Capetonification

Two hundred years of life infused him with the wisdom to wait for his prey. It could be called patience, but he thought of it more as a polite gesture of respect. The last moments of anyone’s life should be cherished and he allowed his latest victim the same privilege. He sat in the bell tower of the ancient Roman Catholic Church and waited.
Lightning sundered the night-dark sky, pulsing for a heartbeat, bathing the city of New Orleans in an eldritch light. Lestat the Vampire let out a long sigh as the thunder sounded, a raw wall of sound causing the world to vibrate.
New Orleans was a city he could call home. He had been a patron of its offerings time and time again. It had changed much in his lifetime. It had grown old, and the face of a new city emerged in recent times. The older bits became refined. And then it was smashed.
The floods saw so many dead, so much destroyed.
He had been out of the city at that time, but when he returned it was forever changed. He walked through the nigh, and he saw the haunted look that crossed the faces of so many of the city’s dwellers.
Lestat almost felt pity for them.
He was more afflicted by the ravages to the old familiar structures. Places he had frequented many times, whorehouses, clubs, restaurants. They had all aided in creating a golden memory. Now they were gone.
A great tragedy.
Lestat considered New Orleans a long-time lover to whom he would return when he felt the need of it’s familiar embrace. Only now that embrace was limp, and empty. The world had moved on, and as always, Lestat had a hard time keeping up.
The rain came down in waves and Lestat watched dispassionately as a homeless man loped down the back alley of the Church. He was completely soaked.
He spotted a dumpster and ambled toward it. He opened the flap, peered inside, and then fell forward. Lestat saw him disappear.
A hand appeared and pulled down the flap.
The vampire suppressed his disgust and considered offering the man a release from his sub-human existence.
The thought lingered for as long as the lightning flashed.
Then he shook his head to himself. He was in no mood to lay his lips on that unwashed body.
Instead he focused once again on his prey.
He closed his eyes.
The pulses of it’s ebbing heartbeat tickled the hairs of his skin.
Lestat felt arousal flooding him. It was like the soft breath of a lover whispering against him.
He filtered the man’s thoughts and realized that he and his partner were now ordering from the dessert menu.
Not long now.
Weeks had passed since the vampire had first spotted Craig. He was part of a blues band that played every Thursday at the Creole Corner Bar in Magazine Street.
Lestat had been sipping a gin and tonic when he heard the lilting tunes the man’s fingers elicited from the guitar he carried.
It was beautiful.
Lestat, as always, fell in love with this act of living art.
He soaked it up, experiencing near-orgasm at the peak of the performance. The music dropped away, and Craig went into his solo. Lestat watched him closely.
Craig was completely focused. He didn’t play the guitar. It was an extension of his being. And it was a medium through which Craig revealed his soul.
Lestat found it to be beautiful.
At the end of the performance, the applause was thunderous.
From then on, Lestat became his shadow.
When he was born one of the gifts he developed was being able to read the minds of lesser beings, such as his prey. It allowed him to glimpse the inner working of his prey’s mind. It afforded him the opportunity to glimpse their life, understand their current situation.
The more time he spent trailing Craig, the more he learned, the more he fell in love with the man.
Craig was bi-sexual. Throughout his young life he’d been with a string of lovers, and it always ended with him having to choose his art over his heart. It created a sad individual, but one that was hopeful and determined. He was currently involved with another man called Julian Fairchild. He was a New Orleans resident, older by twenty two years, and wealthy. He had genuine affection for the artist and helped where the younger man allowed. But Craig was proud, and plodded financially along. He was, after all, a struggling artist, and embraced the life as a consequence of his sacrifice.
Craig was an only child and moved to New Orleans after his widow mother died. He sought the moody inspiration the city offered, and in it his talent flourished. He was pushing the band to success.
Lestat saw all this and more. He felt Craig. He experienced life through his eyes.
And now his time was drawing to and end.
Lestat wanted that essence inside of him. He needed that.
