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It’s easy to disappear in Louisiana. Among the glimmering marshes and the sweep of the weeping willows, there are places where no one dares to poke their head. Places that no one would know existed, if not for the small scattered shacks and occasional wooden white chapels. Hannibal has a house there, not fifty miles from where Will was born. He bought it before they met, he insists, but Will knows that’s not the truth.
At any rate, it’s a good place to hide out. It's been six months since he and Hannibal plunged off the cliff, three since they've settled in Louisiana. The rest of Hannibal's properties have been raided by the FBI, all gone except a cozy two-story wooden home registered under a pseudonym in Madden. It's a temporary place until they manage to get back in contact with Chiyoh. She fished them out of the sea and went on her merry way, which Will finds irritating but Hannibal does not mind.
Will doesn’t like being back. It reminds him of his father, a cold man who never meant any harm but caused it all the same. It reminds him of his mother, too. In fact, he learns from a local one day that Lisa Boucher-Graham had been dead for over ten years. She is buried in Greenwood Cemetery in New Orleans.
He takes the two hour drive at night, and he goes alone. Hannibal is busy that night, posing as a private chef named Sebastian Andris. He has been hired at all sorts of fancy parties and today he is off to some grand mansion to cook expensive shrimp.
Will himself works only at the docks. Nothing special. He hides his appearance under a baseball cap and tries to keep his head down. Still, there are men there who have been cruel to him – they don’t know he’s a killer, but they’ve seen the band on his finger and the absence of a wife. That, and the fact Hannibal picks him up after every shift is all they need to keep their distance from Will. And when they do get close, their words are less than kind.
(Although, Will feels better after he and Hannibal kill two of the men. The others are invited to their house to eat their own friends.
There is leftover meat currently sitting in the freezer. Will wonders who will be at their next dinner party.)
But despite his new closeness with Hannibal, he likes driving alone. He arrives at Greenwood Cemetery half an hour faster than expected, coasting along the bumpy highways and dirt roads of Louisiana with skill and ease he acquired in his teenage years. The air is fresh. The trees are tall and dark green in the thick night. He feels young again, like some kind of hunger within him has been sated.
Maybe Louisiana isn’t all that bad.
(Then again, whenever he looks at Hannibal that gnawing feeling enters his stomach again and he knows the truth. He wasn’t meant to solve mysteries, he was meant to create them.)
The matter of Will’s mother is resolved quickly. Lisa Boucher-Graham has been laid to rest in a family crypt, besides half a dozen other names that Will cannot recognize. He spends a few minutes staring down at it. Oddly, he feels nothing at all.
No, the tombstone that truly interests him is fifty feet over, a two foot high marble slab with a simple engraving. A.H. Forever in our hearts.
That's all there is. No dates, no particularly unique markings. That makes it all the better for Will. He stands there for a whole hour, imagining the A.H. stands for Abigail Hobbs. A monument to the girl who was never really his daughter, but never a stranger either.
Hannibal wouldn’t understand that sort of sentiment. He would look up A.H, find out that the grave actually belongs to an unemployed fifty year old woman called Alison Hubbard, and commission a genuine memorial for Abigail to be built in their backyard. Fenced off, of course, so the dogs can’t get to it. Chiyoh had the tact to pick up Winston and Buster before fishing Hannibal and Will out of the Atlantic.
Will thinks about Abigail. She should be in college by now. Would she want to be a doctor like Hannibal? Maybe not. Will realizes then that he knows very little about Abigail’s inner life.
He puts his focus on something else, turning to see the grave beside A.H.’s. It is the most extravagant grave that Will has ever seen. It's an old thing, at least a hundred years old and excessive in a sort of Baroque way Hannibal would find beautiful. There is that statue of a child angel with perfect ringlets, weeping and looking up to the sky. Then the gravestone itself is covered in engravings of roses. Claudia de Pointe du Lac. Little angel of Liberty Street. Her fathers' joy.
