It was cold.

She knew it not because she could feel it, her thin frame impervious to the wind as her gaze shifted to the snow swirling around the streetlamps. Her pale skin glowed faintly in the weak light of the crescent moon, too translucent under its soft scrutiny to escape notice. She tugged idly at a dark velvet sleeve, pulling down the cuff to meet her black gloves, hiding the flash of white under the thick fabric. It would not do for those few wanderers to see her before she chose to reveal herself, though she knew there were many who would never have noticed. Unfortunately, she shared her mentor's snobbery; drunks and pimps had never appealed to her-that hint of cheap ale and smoke too offensive for her delicate tastes.

But that was merely preference.

Tonight she longed for something richer, a strong Creole, as Louis would say. She'd never cared for the watery veins of the aristocrats, that diluted mix of wealth and pretention that left her empty and irritable. Perhaps one of their imported slaves, that tinge of the primitive hidden under charcoal skin, burning the throat with its shimmering wildness. Yes, perhaps that would do for the moment.

For the moment.

She looked again at the dark sky-always dark-she thought bitterly. It had taken only one such night to strip her memories away, leaving her a winter's night without chill, stretching endlessly onward as the years slipped away. It had been her birthday this week; they had taken her to a party, one meant only for the elite and their wives. She had been the pet of the rich, her sophisticated dress and rouged cheeks drawing exclamations from the wealthy women who flocked to them. They were children in silk, pigs trussed up in brocade and diamonds, pawing at Louis until he fled with her, acquiescing only when she pushed him away. There was nothing for her there; the young men passed her over, lingering briefly on her face with interest for a bloom that would never come. Those who did stare held a desire darker than her own, sliding along her gown with an unhealthy thirst, flicking upwards to examine her guardians. Lestat found it amusing, even titillating, often stealing a ribbon or a bit of lace for the men before taking them away. It was little consolation for their open examination; she had gone to Louis' side not long after they arrived, touching his arm in a silent signal. He would invariably sweep her in front of him, gripping her shoulders with protective strength.

Tonight it had been different. Tonight, she stroked his sleeve, her fingers warmed with the heat of a fresh young girl, and he had not felt her. His face glowed with rare joy, the object of his fascination an exquisite rose of a girl, an angel with black hair and enormous eyes. She was the picture of innocence, the sort of queenly spirit Claudia in her darkness could never be. The girl had inquired sweetly after his daughter, turning her adoring eyes to her unnatural paleness, speaking in that sugary tone reserved for infants. Claudia had offered up a tart response, brash and faintly risqué, a move she'd instantly regretted. Louis had guided the young woman away, annoyed by her childish display of temper.

Childish, indeed. Forever childish, forever innocent-she spat in the snow at her feet, swallowing back a curse as an elderly gentleman passed by. A coach stopped at the corner, opening the door for a woman swathed heavily in wool, her arm curved protectively over the swell beneath her skirts. Unconsciously her hands moved in response, tightening over a womb stripped dry of life or promise. Her arms ached, forcing her back into the empty streets that mocked her as she passed. The trembling started at her shoulders, moving swiftly down her spine until she was forced to sit in a doorway, waiting miserably for it to pass. The shivering might be mistaken for chill if her years did not betray her, the agony of loss too full in her child's eyes. The hot desire never tasted, a wine too rich for her body but intoxicating in her dreams, pounding in her temples with every youth she killed. The powerful rush of love, for women and men, for Louis, mothers, husbands, lovers. It burned in her veins like fire, driving her to churches at the first touch of twilight, forcing her out even when the faint light scorched her skin, just for the glimpse of that rarest of ceremonies. The stark whiteness of purity she could never attain, symbolized in a gown she could never wear, to join in a love utterly lost to her eternal youth.

She had played at marriage early on, stealing rings and dolls to marry them in secret and taking to her rest wearing them. They bruised her cold flesh, white circles that faded with miserable speed. Once, she was careless, wearing a small solitaire to dinner, and Louis had questioned her, concerned that she had found some lad fool or drunk enough to make her a promise. She had tossed it away, inventing an antique dealer eager to get it off his hands, teasing Louis that perhaps he might use it for one of his many admirers. Lestat had taken it up, palming it before going out to gamble and throw it away on a pretty youth or servant boy, a small token for the price they would pay. The rings had been destroyed with her dolls the day she had finally understood, that fateful night she saw the childhood she would never escape. Suddenly Louis' beauty seemed terrible, Lestat's mocking smile too garish, her own slime frame a cage she would not leave behind. Surely, they said, surely she had known she would not change, when the years became decades, leaving her as perfect and as innocent as before. Surely she had never expected to grow up.