It drove him.
The rain eased, and after a few minutes disappeared completely, leaving the city sparkling in the electric lights.
At Craig’s table the bill arrived. Lestat sensed Craig’s irritation mixed with appreciation as Julian settled it. They finished off their drinks and got up to leave. Lestat’s eyes fluttered open as he watched them step out into the rain-washed streets.
From his vantage point he could see all the way up Camp Street. Craig and Julian headed north.
Lestat leapt from the bell tower, landing lightly on the grass in front of the great wooden doors of the ancient St. Patrick’s Church. He vaulted the stone fence and set off in pursuit.
He cut through the alleyway next to the restaurant they had just left and emerged into Church Street, moving in an adjacent direction to his prey. He knew where they were headed, and he knew where to cut them off.
The vampire travelled with a blurring speed. No one on the street even noticed his passage. He hugged the shadows and became part of the darkness.
Lestat reached Girod Street and cut left onto St. Charles Avenue. He continued along it until South Maestri, where he turned right, converging on Camp Street once again. At the corner he paused and waited.
They were not far away.
He calmed his excitement.

Lestat heard them nearing, the volume of their voices increasing.
Craig and Julian stepped into sight. They saw the dark garbed vampire, and conversation died away. Except for the three of them, the street was deserted. Lestat calmly stepped out of the shadows. Julian was closest to him.
He punched through the older man's head and the face disappeared in a spray of blood and brains and bone. The leftovers belched out over Craig, and he suddenly screamed.
Lestat blurred toward him, clamping his right hand over the artist's mouth. This snapped his jaw. Lestat saw his victims eyes go wide in pain and terror.
His left hand gripped the stricken man's throat and ripped sharply to the right, breaking his neck like fortune cookie crust.
Craig went limp and Lestat caught him, cradling his body like a little child.
His teeth sunk into the man's jugular, slicing into the skin, puncturing the giant artery.
Warm blood squirted into his mouth, the rich metallic taste exquisite.
Lestat's vision swam. It had been months since he had last fed and his body quivered as the strength of the man's blood was absorbed.
He felt the heartbeat begin to fade but he wanted more. He hugged Craig closer, crushing him, hearing his ribs crack, organs bursting, forcing out the last of his essence.
At the very last second he released, and the pale corpse fell to the pavement.
Lestat struggled with the overwhelming sense of fulfillment. It was a drug, and he was O.D'ing.
His eyes rolled back into his head, and a rasping shudder escaped his bloodied lips.
A shiver cut through him and he was rocked by a series of convulsions.
Colours danced at the edge of his vision, and his undead dick became hard.
He stood there, in the rain soaked street, two freshly killed carcasses around him and energy, the life of another, coursed through his veins, revitalising him.
He was earth's deadliest hunter, it's most savage killer.
He was immortal, undying, the pinnacle of perfection, a fusion of heaven and hell.
The relationship between a vampire and his chosen victim was special. To Lestat it was a love affair. He courted Craig, got to know him intimately, learned his habits, discovered his hopes, his terrors. And in the end, when he took him, and Craig surrendered all he had, the erotica was unequaled in it's potency, it's sheer raw emotion.
This was his gift.
He had become a master of love and death, and he reveled in his own magnificence.
Lestat dragged the back of his hand across his face, smearing the crimson away.
Now he had to get rid of the bodies.
One at a time.
He remembered the church, and the vagrant who had crawled into the dumpster. It would make an apt hiding place. Lestat hid Julian's body and leapt to the rooftops. He bolted across them, his pace breakneck, despite having to carry the tall form of the now pale and deceased Craig.
He leapt high, clearing the distance accross the street with ease and landed lightly on the roof of the apartment building, barely making a sound. Lightning pulsed not far away, silhouetting the figure and it's burden. Thunder rolled as Lestat gathered speed for the next jump. High atop the church spire, he crashed, his feet scrabbling for purchase. His right hand snaked out, gripping the base of the iron cross that rose into the night.