It's nothing but a funny little grammar error from the 20th century, yet Will always smiles at the sight of it. He imagines two men in tailored suits chasing after a curly haired brat. A family. They would live in perfect bliss for all eternity.
Then, he hears the sound of someone clearing their throat. “‘Scuse me, sir?”
Will turns around. There is a man standing a foot behind him. He wears a black coat and sweater. Beneath the dim lighting of the graveyard Will can make out brown skin and angular features, chiseled and somehow delicate all at once.
“Sorry,” Will says, stepping aside. He pulls his hat down further to hide his appearance, in case the man has seen the recent news stories about him and Hannibal. “I didn’t mean to get in your way.”
The man shrugs. “It’s no problem.”
Will glances back up at the grave. “Your grandmother?” he guesses.
“Daughter,” the man corrects.
“I presumed the grave was at least a hundred years ago.” Will realizes what he said was rude only a few seconds afterward. He curses internally but moves on.
“The statue is. My husband purchased it from an antique seller. He thought it was fitting for Claudia – seein’ she’s in Heaven with the angels.” Something within the man’s voice is amused. Will wonders if he’s lying, and then his brain gets ahead of him and he begins to profile.
Southern accent, certainly regional to New Orleans but somewhat different from what Will’s used to hearing. Maybe he was raised by his grandmother. Well dressed, definitely wealthy, married. Modern royalty. Somewhat confident but morally torn – he slouches ever the slightest. He thinks no one can tell. He says husband with some hesitation. Publicly closeted? Or perhaps just insecure.
Something about this is familiar to Will. He chooses to look the man in the eyes, then, and gives him his best attempt at a smile. It must look grotesque, as the man does not return it.
“My name is Sean,” Will says, using the fake names he and Hannibal chose. Then he gestures to the A.H. grave. “That’s my daughter right there. Abigail.”
The man nods. He’s sympathetic. “Louis de Pointe du Lac. Nice to meet you.”
“I’m new in town,” he says. “I – me and my husband. We moved from the East Coast.”
“Which part?”
He releases a practiced lie. “Boston.”
“Beautiful city.”
“I miss it.”
Something about the way Louis moves is familiar to Will. He wonders if they’ve met before – then realizes that he’s seen that very expression, that very hesitation at the word husband and that very slouch in his own bedroom mirror. Between that and their shared losses, it’s as if Will is staring at another version of himself.
“Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow?” Will finds himself saying. “My husband and I would love to have you both.”
Louis blinks. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes. Is that –” He breaks off, clenching and unclenching his jaw. He’s not very good at this. “Is that a bad time?”
Then, Louis shrugs. “Not at all. I’ll ask Lestat.”
…
Hannibal isn’t happy about the unexpected dinner party. “I shall not have time to properly marinate the meat,” he says with a huff. “I would not want our guests to think that we are improper.”
Will sits at the kitchen table, watching as Hannibal slices human lungs with a practiced ease. He’s planning on disguising it as veal, he explains, but he’s worried about the flavor. The meat needs more time to age. His reputation depends on this. So does the look of the house, which is not up to par with Hannibal’s meticulous standards.
(Apparently, the couch cushions are too cheap and the flooring is ten years too old. Hannibal claims there is something wrong with the way the curtains are hung. Will doesn’t see it.)
“I don’t think that these guests will care. And if they do, they won’t point it out. Society doesn’t approve of such behavior.” Will looks down and watches Buster and Winston scamper across the floor. They’ve been eating well, and it shows in the new rolls along Winston’s chin.
“I despise false praise.” The kitchen is neat as usual, but Hannibal’s stress is written in the pile of potatoes, carrots, and other unidentifiable vegetables stacked on the counter. Usually he would not tolerate such a mess. Will remembers the bitter fights they had the first few weeks in this house – apparently, leaving the shower curtain open is an unforgivable sin.
“Though you believed in politeness.”
“There is a difference, dear Will.” Hannibal takes out a food processor and begins to emulsify something. Will loves watching him work. After the fall, it was two weeks before either of them could stomach much more than broth. The sight of Hannibal’s strong hands cutting meat is a welcome sight. “One ought to know where to properly draw the line. Or else it is nothing but sycophantic.”