She should have known, should have realized, she knew that now. She had seen mortal children spring up around her, their faces lengthening with that attractive severity of age, and never considered herself. They had been careful during those times, allowing her few companions during those early years. No, she had not known, not understood the full enormity of her life until that moment, seen the children she would never bear and the men she could never love. Lestat teased her with those perverted whoremongers from the balls, offering her up like some rich delicacy before she called Louis to her side. She did not want them, not even those decorated youths he would bring later, paid to entertain her as they would a duchess. It was a rarer fruit she wanted, a love that would be pure and untainted by bloodlust. That she knew was impossible-for her to marry would be a sin beyond her own hellish existence, unacceptable even among vampires. It would require destroying another promising life, condemning another to this torture she had been forced to accept. Mere children, brother and sister to the human world, adult lovers cloaked in innocent frames.

No. That would be more than a sin-it would be perversion. She shook her head, forcing away those thoughts even as they crept stealthily back into her mind. It was not a matter of will, or she would have done it long ago. She had not the strength, her body too small, too weak to share enough of her tainted blood to change another. Instead, she had found some relief in Louis, her developing mind finding desire in his elegant form, his piercing eyes. He knew it, though he would deny her, he knew it. Too often now he let her crawl in beside him, whispering her name with something more than tenderness. He would never want her, she had nothing to entice him, no womanly shape to wake him with the dawn as she did, and yet, his love had grown. No longer father, no longer companion-friend, lover, husband.

No.

She started at the familiar voice, too much like Lestat's for comfort. He suspected too much, heard her thoughts when they grew too numerous for her to contain. Even at a distance he could hear her now, and she forced herself away from Louis, turning her eyes to the snow, the sky, anything to distract her mind.

Blood.

She smelled it, only feet away, just around the corner. Some had been spilled, not much, but enough to tell her it was human. An addict, she assumed, though she did not smell the metallic tang of powder. With calculated ease she turned to look, focusing her eyes in the darkest part of the alley.

A boy.

Seven or eight, perhaps, a little younger than herself, but tall for his age. He had been beaten, the heavy welt over his eye forcing it shut as it swelled, one crooked arm held tight against his body.

He's perfect… it was soft, pleading. Please…

He could not hear her, not like this. He only listened when she fought to keep him out, taking pleasure in her secrets, not her requests. It was almost too much, a reddish tear streaking down her cheek before she could stop it, her tongue darting out to lick it away.

"Who's there?" the lad summoned what strength he had left to sit upright, forcing a snarl even as she heard his heart quicken. "I'm warning you, I ain't alone!"

"Are you hurt?" she ran awkwardly forward, dropping by his side as she stared openly at his wounds. "Those look awful!"

"Yeh, well." He slumped back as he saw her face, annoyance creeping into his eyes as he took a shallow breath. "Look 'ere, you ain't got a penny, do yeh?"

"No, Mama won't let me have any-oh, I could bring you to her-she's just around the corner!" Claudia was pulling him up before he could resist, flinging a thin arm around her shoulders. "Mama'll take good care of you, I promise-"

"Look 'ere, I don't-" he only made it halfway, his face shocked, then pained as the hot blood flowed. So sweet, so wonderfully sweet with that purity of childhood. It intoxicated her, her breaths coming faster as it thrilled through her veins. She heard his heart struggle to keep pace, pounding wildly with fear and strain as she ripped herself away, her body tight to his as he clutched her in a final embrace. The dark eyes stared, agonized flecks of jet that dimmed as she breathed, her lips inches from his skin. He drew a soft, rattling breath, an eternity, gasping out a last, long whisper across her face. It warmed her mouth, caressed her cheeks, and floated up into the empty sky, taking with it the last glimmer of life. His arms released her, his body already cooling as she slid down beside him, leaning her head on the twisted shoulder. A single star winked above, obscured quickly as dark clouds rushed to hide the wretched lovers in shadow, the pale lips curved in an ambiguous smile.

Goodnight, sweet prince…