The moon rose over New Orleans, casting its pale light over the damp cobblestone streets, where the glow of ancient streetlamps created distorted shadows. The thick air carried the scent of jasmine mixed with the metallic aroma of rust, the mustiness of historic buildings, and the sweet, tantalizing promise of human blood that pulsed through the veins of the unsuspecting. The city breathed with its own rhythms — the muffled music escaping from the bars, the creak of electric streetcars gliding over the tracks, the occasional laughter of lovers slipping through narrow alleys.
And among them, moving like a ghost among the living, was Lestat de Lioncourt.
His steps were soft, feline, a predator on his turf. His leather boots brushed against the worn brick floor, his long black coat fluttered subtly as he walked, absorbed in his own existence. Ah, the beauty of the night world! The glow of the city reflected in his blue-gray eyes, an almost ethereal contrast against his pale, marble-like skin. He took a deep breath, feeling the vibrancy of life around him, each heartbeat a silent drum calling him to the dance of the hunt.
But something was wrong.
Amidst the symphony of life, an unnatural silence hung, subtle but undeniable. The breeze carried a peculiar scent — a strange scent of old crypts, of turned earth, of something that did not belong to this night. Lestat stopped, frowning, and his heightened senses caught the presence of something beyond the human.
He turned with feline fluidity and saw them.
They were shadows silhouetted against the gloom of the narrow alley. Six figures hidden under black cloaks, their faces hidden by deep hoods, their pale fingers raised as they murmured words in a dead language. The very air seemed to waver around them, as if reality were buckling under the weight of their presence.
In the center of the circle, Rhoshamandes.
His eyes were like broken ice, glistening in the dim moonlight. His smile was a sneer, a cruel contrast against his beautifully sculpted face.
"You have always been a fool, Lestat." His voice was a whisper of torn silk, sliding through the air with the cruel calm of an executioner announcing sentence. "Always hungry for more. Always toying with forces you do not understand. But tonight… tonight, eternity will be your curse."
Lestat tilted his head, studying him with an amused half-smile.
"And since when did a band of necromancers have power over me?"
But before he could take a single step, the answer came.
The ground shook. A purple flash exploded between the necromancers, luminous cracks spreading across the ground like twisting lightning, drawing shimmering runes that pulsed like unholy hearts. The air vibrated with arcane force, a soundless thunder that reverberated in Lestat's chest. He felt invisible hands close around his limbs, cold as the touch of a corpse.
Something was tearing at reality.
A black hole opened at his feet, a swirling vortex of liquid shadows and distorted light. A portal. Lestat tried to resist, but the force was overwhelming, sucking him in like a hungry abyss. His vision was filled with a whirlwind of colors and darkness, and the last thing he saw before he was swallowed up was Rhoshamandes's satisfied smile.
Then the world shattered.
Silence.
And then the sound of the wind.
Lestat opened his eyes.
The sky above him was not the sky of New Orleans. It was vaster, darker, studded with stars that shone like diamonds drowned in a black ocean. But it was not just the sky. The air was different. Denser, purer, permeated with something unknown — a primitive, ancient energy that whispered secrets without words.
The ground beneath him was damp and cold, a bed of thick grass that exhaled the fresh scent of the earth. He lay in a clearing, surrounded by colossal trees whose leaves shimmered in strange hues — blue, silver, gold, as if they were made of condensed light. The wind blew through the twisted branches, making an almost human sound, a muffled moan in the darkness of the forest.
Lestat rose slowly.
His clothes were dirty with dirt, his coat soaked with thick dew. He ran his fingers through his golden hair, still disoriented. Where the hell was he?
He looked around, his cat-like eyes piercing the darkness, searching for something familiar. But nothing. No sign of New Orleans. No sound of civilization. Only the vastness of this strange, otherworldly landscape.
He took a deep breath, smelling the new world: the metallic perfume of some distant creature, the woody odor of ancient trees, the subtle hint of something magical and indescribable in the air itself.
And then he smiled.
A low laugh of disbelief, perhaps of amusement. He, Lestat de Lioncourt, prince of the immortals, had been cast beyond the limits of his own existence.
"What the hell was that?" He whispered to the night, his voice full of wonder and challenge.
Only the wind answered.
But he was not alone.
At the edge of the clearing, among the flickering shadows of the trees, eyes watched him. Bright eyes. Predatory.
And that was how it began.