1781, Louisiana.
He was running. Or that’s the theatrical lie de Lioncourt told himself. Running from Nicki’s ghost. From Gabrielle, his maman who had abandoned him. It was convenient how easily he fell for Louis, and then found his old friend, well, acquaintance? No! Lover, and mistress Audrey. Connected by a rope they were it seemed. They always seemed to find one another. After all, he had Louis, why should Audrey be any different? It made little difference to him. Louis, it seemed, paid the coquettish raven-haired, greedy, green-eyed harlot little mind, but then, Louis had never given him the time of night, nor did Lestat think he earnestly deserved it. He was simply out hunting evil-doers on the Louisiana Bayou when he spotted a pair of blue eyes. Blue eyes mind you, were he of the fairer sex he’d fall into instantly, eyes that poor down like New York rain. Quite unlike his steely blue of the Auvergne in France. No words come to Lestat’s mouth but they don’t have to. It takes a liar to know a liar. “Bonsoir, Monsieur,” Lestat said, falsely cheerful. He for once does his best to hide his white pearly set of fangs. “Are you lost?” The dirty blonde-haired Yankee stranger replied, almost defensively, but not impolitely. “No,” Lestat said, as he sighed. “Merely… hunting…”
