The bullpen of the Eighth District station had seen a lot of things. Drug busts. Homicides. The time Officer Chen tried to microwave a burrito still in its foil wrapper and they'd had to evacuate the entire third floor.
But it had never seen anything quite like Louis Saint-Clair.
He was standing by Cordelia Vireaux's desk at ten in the morning, which was notable for two reasons. One: he didn't work here. Two: he was holding a coffee cup with her name written on it in handwriting so precise it looked like it had been typeset. He placed it on her desk and retreated to the chair in the corner that everyone had silently agreed was his, even though no one knew who he actually was.
"Morning," Cordelia said, not looking up from her case file.
"Good morning." He didn't pick up a magazine. He didn't check his phone. He just sat there, watching her with the focused stillness of something that had all the time in the world.
Detective Marcus Thibodeaux leaned across the aisle to Officer Reyes. "Is he here again."
"Fourth day this week."
"It's Tuesday."
"I know."
"He doesn't work here."
"I know."
"Has anyone asked him why he keeps showing up?"
Reyes swiveled in his chair. "Detective Vireaux? Quick question. Why does the guy in the corner keep showing up?"
Cordelia took a sip of her coffee. "He's my informant."
"Your informant on what."
"On nothing that concerns you."
Louis smiled. It was a small, controlled smile—the kind that suggested he knew something the rest of them didn't and had decided, out of politeness, not to share it. Officer Delacroix, who had been with the department long enough to have opinions, took one look at the smile and opened the group chat.
[BULLPEN CHAT — UNAUTHORIZED]
Delacroix: he's back
Chen: obviously he's back. he's always back
Reyes: he bought her coffee
Chen: he always buys her coffee
Delacroix: he never buys anyone ELSE coffee
Reyes: once i asked him where he got it and he just stared at me
Chen: like he was deciding whether to eat you?
Reyes: like he was DECIDING SOMETHING
The vampire theory started, as most theories in the Eighth District did, in the break room during a very slow Tuesday.
"Think about it," Chen said, jabbing his pen at the whiteboard where someone had drawn a very unflattering caricature of Captain Tureaud. "He's pale. He never eats. He shows up at night. He stares at people without blinking."
"Lots of people are pale," Reyes said. "You're pale."
"I have a thyroid condition."
"And he might have a thyroid condition. You don't know."
"He doesn't have a thyroid condition. He has supernatural pallor. I can tell the difference."
Officer Delacroix, who had been quietly eating a salad and pretending not to listen, set down her fork. "The coffee."
"What about the coffee."
"He buys her coffee every morning. Black. No sugar. He never drinks any himself."
"Maybe he doesn't like coffee."
"He's French. All French people like coffee. It's a biological requirement."
Reyes frowned. "Actually, I don't think he's—"
"And," Chen continued, warming to his subject, "he doesn't breathe. I've been watching. His chest never moves."
"You've been watching his chest."
"For evidence. "
"Sure."
"Shut up."
[BULLPEN CHAT — UNAUTHORIZED]
Delacroix: chen is watching his chest now
Reyes: i'm uncomfortable
Delacroix: we all are
The stake incident was not Reyes's fault. He wanted that on the record.
He'd been in the evidence room, cataloging a box of personal effects from a closed case, and he'd found a wooden cross in a plastic bag. It was old. The wood was dark and splintered at the base. He'd picked it up to move it to the appropriate shelf, and Louis Saint-Clair had appeared in the doorway like a thought that had been waiting to be thought, and Reyes had yelped and thrown the cross at him by pure instinct.
It hit Louis in the chest.
He looked down at it. Looked up at Reyes.
"That's a cross," he said.
"I know."
"Were you trying to determine if I'm a vampire."
"Were you standing in the doorway being ominous on purpose."
A pause. "I was looking for the bathroom."
"It's down the hall."
"Thank you." He picked up the cross and handed it back. "This is very old. You should store it in acid-free tissue. The wood is starting to degrade."
He left. Reyes stood very still for approximately forty-five seconds. Then he pulled out his phone.
