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Disclaimer: these characters do not and never will belong to me. They are the brain-children of the ingenious Anne Rice. No infringements intended.

Ratings: PG-13 for implied M/M relationship and a little insanity.

Spoilers: Events during tQotD. This is NOT the night before Lestat's concert, just one of those countless nights Daniel has spent running.

Turning up the collar of the coat against the biting wind, I hunched my shoulders against the rain. Icy drops of water swept over me, matting my hair into my eyes, dragging down my coat and slipped down my neck. Shuddering, I dug into my pockets, only to close my hands around an empty cigarette pack and a cracked lighter.

What I wouldn't give for a smoke. But I spent the last of my money on the bottle of bourbon, which now rested nicely in my empty stomach, slowing poisoning my body even as it tried to warm me.

A smoke. My sanity for a joint. But then I spent that too, running from that little angelic demon.

The lights of San Francisco blurred in my eyes, whether from rain, alcohol or tears, I really don't know. Nor did I really care.

If I kept walking, maybe I could stop feeling the cold. Maybe I could fool myself into thinking I did not want to see him, did not want the hot elixir that would pour from his lips. Maybe I could finally get away. Or maybe I would just freeze here where I stand. An ice statue of a man who owns an island.

A few people had asked how I had seemed to acquire such immense wealth literally overnight. With a perfect poker face, I told them I had sold my soul to the devil.

The sheer irony seemed extremely amusing to my alcohol and insomnia dulled brain, and I could not help the laughter that burst from between my frozen lips and rocked my body. The few pedestrians insane enough to be out in this weather took one look at me and immediately turned on their heels, practically running from me. It just made me laugh harder, with tears streaming down my face. I was pretty sure those weren't tears of hilarity

I'm not surprised they wanted to keep their distances though. From the last time I checked in the mirror, I looked like shit. A typical crazed street bum. I hadn't eaten in three days, but I didn't feel the hunger. I couldn't remember when was the last time I slept, and I finished my last cigarette earlier tonight. I looked like death barely warmed over.

No wait. That's not right. Death is the very personification of beauty. I should know. I've bedded him.

The little demon. Yes, I could feel the heat of the vial burning against my heart. The vial with the few precious drops of that hot elixir. My hands itched to clutch it, to dash it against the dirty bricks and pour it onto my tongue, to feel it burning into me. Yes, that's what I'd do. But not now. Not yet. I could still feel the concrete beneath my feet, still feel the raindrops sliding down my back. I would drink it when there is nothing left, when this buzzing in my head became too unbearable.

Dear God Armand. Where are you? I need sleep, I need peace, I need alcohol and nicotine. I need the blood. I need you.

He was like an addiction. His presence more erotic than heroine, his blood more intoxicating than any alcohol, and his smiles rarer than blue moons, and therefore all the more precious.

I could remember the taste of his cold skin, feel the texture of his tongue on my nipples, the icy bands of steel that were his fingers, digging into my shoulders. What a rush it was, to hear him moan for the first time, his voice lubricated with my life's blood. To feel those fangs sinking into my inner thigh was like knocking on the pearly gates. He was my god, my religion, my sin and my nirvana.

I could have stumbled, I could have slipped. It really didn't matter. I found myself sprawled face down on the cold pavement, staring at the cracks in the cement until they blurred together. Fascinating cracks they were.

My palm stung.

Propping up onto my elbows, I stared at my hand like it did not belong there, but had instead sprouted from the stump of my wrist. Squinting against the rain, I could see a dazzling sparkle of light shining from the bleeding flesh of my palm. For I moment I imagined them to be diamonds, beatific little crystals contrasting against the dark rouge of my blood. But alas, they were only fragments of broken glass, imbedded into my hand.

The tang of blood hit my senses, making my stomach rise from the dead and growl like the devil. Bending down, I flicked my tongue across the lacerations, tasting salt and metal. Nothing like that burning liquid from the velvet flesh of Armand's inner elbow. But I was a desperate man.

With a sob of hysteria, I fixed my lips onto the deep cuts, sucking furiously, ignoring the taste of grime on my hand and the pain of my gashed tongue.

Pairs of feet circled around me. As I lied on my stomach, pushing my tongue into the tender flesh of my lacerated palm, I made a distracted game of seeing if I could label the pairs of shoes.

Armani, good taste. Gucci, a definite write-off after this little soak. Some type of stilettos, insane in this weather. Loafers, worn at the toes. Hmm, Italian leather, very nice.

It took awhile for my brain to register it. The Italian Leather had stopped in front of me, miraculously dry, as were the gorgeously and no doubt expensively tailored pants.

Distracted from my little game, I looked up, ready to tell the asshole to fuck off.

A pair of eyes so cold they could have been carved from amber stared right back at me, piercing right into my crippled soul. The profanities on the tip of my tongue fell back down my suddenly constricted throat, causing me to choke and my eyes watering fiercely. The auburn curls drifted onto the shoulders of the dark suit, dry and soft under the black umbrella. A face carved from bleached bone hovered above me, aloof and untouchable, haunted by those ageless eyes.

Oh God. The devil himself has come to take me for a little tour in the fiery lakes of hell.

The pale lips twitched into what could have passed for a smile, and I had the sudden urge to sink my teeth into them. A colorless hand snaked down towards me, opened and waiting in invitation.

With the desperateness of a loyal follower in front of his deity, I clung to that hand, indefinable emotions boiling through me as he lifted me effortlessly to my feet.

Holding me to him unmindful of my drenched clothing, he guided me towards the limousine, its door open and awaiting my presence. Collapsing onto the plush seat, the warmth of the interior enveloped me, and I closed my eyes as a flask of hot soup was pushed between my hands.

He slid in beside me, cutting us off from the outside world with a dull thud as the door closed. The luxurious car glided smoothly into motion without the need of a command.

I kept my eyes closed as I sipped at the hot fragrant liquid, sighing as I felt those sharp little teeth nipping at my earlobe.

Welcome back, Daniel.

Savoring the soup, with the ice of his fingers creeping underneath my wet shirt, I relaxed my exhausted body into the comfort that wealth can bring.

There are a few advantages to being a devil's minion.