He looked very young, with dark hair and eyes, no more than twenty when Lestat had given him the Dark Gift. I suppose I’ve always had a weakness for such youth, which was why I let Armand control me for as long as he did...forty cold years beneath Le Théâtre des Vampires, but this Nicolas de l’Enfent had not the sleek wiliness of Armand. His innocence was not pretense. Armand was no lost soul when I met him. He knew the things he wanted, and what lures he needed to get them. He didn’t need me. I was a plaything, a convenience, and my love, my lust for him was easily manipulated. This is not to say he didn’t genuinely care for me, because I believe that he did. Perhaps I need to believe it, for the sake of my ego. And still, our dalliance was something inessential, a rich and vapid pleasure without value, without substance.

Nicolas and I don’t speak of Armand. He suffered more cruelly at the boy-vampire’s hands than I did. I was merely betrayed. He was tortured.

I met Nicolas in New Orleans, attracted by those dark, lost eyes. He stood beneath a gas lamp on the corner of Bourbon Street and Toulouse, playing a violin that had seen better days. Music had never much been my passion, but the stroke of his bow against the strings drew forth sounds that were beyond human in their purity. The music brought my attention to him, and the eyes captured me. Had he been watching my approach as long as he played? I didn’t know. But when our gazes locked, there was an instant acknowledgment of shared blood. Two of a kind. Vampires.

Silently we exchanged names and his introduction surprised me, for he, like myself, was widely believed to be deceased. The shared irony caused me to smile, and he bowed in return. He didn’t stop playing. I simply watched him, and listened, and tried not to be overcome by the emotions his music invoked.

There were mortals watching as well, and when at last he finished they tried to tip him, but he waved them aside. Gripping violin and bow loosely together in one hand, he put his arm through mine and steered me down Toulouse towards the river.

“Come, Monsieur Santiago. We have much to speak about.”

His words were soft and lightly accented, his voice sweet and charming. With one sentence I found myself seduced. I had to strengthen myself against his assault on my senses. Despite my inclinations to take him at face value, I knew well that appearances can be deceptive.

And still I went with him, feeling inside that it was right. If it were a trap, so be it.

As we walked, he said nothing, not aloud nor inside his mind, which after giving me his name he had veiled. I didn’t press further. I was certain the time would come when we would test our strength against each other, but for now he was a mystery to me.

This did not worry me. After all, I am the Trickster and I have outwitted those who have been stronger than I more than once. I am not without my defenses.

Yet my guard was already coming down, simply because of his beauty and the way he clung to my arm, as if desperate for simple touch. How long had it been since anyone had touched me with need?

We reached Decatur and he pulled me across, leading me up towards the Moon Walk, at the edge of the Mississippi. The violin swung carelessly in his hand, but I knew he wouldn’t drop it or damage it/ I knew it meant more to him than it appeared.

He let go of me at the river’s edge, took a few steps away, peering down into the murky water. A fog rose around us, but he cut a clear figure through it, as if he were lit up from within.

Still he didn’t speak, and despite my impatience I waited. Let him reveal on his own his reasons for leading me here.

My eyes went to his face, drinking in his dark, youthful beauty again. His brow was furrowed, his lips full and almost pouting. His dark hair had been pulled back into a ponytail but it was unkempt, as if he had tied it that way several nights ago and not touched it since. He was dressed in fine clothing, but his shirt was wrinkled and buttoned incorrectly. Half was tucked into his black trousers, but one shirttail had escaped. His boots looked as if he’d been wearing them for a century. I wanted to peel off all of those clothes, to clean him up, to dress him in finery, to brush his hair.

I had opened my mind in my wistful reverie and he broke it off with a throaty laugh.

“I had hoped that you would not be so much of a fop,” he said without malice. I scowled.

“I’m not.”

He didn’t bother to reply, but he turned and looked at me with such a look of utter amusement that I felt myself becoming unreasonably enraged. Later I wondered if my anger hadn’t been exactly what he wanted.

“It is hardly reprehensible to be concerned about one’s appearance,” I said, sounding more stuffy than I wished. “Some of us can’t get away with looking like a sewer rat.”

He laughed, then bowed mockingly towards me, waving the damnable violin.

“I think I prefer sewer rat to looking like a Haunted History tour guide.” He indicated my cape and top hat, my pressed suit, my white gloves. Well. I did have a fondness for vampire drag but I certainly didn’t resemble one of the ridiculous tour guides who told tourists far-fetched tales of the ghosts which plague the French Quarter.

In anger I flew at him with preternatural speed, ripping the violin from his hand and pitching it violently into the river. I pushed him as I took it, causing him to stumble backwards. He recovered himself and I was ready for an attack. Still furious, I snatched the bow from him, which still dangled from his hand like a useless limb. I meant for it to follow the violin into the Mississippi but his expression caught me off guard.

Sorrow flooded his brown eyes and his mouth dropped open as if he could not believe what I had done. He looked from me to the river and back as if he were unable to comprehend what had occurred. He stood staring at me as if waiting for me to take back the gesture, but of course that was impossible. I cursed silently the guilt I felt. I hurled the bow at his feet instead of into the river and turned to walk away, though I was on the alert in case his sorrow should turn to anger.

“Monsieur -- wait!” he cried, and the piteous desperation in his voice made me pause.

Slowly I turned back around. He had not retrieved his bow, useless now without the instrument. He stood staring at me, looking distraught.

“What do you want of me, Nicolas de l’Enfent?” I said shortly.

“Sir -- the loss of your company would be greater than the loss of my violin.” The accent was too damned charming, the subservient tone too irresistible.

“Really.”

“Yes,” he said firmly, and he drew near to me, very close, looking up into my eyes. “Didn’t you feel it when you saw me on Bourbon Street? I know you did. We have a shared need.”

“Oh,” I said, my mouth dry, not moving away from him, “And what is that?”

“Simple company. Let me come with you. Talk to me. The nights are too long.”

He reached up and drew his bare fingers across my face. I closed my eyes and for a brief moment the sensation was overwhelming.

“Yes. The nights are long,” I said at last and I put an arm around his shoulders, turning him. We began to walk, but I wasn’t sure at all where I was taking him.

“You owe me a violin,” he said after a few minutes, but his tone was not accusatory.

I chuckled. “Perhaps I do.”

And so we set off together into the dark night.