I wake up with Lestat wiping my eyes and cheeks with a tissue, I must have been crying again. I sigh and wave him off, I am fine now. As well as can expected. A thin sheet is all I have covering me, and I pull it close.

"Are you all right?" he whispers, standing up. His gaze runs over my face, searching for any signs of despair. "This is the fifth time this month you've done this."

I nod and take his offered hand, allowing him to gently help me to my feet. I manage to adjust the sheet over my shoulders, cutting the slight chill from the air conditioner. His arm comes around my waist while his other hand rises to my cheeks, cleaning away the last of my tears. My hands settle on his shoulders, and my head falls to his shoulder so I can lay my face against his throat. I can feel his hand as he caresses my hair, and for a moment I feel absolutely safe and warm. I can hear his soft breathing. His hair falls across my eyes, so soft. I smile and stand back.

"I will be all right," I say, brushing his cheek with my lips. "It was not so bad this time."

"I won't leave if you don't want me to," he says quickly. "They can have their damn meeting without me."

I shake my head and laugh. "You will only be gone for a little while, and nothing terrible will happen. I promise. You need to go. I'll be fine."

He really doesn't want to go, I can tell, and to tell the truth, I don't want him to go. But, if he does not, the comeback tour will be harder, and I want everything to go right for him. I want to watch him on stage, back in his element. He comes alive in a different way when he is performing. It is delightful to watch.

The rest of the coven knows about his intent to return to the spotlight. How could we have kept it hidden, when the radios won't stop playing his old songs and blaring the dates for his concert tour? So far they havn't said anything. Well, nothing much. Nothing from Maharet, in any case, not that she could stop it now. The music websites have Lestat's pictures up, and the news has switched from Cher's death to how Lestat has kept so youthful. Mortals are so fickle.

"Go on and take care of everything," I tell him, squeezing his hand reassuringly. "I will be here waiting for you when you return. I promise."

"If you promise..." he kisses me, then lets me go to put on his leather jacket. "Do you realize you are in love with a rock star?"

"I've known I've been in love with a star for years," I chuckle. "One that dims and brightens, but never goes out."

"My little muse," he grins. "I never realized how poetic you are until I read your book."

My eyes open wide in a mix of surprise and denial. "You read my book? Lestat, I told you not to!"

"Chere, how could I resist?"

"But Lestat--"

"Louis, you let millions of perfect strangers read it, but your lover must not lay his eyes on it?"

"I don't have to live with millions of perfect strangers!"

"Afraid of criticism? Really, you shouldn't be so shy about it, I simply ate up every page."

"But you shouldn't have--you liked it?"

He laughs and seizes the corners of the sheet wrapped around me, drawing me toward him. My arms are trapped beneath the fragile cloth, and I could easily escape, but I allow him to manhandle me. He puts both of his arms around me, holding me tight, and he steals a kiss before I can react.

"Yes, Louis. I loved it. I finally got to read some of your poems, and you write with such lavish detail...it was wonderful."

"It was pitiful."

"Don't you believe your own critics? Didn't you read what they put on the cover of your own book?"

"They only wrote that because it sold so well."

"Louis, how can you say things like that when they contradict and--and I promise to argue that point with you when I come home," he sighs in exasperation. "But before I go, I have a favor to ask of you."

"What could I possibly do for the Vampire Lestat?" I smile, no hint of bitterness in my voice.

"Mmm...lots of things," he smiles, nuzzling my ear. "But I have something else in mind...I want you to do something for me."

"Name it."

"Write a poem for me."

"What?"

"A poem for me to put to music, and sing to those millions of perfect strangers."

"But...why? Why would you want that?"

"Oh, Louis, what am I going to do with you? All right, let's see, what do I want it for...it would boost ticket sales if I said I had a song written by the great Louis de Pointe Du Lac. It would be a brilliant masterpiece that would win a grammy, if Madonna does not buy them again. And it would show everyone that the celebrities Lestat and Louis are working together, and so in love with each other that no one stands a chance of coming between them, because I will personally eat anyone who tries to steal you away. Is that enough? Will you do it?"

"You certainly know how to ask," I whisper faintly. His voice has that effect on me sometimes.

"Will you?"

"For you? Of course." I glance at the clock and give a little groan. "You need to go now, or else you will miss your meeting."

"So I will be late, so what?"

"My love, you are late now. You will miss it entirely if you don't fly."

"Do you want me to go?"

"No...but I need to write that poem, and I mustn't have any distractions."

"And I am a distraction?"

"No, Lestat. A distraction is a minor thing. You would take up all of my attention."

He kisses me again, then lets me go. "All right, chere. I should be back tonight. You'll be careful, yes?"

"Yes, now go, or else there won't be a tour for my song."