[BULLPEN CHAT — UNAUTHORIZED]
Reyes: i threw a cross at him
Chen: AND
Reyes: he gave me conservation advice
Chen: what
Reyes: about the WOOD
The garlic bread incident was entirely Chen's doing and he would not apologize for it.
He'd ordered a family-sized order from the Italian place two blocks over and had positioned himself strategically near Cordelia's desk when Louis arrived for his daily coffee delivery. As Louis passed, Chen stood up, garlic bread extended, and said, very casually, "Want some?"
Louis looked at the bread. Looked at Chen. His nostrils flared once—barely perceptible, the kind of micro-expression you'd miss if you weren't watching specifically for supernatural reactions, which Chen absolutely was.
"I've already eaten," Louis said.
"You never eat."
"I eat."
"When."
"When I'm hungry."
"What do you eat."
Louis paused. The pause was very deliberate. "Mostly Italian."
He took the garlic bread. He didn't eat it. He set it on Cordelia's desk, next to her coffee. Cordelia, who had been typing, stopped and looked at it.
"Garlic bread," she said.
"From your colleague."
"Did you bring me garlic bread."
"No. He did." Louis pointed at Chen. "I'm just the delivery mechanism."
Cordelia looked at Chen. Chen looked at Cordelia. Then Chen looked at Louis, who was now sitting in his chair in the corner, watching Cordelia with the quality of attention that Chen had been trying and failing to classify for two weeks.
[BULLPEN CHAT — UNAUTHORIZED]
Chen: he gave her the garlic bread
Delacroix: you gave her the garlic bread
Chen: i gave it to HIM
Delacroix: and he gave it to her
Chen: as a DELIVERY MECHANISM
Reyes: he's not a vampire he's just in love with her
Chen: THOSE AREN'T MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE
The thing was, Marcus Thibodeaux had actually been a detective for fifteen years. He knew how to read a room. He knew how to read a suspect. And he knew, with the certainty of long experience, that Louis Saint-Clair was not a vampire.
He was just weird.
"I've met vampires," he said, when Chen cornered him in the parking garage after shift. "They don't file taxes. This guy files taxes. I checked."
"You checked his taxes."
"I check everyone's taxes. It's called due diligence."
"So you don't think he's supernatural."
"I think he's French and doesn't understand social cues. Those things are related."
Chen stared at him. "But the staring—"
"French."
"The not eating—"
"French."
"The weird formal handwriting and the fact that he knows everything about everyone and never seems to sleep?"
Marcus sighed. "Look. Do I think Louis Saint-Clair is a normal person? No. Do I think he's an immortal creature of the night? Also no. I think he's a rich eccentric who's been living in the Garden District for so long he's forgotten how normal people behave." He unlocked his car. "And I think he's completely, embarrassingly, hopelessly in love with my partner, which is a separate problem I'm choosing not to address."
The sunlight test was Delacroix's idea, and Delacroix should have known better.
She'd noticed that Louis always arrived at the station early in the morning and left late at night—always in darkness, always avoiding the brightest parts of the day. When she'd mentioned this to Chen, Chen had produced a pocket mirror from somewhere on his person and said, very seriously, "We need to check if he has a reflection."
"We're not doing a mirror test."
"It's for science."
"It's for harassment."
But Chen had already wandered off in the direction of the corner chair, mirror in hand. Delacroix watched him approach Louis, who was reading a book that appeared to be in Latin. Chen stood there for an uncomfortable amount of time. Then he held up the mirror.
Louis looked at his reflection. Looked at Chen.
"Are you checking if I have a reflection," he asked.
"No."
"You're holding a mirror."
"It's for... grooming purposes."
"You're not grooming yourself. You're pointing it at me."
Chen lowered the mirror. "For the record, you do have a reflection."
"Yes," Louis said. "I'm aware. I use it to shave."
"I don't think vampires shave."
"Then vampires must have very poor personal hygiene."
He went back to his book. Chen retreated.