A savage thought crossed his mind: Saved by Jesus.
The irony was beautiful.
He floated down to the grass patch. He dropped Craig and stepped toward the dumpster wrenching it open.
Aside from the trash, there was no sign of the homeless man.
He must have left when the rain eased up.
Lestat collected the body, folded it in half and dropped it in the dumpster.
He was about to leave to collect Julian when he saw the figure of the homeless man watching him from the doors of the church. He was surprised. He did not sense the presence.
Lestat swore. Now he would have to kill him.
"Wrong place, wrong time my friend." Lestat told him, a trace of resent in his voice.
"I'm not your friend, sweetheart." came the reply.
Lestat laughed. He tried to focus on the face to see if the vagrant was intoxicated, but a hood covered his head, hanging low.
He focused on the vagrant, trying to read his thoughts, his emotions. And for the first time in his unnatural life, he could not pierce the man's mind.
A flicker of doubt crept along Lestat's heart. But then it was swamped by his arrogance.
This was just a mere man. Even less. He had given up on trying. He was a derelict of society. Nothing.
Lestat was disorientated because of his recent feeding. The effects were still strong upon him.
The vermin spoke: "I know you like the boys, but are you just going to stand and stare at me? Or are you planning on doing something?"
Lestat smiled. But there was no humor in the gesture.
The man took the stairs from the church doors to join him on level ground. Again the scene was painted in shades of black and white as the arcing lighting rent the atmosphere.
"You seem to underestimate the situation, my friend." Lestat revealed.
"One of us is." countered the man in the tattered coat and hoody.
That was enough. Lestat leapt at him.
And was shocked as the human side-stepped. It robbed Lestat of a few split seconds of reaction time as he considered this. He knew how fast he moved. It was faster than the human eye could follow!
The man's left elbow hammered into Lestat's face. It was like running into a brick wall head first. His teeth, his precious teeth, were shattered on impact, the splinters spearing his lips like a hundred shards of glass. He felt the cartilage in his nose disintegrate as it was ground to powder. The pain was immense.
This was wrong.
This is not how it worked.
Lestat stumbled away. The intensity of the unexpected injury forcing him re-evaluate the situation.
Was this another Vampire? He sought to buy some time.
He turned to face his attacker. Once again he stood waiting, his coat fluttering in the wind that blew around them.
"How di' oo moov tha' fash?" Lestat asked. His injuries made it almost impossible to speak, but even now they were beginning to heal.
The vagrant shrugged. "That wasn't fast. You were just slow."
His fury cut through the pain and he flew at the human, this times his claws were extended, sharp and wickedly curved. His left hand slashed out, aimed at the hooded face - and the arm it was attached to spun into the air, no longer part of Lestat's body. Blood pumped from the terrible wound and the pain caught up. Lestat howled.
The human held a Japanese sword and he twirled, the silver of the blade exploding into a white flame as it reflected the light from the bolt of electricity that broke in the heavens. Lestat leapt high but, just as before, he could not match the man's speed. The blade sliced cleanly through both his legs, amputating them just above the knees.
The thunder rumbled.
Lestat screamed, more from fear and frustration than from the pain it extracted from him.
He fell uselessly to the grass, and used his remaining arm to drag himself away from the attacker.
The blade ripped into his back, slicing cleanly through and into the grass below, pinning him in place.
If he remembered how, Lestat would have started crying.
It was finally over. All over.
All his long life, all his deeds, his triumphs, his tragedies, they were all coming to an end.
The Immortal would be no more.
He swallowed hard.
So be it. He would face his unmaking as he faced all his challenges.
"Finish it, you slutson!" He screamed at his tormentor.
This was greeted with a chuckle, and a booted foot crunched down into the small of his back.
The katana blade was removed and the vagrant spoke: "Not so fast, pal. We got some talking to do first."