He smiles wordlessly and steps to the window, opening it. Warm air blows in, rustling the curtains. He blows me a kiss, then ascends into the night sky. I watch him disappear, then close the window and let the sheet drop. I pull my frayed jeans from the corner and slip them on, then gather my notebook and pen. I head down the stairs to the front door and leave the house. The garden is not too far away, and I have a song to write.

The moon is full, offering plenty of light, but every once in a while a thick cloud passes over it, plunging the landscape in shadow. I don't mind, though. There are lights in the garden, little beacons cleverly hidden amongst the plants and behind rocks so the wires and bulbs cannot be seen, only the colored light. The stone path is well lit so there is no danger of tripping, and the small stream Lestat created for this spot also has lights running underneath it. The rose bushes have lights matching their colors, and every few feet he has set out beautiful lamps with electric candles dressed up as candelabras.

I cross the bridge that runs over the stream and head to the center of our garden, which is rather large. At my request, Lestat put in a simple little maze, made of ivy and climbing roses, but that only takes up a fraction of our garden. He had created this part with lights first, and then surrounded it with an artificial forest, one with no lights, so that this little spot would be completely secluded. Of course it helps that I can merely fly over the trees, but occasionally I wander through it. There are statues inside of it, though, and sometimes I can't shake the feeling that they are watching me. I only walk in there when Lestat is with me.

Finally I come to the center. The tall fountain, white with gray shadows, stands framed by the trees behind it. Silvery water pours from its top pier down to each pier beneath. The bubbling cascade has a remarkably soothing effect, allowing me to relax here as I cannot do in most other places. I sit down on the wide stone rim and trail my hand in the water, and stare up into the sky. The garden lights are dim enough so that the stars stay perfectly visible in the dark sky.

I take my hand out of the water and shake a few drops off, then pick up my notebook and open it up. Several pages have already been marked and scribbled on, so I flip through to the middle. A song? I've never written a song before. I know I've written poems, and poems can be set to music, but this is still a little intimidating. Lestat says I am a good writer, and so do all my critics...I sigh and force myself to think about other things.

Should it rhyme? Should I stick to grammar? Should I be straight-forward and honest, or flowery and poetic? Should I write it as a narrative?

Or am I over thinking everything once again?

I write a few lines, then scratch that out. I write a few more lines, then scratch out a word for another, then grow disgusted with it and draw x's all over that. One more thought comes into my mind, but before I even write it down I shake my head. No, I simply cannot sit down and decide to write a great poem.

I shut my notebook and stand up, following my steps back along the stone path. The stream is running past me now, and I feel that I am fighting against the current. My book came so effortlessly...of course, that was easy in itself to write. I was writing about myself and Lestat, or Lysander as I named the character. I'd named myself Lenore, after one of my favorite characters from Poe. The entire story had been about Lenore's hopes and desires as she dreamt about them. I suppose I could write another dreamy poem, but shouldn't I break away from what I've done before...?

There I go with the "should's" again. I open my notebook as I walk, to take another look at what I'd written and see if there was something workable...strange, it's awfully dark out here now. I glance up, expecting to see lights from the stars and from beneath the rose bushes.

Instead I find myself in Lestat's forest.

I nearly fly up and out, but I am still not comfortable with the idea of flight. The forest is not very large, I can walk through...if I had bothered to stay on the trail. I look around myself, but I cannot see through the trees. I wish I'd listened to Lestat when he'd told me how they had planted these already fully grown trees, then I could find my way out. Still...I am sure if I just walk in a straight line I will be out soon.

Twigs and dry leaves crunch beneath my feet, and I must remind myself that I am a vampire and a rather strong one at that, and I can easily defend myself against anything. So why can't I stop thinking I am walking through Sleepy Hollow? I wish Lestat was with me right now.

I see something large and black in my peripheral vision, and I turn to face whatever it is. It seems to move through the branches, and I take a step back. I hold absolutely still and narrow my eyes, focusing on it. It takes a moment for me to recognize it. Rodin's The Thinker. Damn statues. I take another step back and turn around, my face just inches from Degas' Dancer. Her bronze eyes are soulless, and the beauty the artist had intended is lost in the eerie shadows. I quicken my pace into the trees.

I spot a replica of Michelangelo's Dying Slave far to my right, and to my left is the Venus De Milo, looking like a victim of a deranged maniac with an ax. I notice the stone trail beside her, though, so I walk by her, keeping my eyes down. Of course I should have kept my eyes up.

I walk right into a gigantic gargoyle. Now I am glad Lestat is not here to hear my frantic little shriek. That's it, I'm flying. I zoom straight into the air, hitting my head on a branch, but I keep going until I am high enough to see our estate below me. Good grief, I was only a few feet from the treeline. I decide to fly to the other corner of the grounds, back to the pool. At least that is well lit.

