New Orleans, 1938

Claudia stood at the edge of the wrought-iron balcony, dress hem fluttering in the damp breeze. Below, the French Quarter oozed sickly warmth and bourbon-scented laughter. But her eyes were far away. She was writing. Always writing. The little black book's pages were already heavy with blood-spattered confessions and jagged loops of fury.

"Tonight, I kill him with Louis. Or Louis kills me. Or he kills us both."

Behind her, the lamp hissed and popped, throwing monstrous shadows on the wallpaper. Louis sat slumped in an armchair, eyes red-rimmed, fingers tapping on his knee. He wouldn't look at her.

"We don't have to do it now," he whispered. "We could run."

She snapped the book shut. "Run where?" she hissed. "To another city, another decade? He'll always find us."

Louis flinched, and she hated him for it—hated the soft, broken-eyed man who loved too long and too deeply. She loved him, too. That was the problem.

Claudia stepped inside and crouched in front of him. Their faces were close, reflections of shared doom.

"I'm not running. I'm not his pet. And you're not his partner anymore." He shook his head.

"It's not that simple." She stood up from the ground, signaling that she was leaving. "It is. It's us or him."

Louis sat in the dark, wrist pressed to his lips, pretending not to sob, the plan was getting to him.

Claudia watched him. Part of her hated him for his softness. Another part wanted to crawl into his lap and cry, too.

"You love him," she accused. He didn't deny it.

"I did. I do. God help me." He spoke, his voice low like a whisper.

She swallowed. "Do you love me?"

He looked up sharply. "You know I do."

Her voice cracked. "Then choose me."

He closed his eyes. "I am."

"I hate that I love Louis. He mourns the monster who enslaved us. I mourn the loss of freedom. Love and hatred swirl inside me like fire and ash. I hope he will choose me in the end, and not Lestat. But sometimes I fear it is too late." The words speak louder in the diary she wrote. The tears were evidence that spoke volumes. She needed..no she wanted it to end.

"Claudia, we need to talk." Louis' voice appeared through her head, she paused on her writing in her diary.

"Go on." Claudia responded, returning the telepathic way of their communication.

"I can't do this, I can't kill him. The more I look at him, the more I physically cannot do this." His voice echoed through her head.

"You're choosing him again. After everything he did to us? To you." Her words sparked hatred and anger.

"It's not like that." He responded, his voice calm.

"Is it? Or is it because you can't get enough of him?"

"Claudia."

"No, you said you would choose me over him."

"I am."

"Not trying hard enough. I love you Louis. I always have and always will, and maybe I haven't said it often enough."

Claudia resumed her writing while she waited for Louis to respond back. She could feel the tears dwell up. Ready to spill at any moment. Her fingers cramp due to gripping the pen too hard. Her nails, pure white digging into the writing instrument. Her nails touch the black ink every stroke of her pen on the paper. Her calluses formed precisely because of her firm grip. She was going to let go of the writing instrument but a knock interrupted her thoughts.