Lestat was about to curse him, and instead he let out an unearthly howl as the last limb was cut from his body.
Once again lighting flashed. Thunder erupted. And the rain came again.

In the church, Lestat awoke to find himself chained to alter of Jesus Christ. He looked around, his limited mobility allowing him to glimpse the empty pews to his left and right. The only light came from the burning candles over his left shoulder and the cross with the Saviour hanging on it was just above his head. He spotte the man with the sword out of the corner of his eye. He sat close, the hood no longer covering his head. His hair was short, styled, and he wore a dark pair of sunglasses. He had a two-week old beard which further obscured his face. But he did not look like a vampire, or anyone Lestat had ever seen before.
The man stood and Lestat hissed loudly at him.
"Down, pussy cat." joked the human. "
Lestat didn't understand why he still existed. "What's going on here?" He demanded. He spoke with force, but his words were empty. He knew that he was still fucked. He could not escape in this state.
The human scratched at his neck. The two week beard stretched down the length of it, looking like a scarf. "You're an arrogant bastard. But then again, I suppose you're an arrogant race."
The vampire had no idea where this was going. He kept quiet.
"So why Anne Rice? Did you just make the name up?" asked the human.
Lestat's books. The Vampire Chronicles. His great works. The story of his life and his friends, his enemies. "No significance. Just random. The name wasn't important."
The human nodded. "Just the content. I get it." He reached down and Lestat heard a long zip being drawn. He couldn't see what it was. There was the sound of rummaging, and then the human came back into view. He carried a canister. No. It was a blowtorch.
If Lestat's heart had a beat, it would have quickened.
The human continued to talk. "You all seem to love the lime light. I suppose you started it, didn't you?"
Lestat didn't answer.
"How did you feel when they cast Tom Cruise to play you in the movie version?"
"Fuck you!" Lestat roared.
The human laughed. "It's very clever. Your following has now reached cult status. Vampires are now ingrained within society. When we see a pale looking, goth freak in the street we think it's just another person with a hard-on for Dracula. The thought that it is a real vampire never crosses our mind. You can move around in absolute freedom."
The human lit the blow torch, and a thin high-pitched whoosh started. He adjusted the flame. Lestat watched him intently. Lestat hated fire. He had endured it before. It made him stronger, more resilient. But the pain was terrible. So terrible.
"There's a new vampire craze going on at the moment. These Teen vampire stories. Twilight. True Blood. Seems like you've been Eclipsed old timer. Excuse the lame pun."
The human drew nearer, and Lestat flinched violently.
"So whose idea was it to hide in plain sight of human civilisation?"
Nothing from the vampire.
The human shrugged. "Doesn't matter. But you fucked up Lestat. You gave away too much information. All I need from you now is an update."
Suddenly he grabbed Lestat's long wavey hair and wrenched his head back. The grip was like a vice, and he couldn't even struggle. Despite himself, the vampire screamed. The blowtorch came down to hover over his left eye. Lestat closed his eyes, whimpering. The intense heat scorched away his eyelid, and ate into the orb beyond. Lestat started screaming again. Long and loud. The eye ball boiled in the socket and exploded. A milky, crimson streaked pus erupted over the vampire's torturer.
The blowtorch was retracted, and Lestat's howling softened, became a whimpering and finally a soft mewling.
"Now you know that I'm not fucking around."
His courage was tapering, but he held on. "Suck my dick you fucking meat bag!"
"This is how it's going to go: I will ask a question. You will answer. If you don't, I use the the blowtorch. Remember: with your rapid healing, I can keep this going for as long as you want."
Lestat became calm. He looked into the human's eyes, and saw the truth of his threat there. Lestat didn't like pain. Fire was the worst. But he was no coward. Fuck it. He would defy him. Forever.
The vampire gave a gap-toothed smile, and suddenly spat into the human's face. The former bum wiped it away and adjusted the flame on the blowtorch.
Outside, the heavy rain drowned out the sound of the high-pitched scream.