I descend from the sky slowly until I gently settle on the grass just outside the glass door. I walk in, careful not to slip on the slick tiles, and move to the back. Hunching over my notebook to keep it dry, I glide across the water and through the waterfall, until I can rest comfortably in the niche behind the pouring shower. The mist rising from where the water hits the pool cools my body from the desert heat, and I adjust myself so I can lay my head on a pillowed surface. This is nice, I wish Lestat was here next to me. The waterfall is droning just a few inches away, a gentle lulling sound. I close my eyes, intending to keep them shut only a moment...

I wake with a jolt. That's it, that's it, where's my notebook? Aaah, no! It slipped into the pool! Quickly, before I forget, I drag it out. The pages are ruined, but the cardboard is still strong enough. My pen is a gel, thank God, praise God for that, I write furiously, Desc. and Asc. I'll remember what the notes mean, heav. is de. and beau. and I keep writing until I have all my notes down, the entire song transcribed in my own special shorthand. Guarding my precious notebook as it drips soggy paper clumps, I dash out of the niche and across the garden, running sopping wet up the stairs and not caring about the water damage. I practically fly into my room and sit at my desk, pulling out a pen and a sheet of paper. The entire song flows out through me again, and this time I do not cross out any lines.

"Louis, wake up!"

My eyes open in surprise. I am still in our bedroom, and Lestat is gently shaking me to rouse me out of my sleep. I must have dozed off on the desk. I look around myself in a daze, then I smile up at Lestat and throw my arms around him, showering his face in kisses. After the initial shock, he grins back and returns my little advances.

"You looked like you were in a nightmare," he whispers, cupping my face in his hands.

"I was...but then you came into my dream, and protected me, and woke me up." I nuzzle his lips with mine, and put my arms around his neck so he can pick me up. He carries me over to the bed, setting me down and sitting beside me, and kicks his boots off. "And how did the meeting go?"

"Hmm...? Oh, that...nothing they needed me for, stupid record company..."

"I wrote your song," I murmur.

"Already?"

Nodding, I move aside to make room for him next to me. He doesn't suspect anything and takes the bait, stretching out on the bed. Without warning I rise up and straddle his hips, catching his wrists in my hands and pushing him down.

"Chere, I think you're making this into a habit," he laughs, turning his head aside.

"Not tonight," I say, releasing him. Deliberately, I begin to undo the buttons on his shirt, spreading it wide open when I am finished. I put one arm around his waist and pull him up so I can strip his shirt away. He doesn't fight back, probably thinking I am like him, and prefer it when my lover relinquishes all control. Oh, I will get a reaction out of him, and hopefully a little struggle.

I let him back down on the pillows gently, then move down and firmly seize the top of his pants in my teeth, pulling the denim back to undo the button and force the zipper down. His eyes get bigger as he watches me kiss the soft flesh revealed, and when I peel back the cloth ever so slightly to expose his hips, he puts his hands over his eyes and groans. We have not done this in a few nights, and the suspense must be driving him crazy.

Since he is not watching, I put my hands on his back and push them down into the seat of his pants, squeezing him before I bring his jeans down. With a little maneuvering, I push his pants all the way down and off. He makes a move to get up, and I pounce on him again, forcing my way into his mouth. He moans as I kiss him, wrapping his arms around me. When he lets me up for a moment, I plant a tiny kiss on his throat, then an inch lower, and another inch lower...by the time I am by his navel, he is whimpering in anticipation. Without wasting any time, I firmly take him into my mouth.

He gasps as I start, but he has the presence of mind to try what I did to him, holding him down forcibly. I feel his legs start to move, but before he can I grab his knees in my hands and push them flat against the mattress, spreading him out almost violently. He cries out, unsure of whether it is in pain or ecstasy, and I withdraw to look up at him.

"Don't try anything," I tell him. "Just give in."

His eyes are strangely frightened and excited at the same time. He's never really given in so completely, even when I had him in chains he was mentally prepared and shielded for the assault. Now I have him practically shaking in fear and delight.

"Surrender to me," I insist gently. "Be mine tonight."

Unable to respond, he gives me a tiny nod and lets his head fall back on the bed. His hands cover his eyes, but as I bend down to start again, I notice one of his hands runs into his hair, clenching and unclenching in energetic tension. I shift my position again, and this time he alternates between cries and moans, involuntarily thrusting against me every few seconds. His right hand slams hard into the mattress and he makes a strangled sound that I cannot decipher. All I can tell is that I've brought him to climax five times already. I know by the volume of his cries, and by the sweet blood I taste.