“So should I uninvite Louis and his husband? Wouldn’t that be ah, rude?”
“It would be wise. There is a chance they could recognize us. You said they were wealthy and educated, yes? They most likely keep up with the news.”
“We could always kill them. More dinner for us.”
“Does Louis appear to be strong?”
“Nothing the two of us can’t take care of,” Will gets up and heads for the stack of potatoes. He forgoes the actual peeler and uses a knife on the skins. This makes Hannibal frown, but he chooses not to comment on it. Good. They’ve both been learning to choose their battles. “They had a daughter that passed away. Her name was Claudia. I thought it would be good to make friends with… shared interests.”
Hannibal does not respond to this. But when Will studies the curved lines of his lips, he is able to identify that some of this has touched his heart.
(Secretly, Will feels a little bad feeding Louis human meat. Oh well. It is what it is.)
…
Louis arrives in a white Rolls-Royce. It gleams in the darkness – he insisted they meet at nine PM, explaining that his husband tends to work late. According to Wikipedia he’s a former rockstar turned God-knows-what. His net worth is somehow impressive. Lestat de Lioncourt. There is little to nothing about him on the internet except a few battered fan magazines from the 90s.
It’s an odd thing. Lestat looks exactly the same on those magazines as he does now – forever thirty-something, it appears. He steps out of the passenger seat and opens the door for Louis, who steps out in a tailor-made tuxedo. Lestat and Louis appear to have matching suits.
Sweet to the point of sickening.
Will has put on a button-up and pushed his hair back, and Hannibal has managed to even wrestle him into a suit jacket. Still, he’s the most underdressed at this party.
(At least he has Winston and Buster, who are scruffy as usual. Hannibal wants to trim their fur. Will won’t let him.)
Lestat has blond hair down to his chin, a wide jaw and bright blue eyes that glitter with mischief. “Sean!” he exclaims at the sight of Will standing in the doorway. It takes him a moment to remember that yes, Sean is who he is supposed to be. “Aren’t you handsome! Delightful to meet you, darling.”
His former celebrity is written all over him. It’s actually sort of bizarre to see their fancy car and nice outfits in Madden, Louisiana – if Will were to walk seven minutes, he’d come across a swamp complete with human-eating alligators. But then again, Hannibal also lives here. Stranger things have happened.
Will leads them into the house. Inside, Hannibal is putting the last finishing touches on the food. The table has been set beautifully – a crimson red tablecloth, with black place settings and a matching china set. The centerpiece is a large skull (which Hannibal will claim is plastic) surrounded by lilies, baby’s breath, and crow’s feathers. There are even freshly lit candles beside each plate.
Louis whistles under his breath. “Damn. Fancy.”
“Gorgeous!” Lestat breathes. “Look at the flowers, Louis. We must get an arrangement like this delivered to our house.”
“Hmm.” Louis takes his seat and so does Will. Lestat, on the other hand, discovers and begins to croon over Buster and Winston sitting underneath the table. Hannibal has banned them from the dining room and kitchen, but it has been largely ineffective.
Hannibal emerges from the kitchen. He’s holding a three-tiered seafood platter balanced between both arms, piled high with oysters and lobster. “I thought we could start with something fresh,” he says. “And we are in Louisiana, after all. It’s nice to meet you both. My name is Sebastian.”
The seafood delights Lestat. When all four of them are sitting at the table, he takes an oyster from the top and admires it. “I hope I find a pearl,” he says to Louis, who shakes his head.
“That’s not how it works.”
“Why not?”
“There are separate oysters for eating,” Hannibal explains. “Ostreidae is what we have here. Pteriidae is more likely to yield a pearl – but it is not impossible to find one in the other. I suppose one might say the same with people. You can never be sure what will be inside.”
“You heard the man. I may find one.” Lestat jokes.