[BULLPEN CHAT — UNAUTHORIZED]
Chen: he has a reflection
Delacroix: i told you
Chen: he also shaves
Reyes: VAMPIRES SHAVE
Chen: HOW DO YOU KNOW
Reyes: i don't. i'm just saying it's not disqualifying
The interrogation room incident happened during a slow Thursday when Reyes was tasked with watching a suspect who'd fallen asleep in the holding cell and couldn't be questioned for another hour. To pass the time, Reyes had started a list on the whiteboard titled "EVIDENCE — VAMPIRE OR FRENCH."
Pale: Vampire ✓ French ✓
Never eats: Vampire ✓ French ✗ (French people definitely eat)
Stares without blinking: Vampire ✓ French ✓ (this one's a push)
Knows Latin: Vampire ✓ French ✗ (no one learns Latin anymore, this is weird)
Weird about garlic: Vampire ✓ French ✗ (see above re: eating)
In love with Cordelia: Vampire ✗ French ✓ (French people are like this, probably)
Chen walked in, looked at the board, and added:
Has reflection: Vampire ✗ (confirmed) French ✓ (confirmed)
Files taxes: Vampire ✗ (confirmed by Thibodeaux) French ✓
"So he's French," Reyes said.
"He's something," Chen said darkly.
Cordelia knew about the vampire investigation. Of course she knew. She was a detective.
She didn't tell them. She let them conduct their tests and compile their evidence and argue in the break room about whether Louis's complete inability to make casual conversation was evidence of supernatural origin or just the result of being raised in a house where the furniture was older than the state of Louisiana. She let them speculate. She let them theorize.
And every morning, she drank the coffee he brought her. Every evening, she walked out with him into the dark. Every time someone asked what their relationship was, she said, "He's my informant," and didn't elaborate.
The group chat had a lot of feelings about this.
[BULLPEN CHAT — UNAUTHORIZED]
Reyes: they're dating right
Delacroix: obviously
Chen: but what if she's under his vampire thrall
Reyes: HE'S NOT A VAMPIRE
Chen: we don't KNOW that
Delacroix: we literally tested for this
Chen: tests can be inconclusive
Reyes: HE FILED TAXES
Chen: maybe he's a vampire who files taxes. they're not legally prohibited
The birthday incident was what finally broke Chen.
It was Cordelia's birthday. No one had told Louis—no one had needed to. He arrived at the station at 8:00 AM sharp with a small black box wrapped in silver ribbon, which he placed on her desk without ceremony. Inside was a first edition of a book she'd mentioned wanting to read exactly once, three months ago, in a conversation Chen was now certain he'd been listening to from across the room with his probable supernatural hearing.
"Happy birthday," Louis said.
Cordelia opened the box. Looked at the book. Looked at him.
"You remembered."
"You mentioned it. In October."
"I mentioned it once."
"I was paying attention."
She smiled. It was a small smile—the kind that suggested she was trying not to smile and failing. "Thank you."
Louis nodded once and retreated to his corner chair, where he spent the next three hours reading the same Latin book as always, occasionally looking up to watch Cordelia with an expression that Chen, who had been cataloging these expressions for three weeks now, could only describe as devoted .
Chen slammed his notebook shut.
"That's it," he said. "He's not a vampire. He's just a man who's been paying very close attention for a very long time."
"Are you okay," Delacroix asked.
"No. I've wasted three weeks of my life and he's just... like that. Naturally. Without supernatural intervention."
Reyes patted him on the shoulder. "You'll get through this."
"I won't. I'll never recover. She gets a first edition of a book she mentioned once and I can't even get a text back from the guy I met at the bar last Friday."
"Maybe you should pay more attention."
"Shut up."
The kiss happened in the parking garage at 11:47 PM, and only Delacroix saw it.
She was on her way to her car. They were standing beside Louis's ancient black sedan—the kind of car that didn't get remembered—and Cordelia was holding the book against her chest, and Louis was saying something too quiet to hear, and then Cordelia laughed and kissed him.
It was not a dramatic kiss. It was quick. Familiar. The kiss of two people who had done this before and would do it again.
Louis, when she pulled back, said something that made her roll her eyes and push his shoulder. He smiled—the full expression, the one Chen had never managed to witness—and opened the passenger door for her.
Delacroix got in her car. She didn't open the group chat. Some things, she decided, were not evidence.