As I work, I rub his tender thighs with my fingertips and my palms, making them numb with my ministrations. He can't take this much longer. He tries to push himself up, rising on his elbows and throwing his head back with a low scream that resembles a howl. I smile to myself and then draw in harder. His arms give out and he falls back on the bed, breathing hard, drenched in a cold sweat. I swallow my last taste of blood and sit up, stroking his sides to calm him down. Lestat is still panting, so I lay down right next to him and pull him into my arms, petting his hair and face. His entire body is freezing, so I bring the blankets up over both of us, making sure he is tucked in. He snuggles up to me, alowing me to clasp his body against mine, and the breeze from the open window blows gently across--

I sigh in exasperation at my own carelessness. I can't believe I left the window open. Not willing to get up and let Lestat go, I concentrate and carefully lock the glass panes, then close the shutters, bring down the blinds and draw the thick black curtains. Once we are safe, I turn my head so I can rest my cheek against his hair.

"I love you, Lestat," I whisper, not really expecting an answer.

"I love you, Louis." His arm snakes around my waist, holding me closer. "For all eternity."

I had almost forgotten what concerts were like. Even though I am backstage in Lestat's dressing room, I can hear the mortal roar outside, and the constant drone is giving me a slight headache. I sit down in one of the chairs here, resting my arm on the vanity.

"Louis, chere, where's my shirt?"

"Over here!" I call, holding the white flowing garment up to him as he comes around the clothing rack. I toss it to him, and he catches it, quickly pulling it over his head. He's already in his boots and string-up pants, and the cape is flowing magnificently around his shoulders. Now he sits down next to me, staring into the mirror as he hurriedly applies the stage make-up.

"How many do you think are in the audience?" he asks me.

I shrug non-commitally. "Armand, Daniel, Jessica for certain. I don't know if Marius or David would want to be here. I doubt the others would come."

"And rogues wandering around?"

I nod. "I can feel a few every now and then, but they're only here for the music."

Finished with the paint, he starts to put his gloves on. "I can't believe I'm so nervous. It's not like I haven't done this before."

I smile and stand behind him, picking up the brush and drawing the few tangles out of it. I have the same effect I usually do, and he calms down immensely. "You will be fine, chere, I'm sure of it. You have thousands of fans out there who are dying to hear you."

"Mmm...I suppose a groupie after the concert would be nice."

I grab a handful of his hair and give him a tiny jerk. "Not while I'm here. You're mine."

He pivots in his seat and puts his arms around my waist, burying his face in my loose shirt. "Yes, and you're mine."

There is a sharp knock at the door. "Mr. Lioncourt, you're on in ten minutes."

"Be there in a second!"

I help him up and give him a fast kiss. "I love you."

"I know." He leads me out of the room and into the backstage area, just a little bit away from the wings. The crowd is really going wild outside. "Now you stay here and don't wander off," he says sternly. "If it gets too loud, then wait in the dressing room, but I want you here once the concert is over."

I nod accommodatingly. "You're sure you have everything you need?"

He grins. "Of course, chere. The instruments, the band, the electrical things, my songs, your song--"

My hand tightens on his arm. "Do you really think you should play that? I mean, it's not exactly in your usual style--"

"Hush, Lou'," he says, kissing me. "It is perfect, a masterpiece. It will be a hit single the moment I start."

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the voice on the announcement system, "please take your seats. The concert will begin in seven minutes."

"I love you," he tells me, pulling back and going on-stage with the other band members to check the equipment one last time and gather everything together. There is a chair behind me with my name written on a sheet of paper on it, so I sit down to watch. The last minutes fly by, and then the house lights go down, the mortals start to cheer, Lestat gives me one last smile, and the curtain rises.

I am in awe as he sings and plays to the crowd, easily working them for every bit of applause he can get. He is a god beneath these spotlights, a wild animal thriving in his natural element. The amplifiers and other stereos are turned away from me, so the volume is tolerable, so I lean back in my chair, prepared to watch the entire concert.

When he gets to my song, however, I nearly get up and run away. I'm so worried about it, I can hardly stand to be in the same room as it is played. The lights dim down until he is alone in the light, practically crooning the lyrics. The mortal screaming dies down until the last note of the song finishes, and Lestat purposefully lingers on that note, drawing it out. When he finishes and the lights switch from in front of him to behind him, to silhouette him, the crowd literally rises to its feet and yells its approval. I sigh in relief, and Lestat turns to give me a quick wink and a grin before going to his next song.

It is amazing, how things have changed so much. I look down at my hand, so pale in this light. It turns the color of any light hitting it. I feel so strong now, physically and spiritually. Lestat is with me. That is really all that matters. I had to go to ground to figure that out, we both did. But now he is back where he belongs, at the center of attention in my arms, and I in his, and nothing could be better. We had to descend so low to rise this high, but now we're both where we should be. Home. At the top of the world.

The End