gorgeous-fiend:

Lestat used to like throwing grand parties for the youth of Miami on Night Island. He would do this mostly because the young teenagers, all slouched and willowy, revered him as some sort of god. He reveled in it. They were loud, they were boisterous, and they drove the rest of the coven up the wall. They’d put up with these nights of shameless frivolity only because it kept Lestat out of their hair. One night, however, it became too much.

Lestat hadn’t been satisfied with the parties he was allowed to throw in the various reception halls. Because although the they were splendid, the beauty of the halls had absolutely nothing on the opulence of the “residents’ quarters”. The resident’s quarters, of course, being a term for where the permanent residents of Night Island stayed, namely the vampires.

Now concerning vampires, the rules of Night Island were this: drink discreetly and away from the resort, and never bring mortals into the chambers designated for immortals only. These were precautions that had to be honored with the highest regard. Although at the time Armand was explaining this he had been speaking to the whole coven, his eyes kept wandering accusingly to Lestat as a warning. Don’t you dare, that gaze seemed to say. Don’t you dare bring trouble on this coven like you do to everything else. Lestat had only given him a conniving grin in response.

How could he have been expected to follow such constricting rules? Especially when the residents’ quarters- with their heated marble floors and wicked sound system with the subwoofers and oh-so-many breakable valuables- were just begging to have an irresponsible house party thrown in them? Oh, and he would make those delectable teeangers’ young lives.

Waiting for a night when the whole coven would be out at once was entirely too tedious, if not wildly unlikely. So, he strategically devised ways to get rid of them for the better part of a night. For Marius and Pandora he bought tickets to the new exhibit at the art history museum on artifacts from the Renaissance. To his surprise Louis actually wanted to go as well and bought his own tickets, so he was able to kill two birds with one stone on that one. Khayman was easy. Khayman wasn’t even technically a problem; Lestat was sure Khayman wouldn’t have lifted a finger to put a stop to his plans, but conveniently enough, Khayman had planned to spend the night sailing on the ocean. For Armand, Daniel, and Eric (who, to everyone’s surprise had turned up and stayed for a few weeks) he casually suggested the newest psychological thriller, which he politely offered to pay for. With his coven out of the way he was, as they say, in the clear.

The party ended up having a good turn-out:- some 150 teenagers, nearly all of them underage. The music was cacaphonous, the dancing was wild, the energy was infectious, and the place was an absolute mess. The teens had neglected to remove their shoes so everywhere on the carpet Armand so diligently kept pristine were brown, splotchy footprints. Crumbs, candy wrappers, and stray cigarettes wedged themselves in between cushions of the lavish furniture. Louis’s priceless books from the 19^th century were brushed thoughtlessly off their shelves to make room for soda cans and beet bottles. A few invaluable relics might have been accidentally smashed to pieces as well.

Lestat made his way around, chatting up his young guests who couldn’t stop raving about how “bitchin”” and “so fucking sick” the party was. He paid special attention to one skinny boy of eighteen in particular. He was a dark-eyed, misunderstood beauty who liked punk rock and defacing public property. Dylan was his name. As Dylan talked on about the the evils of the “system”, Lestat was leaning in to subtly take “the little drink” when the music suddenly came to an abrupt end. The lights came on and the space was filled the sounds of aggravated teenagers, who shielded their eyes from the offensive brightness.

Lestat snarled, tearing himself away from Dylan. He whipped around, trying to locate the source of the interruption; It didn’t take long. At the far end of the room stood Armand, with a single brow arched, twirling the cord to the stereo slowly about his finger. To every one else he must’ve appeared the perfect visage of languid indifference, but to Lestat it was the face of doom.

“Out,” Armand said quietly, with a strong undercurrent of danger laced in his tone.

“No one likes a killjoy, Armand,” Lestat guffawed.

The auburn’s cherubic mouth twisted in rage.”LESTAT, GET EVERYONE OUT!”

The outburst sent the teens scrambling like a flock of frightened hens. They all booked it out the door in under two minutes- quite impressive for such a sizeable crowd. Lestat and Armand were left alone in the rubble that was the post-houseparty wasteland.

“Museum and movie tickets? You think you had me fooled with those random acts of kindness? Think again.” Armand spoke threateningly slowly, “You are not to do anything like this ever-”

“Oh, don’t pull that domineering coven-master act on m-”

“-never again!”