Lestat relents. His fingers, glossy with fresh blood, find a place to hook at Louis' shoulder. Studies his face. Does not love that he's caused all this pain. Of course, did not even think about it at the time.

He lays his head on his folded arm, watching him. Thinks about the apostle who touched the crucifixion wounds of Christ. It was probably erotic too.

"I hurt him," he says, after a moment, in the odd echo of the bathroom. His eyes as silver as mirrors, reflective, his voice soft with the sound of flowing water. "I broke his bones beneath my hands. I shattered the ground beneath his body. I stole his blood first, and drank it greedily. I told him he was alone, and he believed me."

He offers these truths like recitation, no inflection in his voice that implies pride or assurance or confession. He watches Louis' face. He resists the urge to care about the pain of the thing they are doing, though his voice grows tight.