of thanks to the air above her, she'd snagged the whole entire thing and stuck the over-large umbrella into the ground right at the place where she was now sprawled, grapes in one hand, half-finished book in the other.

Lounging in the park, reading a book, munching leisurely on grapes -- Beauty was oblivious to everything around her.

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?