But despite his talk, Lestat never actually eats any of the oysters. He and Louis open them while they make polite conversation, discussing various jobs and attractions of Louisiana, but they never take more than a cursory glance at anything edible. Hannibal pours glasses of wine, and no one but him and Will drink from them.
Lestat oozes charisma. Louis does too, but in a more quiet manner. Will can tell that he’s a businessman. He navigates the conversation as a series of executive decisions – the choice to contribute to Lestat and Hannibal’s discussion on Handel, the choice to hold back when they begin to discuss local politics. Will appreciates the deliberation. It’s reminiscent of himself.
(Although, most people don’t realize this. Will supposes it’s because he tends to have his impulsive moments, those split seconds where he loses control and it defines his whole life. Like falling off the cliff with Hannibal. Can Louis relate?)
Louis bickers with Lestat in between each topic, small things that usually result in someone shaking their head and backing away. Like an elderly couple might. At one point, Lestat begins to talk opera and Louis raises an eyebrow.
“You wanna get into that now?”
“Why not? You know I have a great appreciation for the arts.”
“You wanna do that here, Lestat? Really?
They certainly have history. Will wonders how long they’ve been together.
Hannibal serves “veal” next – human flesh cleverly shaped and baked into lamb chops. He’s clearly displeased at Lestat and Louis’ lack of culinary appreciation, though he tries to hide it behind a neutral smile.
“Do you not like the food?”
Lestat looks up. “Oh, I enjoy the food immensely.” He stabs at the “veal” with his fork, then makes a show of cutting it with his knife. Will wagers that all he’s been doing is pushing the meat around.
Louis takes a small bite. He eats carefully, chewing as if he needs to remind himself how to do it. Will can’t help but profile him – he doesn’t like the food. It’s evident in the way the corners of his mouth dip down too far when he swallows. He’s trying to hide it. He’s good at tolerating things. Ah, they must have broken up at some point. How long have they been back together? It’s hard to say. Will would guess sixty years together, twenty apart and twenty back together. But of course, that is impossible.
The emerald wedding rings are antiques, but they’ve been polished recently. So it’s a marriage gone wrong and not an official divorce, they must’ve simply been estranged. Louis walks carefully. He moves his hands with the same grace Hannibal does. When he speaks, he tends to be more careful. But there is frustration beneath the surface. There’s no way he can take it all out on Lestat. He needs some other outlet.
On the other side of the table, Hannibal is refilling wine glasses. Will watches his long fingers as he pours with his trademark care. “We can’t have you leaving the table with empty stomachs.”
“I’m very full. Your cooking is delightful.”
“Lying is rude, Mr. de Lioncourt. You might want to try the food before remarking on it. L’appétit vient en mangeant, yes?”
Lestat raises a blond eyebrow. “Your French is good.”
“My aunt took care to secure a good education for me. University in Paris and medical school at Johns Hopkins. More wine, Mr. de Pointe du Lac?” He sets the wine bottle back down. Louis picks it up and swishes the liquid around.
He doesn’t actually know anything about wine.
“Louis doesn’t drink.” Will blurts.
Hannibal smiles ever the slightest, the corners of his unusual mouth lifting with amusement. “Brilliant as usual, my Sean.”
Louis seems suddenly uncomfortable, determined to change the subject. “Where’d you two meet?”
They have their usual lie for this, saying they met at a fish market. It seems plausible, with Will making his money at the docks and Hannibal running a small side business as a private chef. They kill together but they do it discreetly. At the moment, a few men at the dockyards have been reported missing. But it’s nothing unusual – everyone knows they live nomadic lifestyles. The police don’t care to take more than a cursory glance.
“We met at work,” Hannibal says suddenly. Oh, a hint of darkness has entered his voice. Will sits up. This ought to be interesting. “I used to be a therapist. Sean was my unofficial patient.”
A cough from Louis. He is attempting to drink the wine, now, and it is laughable to watch him sip at the liquid with thinly veiled disgust. “Ain’t that illegal?”
“He was never officially under my care, so no.”
“Still sounds unethical.”
