Monster

New York City is drowning in winter - rain on glass, smokey breath, and the slow ache of solitude. You tell yourself the stillness is loneliness, that the whisper in the dark is only your mind playing tricks. But something watches. Something waits.

Lestat de Lioncourt, ever-hungry, ever-restless, has turned his gaze upon you, his next source of entertainment in an endless line of souls. He toys with you at first, a phantom presence behind the curtain, a shadow brushing the edge of your dreams. And when the game ceases to amuse him, he steps from the dark with all the grace of a fallen angel.