Chapter Text
That cool, blissful April night of 1946 was not the first time the vampire Armand had laid eyes on Louis de Pointe Du Lac. Five months earlier, he had silently and surreptitiously tracked the younger vampire and his petite compagne as they explored the winding Parisian streets. And if Armand had been fool enough not to immediately notice the splendour and radiance of Louis’ countenance during that first unofficial meeting, he could hardly be blamed.
The precocious abomination had consumed all his attention, so much so that the man standing beside her, whispering secretive subtleties into her ear, had melted into the background. A nameless, unassuming figure who, yes, although attractive (Armand could admit that much to himself), was eclipsed by that flagrant disregard of vampiric law.
The tiny, doll-like creature threatened to upend the fragile peace and control Armand had been sustaining for the past century, and that was simply intolerable. Even now, he could hear the shrill voices of his theatre clamouring for his attention through the bustling network of vampiric telepathy. Nearly identical choruses of “maître!” and urgent questions flooded his ears as his troupe argued amongst themselves on how to best deal with the “American problem.” He knew that if he didn’t address the issue immediately, mutiny would brew within his already restless coven —some members more so than others, still mourning the losses of those who had also broken the great laws.
But if Armand was being completely honest with himself, the coven’s frustrations and the great laws played only a minor part in his decision regarding the two vampires' fates. His other, more secretive motive was infinitely more personal, stemming entirely from the girlchild and the outrage of her existence.
It was toward her that he would direct the brunt of his wrath, as she brought along with her poorly accented French, long-buried ghosts best left forgotten.
……
Amadeo had been young when he, too, had begged for the gift; how Armand hated to see it wasted on a being lacking the endurance that would have made his younger self such a strong and beautiful vampire.
Before the trenches of time had carved thick, coarse hairs across his chest, his thighs, and the once-smooth limbs that his master had so loved to caress. Before his body shot up like some gross, unruly tree, and he no longer had to crane his neck to look up into his beloved god’s eyes. Before even his organ developed the capacity for release, this most unforgivable of offences repelling the majority of his patrons and eventually his master. The same benevolent master who had kissed away his tears when he would no longer receive him, yet still welcomed the embraces of the prettier, more youthful creatures who had captured his attention.
Shaking off the memory — and his rumination on the hundreds of other ways the creature’s existence blighted his soul — Armand slipped after the two, silent and shapeless as a shadow as they packed up their meagre belongings and left the modest cafe. All the while biding his time and waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.