“Perhaps. But love has often come to me in the strangest of situations."
“I’ll drink to that!” Lestat exclaims, then raises his glass and sets it right back down without a single sip. Hannibal furrows his brow.
He’s spent enough time on the defense. Now, it’s time to attack. Hannibal leans forward, his vitriol hidden under a smooth sheen of professionalism and medical experience. “Tell me, Lestat. Where did you and Louis meet?”
Lestat smirks and opens his mouth to speak, but Louis interrupts him. “College. We were uh, roommates at Tulane.”
Hannibal nods. “What did you study?”
“Business,” replies Louis.
“And Mr. de Lioncourt?”
“Music.”
“Is that so? I have a friend in the music department in Tulane – a Mr. James Fitzgibbons? I wonder if you studied under him. He’s a brilliant man, was very gracious to me when I first moved to America and taught me many things about my own craft with the theremin. I believe all Tulane freshmen studying music are required to take his course. Music history of the American South, was it?”
Hannibal’s words echo through the air. Even Will can identify how uncomfortable it makes Lestat and Louis. They scoot their chairs a little closer together, without looking Will knows that they are winding their feet and ankles together. After a moment of this, Lestat straightens.
He’s getting ready to lie. Will watches as he forces nonchalance.
(It’s kind of awful, but he enjoys watching Hannibal toy with other people. It’s like letting a cat play with a mouse before biting off its head.)
“I do not think I ever had the privilege to study with such a professor, though I did hear of him. I may not have taken his course as I transferred from a French university. Do you remember a Fitzgibbons, mon cher?”
“Nope. I was real busy when I was in school, wasn’t in the habit of memorizing names.”
"There you go. We were not in the habit of memorizing names. It was a long time ago. My memories of university are beginning to fade away.”
Hannibal nods. “Almost as if you were never there.”
Lestat and Hannibal lock eyes. For a moment, Will wonders idly if Lestat will jump forward and attack. The muscles in his arms are tense, though he plays it casual on his face.
Instead, he merely laughs. "You are a funny man, Hannibal."
A chill runs down Will’s spine. Lestat must’ve seen the news stories. Was this night nothing more than a chance for them to collect the ransom money? He knows the FBI is offering millions. Will reaches down and wraps his fingers around his fork. One look from Hannibal and he’ll bury the prongs in Lestat’s neck.
Still, the others remain calm. Hannibal especially shows absolutely no sign of distress. “My name is Sebastian.”
"Lying is impolite, remember? You said so yourself." He drums his fingers on the table, happy and menacing all at once. “Although I must admit that I find it to be quite fun. But you don’t seem to be the type to lie without reason.”
Hannibal takes a final sip of wine, then sets his glass down. Will stands up and pushes in his chair. With that, Louis reaches out and puts one hand over Lestat’s. He speaks in a quick rush.
“We won’t tell anyone. We know that love is complicated – the news isn’t telling the whole story, yeah?”
Louis’ words have no impact. Hannibal and Lestat are locked in a strange staring contest, each refusing to look away. Hannibal’s polite displeasure is palpable, while Lestat is giving a thin feline smile. Louis is squeezing his hand in an attempt to distract him. It appears only marginally successful.
Regardless, Louis’ hand moves up his arm and onto his shoulder – squeezing, stroking, reminding him of his presence. Will considers if he should do the same.
He doesn’t. The tension quickly snaps away all the same. Lestat sits back with a loud huff, and Hannibal busies himself cutting his “veal.”
“Well,” Will says. “Glad we got that over with.”
Louis laughs.
Killers, Will concludes. That’s what they are. The look in Lestat’s eyes, that restrained energy of Louis’ – him and Hannibal, Lestat and Louis. They are one and the same.
…
The rest of the night passes by without much turmoil. Lestat continually refuses to eat, Louis continues to pick away at his food and take miniscule bites from time to time.
There is an underlying current of animosity remaining between Lestat and Hannibal. It’s actually funny to Will – the two men could be brothers, but their varying degrees of self awareness keep them from coming to this conclusion. At one point, Lestat delicately brushes a crumb off his lapel and the way he moves his hand is identical to Hannibal.
