Have you ever heard Nicolas’ music again after that last night in Paris?




When I first came back, in the 1980s, I was discovering modern music through dirty, grungy, unknown little bands who would play in underground clubs, forgotten basements of warehouses, and garages of abandoned mansions, etc. They reminded me of the Commedia Players of old or of the players in the theatre–messy, cheap paint on their faces, filthy in lovely, bohemian ways. Poor, underpaid, doing it purely for the glory with no thoughts towards money or fame. 

One of those nights I was listening to a band play in one of those places–an old warehouse, mostly rusted steel girders and rotting brick walls at the point, and older musicians that I usually listened to or jammed with, but they’d welcomed me in with a smile and a the offer of a cigarette–and I remember one of the members putting in a cassette tape and playing it. 

I knew it was him the moment I heard it. You don’t forget his music, mortal or immortal, not once you know it. Not once he’s played it for you, only for you, and imprinted those scars underneath your skin. 

If my blood could have run cold in that moment, it would have. As it was, I grew eerily still in only the way that we can, to the point where I recall one of the mortals asking me if I was okay, did I need a drink, did I need some air?

I vaguely remember mumbling some sort of excuse and leaving. I remember the room seeming blurred, not real, the mortal voices and instruments nothing but a piece of artwork dipped in water in the background of my vision as I fumbled my way out of the building. 

You see, I didn’t know then that he had lived. I had no idea. It was the last thing on my mind that Nicolas might still be alive somewhere, might not have perished, and might still be making music on that thrice-damned instrument out there in the world. 

I told myself that I must have been mistaken, or convinced myself that I had been hearing ghosts instead of reality. I have often suffered thus; it would not have been a new feeling for me. 

It wasn’t until decades later, when I practically ran him over in Paris, that I realized that I’d actually heard him in that grungy warehouse in New Orleans. It had been him, yes. He was alive. 


Was it any good?


Nicolas has come to visit Lestat and Armand after such a long long time apart…
Photoshop + Pencils. I know Nicki will never return to the Vampire Chronicles but LET A MAN DREAM, OK????

Lestat is less than enthused and Armand probably has a thing for leather jackets that he is really trying to suppress. 


InktoberVC Day 13: Nicolas’ hands

As I told you when I was drawing this, I think I had never drawn Nic… Like, I don’t know why? But I should do more often (and in colour) draw him, because I haven’t drawn violinist’s hands in a while since I don’t go every weekend to the orchestra to hear one of my friends play.

I thought about drawing a pair of disembodied hands but I had to take the chance and draw him XD

The Last Drop: The Lost Chapters – Chapter 4 – Burnadette_dpdl, Rebness – Vampire Chronicles – Anne Rice [Archive of Our Own]

Fresh fanfic by myself and @wicked-felina (Rebness)!

Warnings: Gen, no warnings apply.

Words: 3,792

Characters: Nicolas de Lenfent, Louis de Pointe du Lac

Summary: A rainy afternoon at the café is a perfect setting for Louis and Nicolas to argue over philosophy and coffee.

Notes: This chapter is dedicated to the legendary Cesare, one of our all-time fave fanfic writers, who discovered our little AU and has left us wonderful encouraging comments! Among which, that they wanted to see a good dialogue between Louis and Nicki, and we sprung into action to fill the request. We hope that this satisfies like a smooth fancy coffee.

The Last Drop: The Lost Chapters – Chapter 4 – Burnadette_dpdl, Rebness – Vampire Chronicles – Anne Rice [Archive of Our Own]