The Vampire Chronicles

Watch "The Vampire Lestat: After Dark"

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Previously on "The Vampire Lestat"...

Shall we do it?

Shall we scorch the mortal world?

Decimate it.

Together, for all eternity.

Claudia. I look like her.

You're the only one watching me like I'm Netflix.

In a million guesses, you would not guess.

What happened to her?

You could have a different life.

What now, Daddy Lou?

- What about Greece? - Hot springs.

Those Who Must Be Kept. - What was that?

I have the blood of Akasha in me.

Sorry. What the fuck is Akasha?

Is there an evil older than you?

Your maker Marius. - My maker is dead.

I've told you that already.

Was Dubai bullshit?

Me breaking you down.

You knew everything the whole time.

Loving Louis doesn't shut it off.

It wasn't my love for Louis.

Rest. - Rest.

But it was love.

- You've been reaching them. - Yes.

They are lost and tired of enduring.

Your music speaks to them.

When's he going to make an album?

When we are ready!

You are listening to "The Failures,"

Album 41, Side B.

My first coffin had the likeness

of my maker carved into its lid,

indecipherable Latin etched around the rim

and, as I was an orphan vampire,

my sleep within troubled.

Again.

I spent half of two decades in the silken embrace

of a chestnut casket,

purchased for my French Quarter townhome,

before it was hurled off a balcony

during one of Mr. du Lac's redirected moods.

Again.

What exactly are we going for here on, uh, take 17?

We are going for "again."

OK.

I have slumbered in a variety of sarcophagi

over the centuries.

But if I had to choose a favorite,

it would be the 7,000-square-foot model

I endured in the fall of 2025,

while I recorded my posthumously-produced album

that Pitchfork would trash

and for which the world shouts in feeble attempts

to explain away

clearly attributable devastation,

"J'accuse."

But I, Amel, digress.

Again.

Take 28.

The deranged Wegmans produce manager, Beau Riddley,

provided me the Frenchest of exits.

And the good fortune of a second mass shooting

with a higher body count occurring that same night

made the faking of my death...

- Sorry. Sorry. - All the easier.

Again. - Yeah.

Take 46.

An amnesia fund was created.

And annual payments in perpetuity

were issued to Jarda Klapek, a coroner,

an obituary writer for the Czech broadsheet "Právo,"

Dee, Daniel, Fareed,

and two dozen other collaborators,

including Christine Claire, who bought a retirement villa

and wallpapered her basement sex dungeon

with billable hour invoices.

Again.

Take 61.

Fuck!

I would leave this coffin

only once in four months.

I would butcher the band for bloom and marbling,

fleece the muses of their animus,

and stop at nothing until an album

worthy of the long, lurid life of Lestat de Lioncourt

burned into elegiac audio formats.

And when that was achieved, I would perform it once live

in that now-infamous concert.

And, well...

We will come to that later.

But like Elvis or Andy Kaufman,

rumors swirled of my survival.

So Sofia Gabriella de Lioncourt di Vece

took over for Christine and whittled down my entourage

to the essentials, which was her

and the Vampire Sam Barclay,

whom she hired as a producer for three reasons.

One, he had faked his death once before,

so he could be trusted to maintain the rite.

Two, he knew the board well enough

from his own recordings.

"Big Bad Wolf," vocals, take one.

And three, she knew I hated him

for his part in Paris.

And that would keep me lively.

Hoo!

Badass!

- Nice. - And that's take one.

Fabulous.

Moving on.

So straighten your tie, inflate your lips,

be it facial or labial.

We are going to trace my self-taught musicianship

back to its weird and haunting origins.

That's right.

I am finally going to talk about the Queen.

Again.

Hmm.

Your drum sounds like a drum.

That's 'cause it's a drum.

Mm-mm.

No.

The drums can't sound like a drum.

OK.

What do you want it to sound like, then?

It has to sound like death approaching.

- Oh, my God. - Like life emerging.

Like--yeah, cool, like life and death.

- Death, then life. - OK.

A mewling babe extracted from a mother's womb.

OK.

I, uh--I don't play metaphorical drums.

Try.

I can do faster, or harder, or shuffle,

fill, flam, buzz roll.

Like, a drum is a drum. A stick is a stick.

I don't know what to tell you.

It's 'cause she's not a vampire.

It's because her deepest wound is a man

walking away mid-ceremony.

Wow. Cool.

Thank you, Yoko Mirren.

Guests at my deathbed,

we are making an album about my life,

which has been a three-century train wreck.

Your drums are my heart. - Oh.

Your guitar is my hunger.

Your bass, the night terrors that follow me to coffin.

What's my guitar?

Yes, please interrupt my flow, Larry.

Your guitar...

is my frailty.

Keep coloring inside the lines as you play,

and I'll knot a tempo mark to your life jacket.

Lar. Lar. Come on.

He didn't mean it.

We are here to pull the plug, hmm?

Have some reverence.

Kill me savagely.

Yep. Sure.

Sam, let's jump to something else.

TC's not ready. - I'm fi--I--

Can I hear "When I Call Out Your Name," vocal 12?

Copy that.

Blue as the sea, tinctures of violet,

blond hair, blue eyes,

eyes so blue, blue as the sea.

Fished him from the wilds

of a paup--pauper's grave.

Oh, loves his mother.

Loves, loves her.

Wanted to take care of her, as you said.

Well, he was there.

She was not.

Where am I?

Thank you for pulling me from the Earth.

Thank you for saving me from starvation.

Thank you for the warm blood shared.

Yes, you're welcome.

She told me where you were,

and there you were, and there I was.

I brought you back, and...

Here we are.

Who are you?