By then, it has become clear to Will that there is something wrong with Lestat and Louis. Their skin is a bit too marble, their eyes too colored and bright. He wonders if it is simply a genetic anomaly they share, or something else.
Is he hallucinating again? He glances at Hannibal, and the look in the other man’s eyes confirms that he sees it too. The two men seem almost supernatural.
Eventually, the conversation slips to children, and then Abigail. Hannibal purses his lips. In the flickering candlelight Will can make out the new wrinkles forming at the corner of his eyes and mouth. He looks suddenly tired. “Abigail passed away in an accident,” he says at last. “I regret everyday that I could not protect her.”
This seems to strike something with Lestat. He stares down at his food with a suddenly hollow expression. “Same with Claudia.”
“She was sick,” Louis mutters. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
Will thinks: Louis is lying, and Lestat is somewhat guilty. He leans his body away from Louis when he speaks, and won’t quite meet his eyes. Louis, on the other hand, leans forward. He has the upper hand in this matter.
Lestat gets up and pushes his chair in. “Well!” he announces. “It’s been a gorgeous night. Hannibal and Will, fantastic to meet you. I shall have to invite myself over again some time. Marvelous food. Hannibal, come cook for one of my parties when you are free. I will pay you well!”
Louis lets out a sigh. He’s mildly exasperated but still seems to be enjoying himself. “I’ll go bring the car around. I know you hate to walk.”
“Oh, mon cher.” Lestat kisses Louis and then sends him on his way. Hannibal accompanies him to the front door, speaking about business and something to do with taxes. They seem cordial enough.
(Lestat and Louis are clearly a turbulent couple, but they sure are easy with affection. Will would never dare do such a thing in the public eye. Is he a coward for that?)
Lestat sits on the floor and busies himself with the dogs. His boots click as he moves. “Come here, you pretties,” he whispers, stroking at Buster’s small snout. His nails are long and translucent. Probably a remnant from his rockstar days. Now Will thinks about it, Louis has the same ones. They seem to enjoy matching with one another.
“Do you have a dog?” Will asks.
“Oh, used to.” Lestat kisses Winston on the nose, then runs his hands crazily through his fur. “A German shepherd named Mojo. I’m afraid he got too old and passed away. Louis never liked him much.”
(He’s telling the truth about that.)
Lestat looks up from the dogs. “By the way, Will,” he says. He’s grinning like a child, showing unusually sharp teeth. Gleaming like fangs in the night. “Would you be a darling and give Hannibal a message for me? Tell him that if he plans to cook human flesh again, he ought to use a different spice blend. This one does nothing to cover the scent – and humans are so distinctive, you know? Nothing like veal.”
Will takes a step back. And before he has a chance to react, Lestat gets off the floor and clicks his way out the door. Louis has brought the car to the front, and the two are off before Will has had the chance to reach Hannibal outside.
The two stand side by side in the quiet dark, watching as the white Rolls-Royce turns down the winding road.
“Did you hear that?” Will asks.
“Yes.”
“Might want to make a special visit later tonight. The dogs need new treats.” Will reaches out and holds Hannibal’s hand for good measure. He squeezes it.
Hannibal thinks before answering. “Tell me, Will,” he says slowly, his voice calm and measured. “Did you think we were the only ones?”
“Only what?”
“Monsters in the dark.” Hannibal sounds utterly amused. “I don’t think this will be a hunt at all. No, I think this will be the most fascinating friendship. I shall look forward to our next dinner. I think that Mr. de Pointe du Lac and Mr. de Lioncourt – with their sharp teeth – might prefer something alive.”
It’s easy to disappear in Louisiana. Will wonders idly if that is possibly why Lestat and Louis are here, too. Sharp teeth and stiff skin. Like vampires.
Will doesn’t know what to believe, so he settles for taking Hannibal’s hand and leading him inside.
They’ll work out the mystery tomorrow.