There is a flickered moment of misunderstanding as he meets Louis' gaze, replaced then with a wounded look. For being an assumed enemy rather than ally, for old misgivings brought to bear, sharp and invisible. A terrible thing about immortality. You hurtle through so much time, but there is no promise of fleeing your own errors. You just tally up more of them.

Scarcely the point, of course. Lestat is not truly in this argument, for all that he can sense Daniel's commitment to being some irrelevant footnote in Louis' story, and not among its primary authors. They are speaking of something. He should have perhaps continued watching his stories.

Fangs go blunt once more.

"I see," he says, as he gets to his feet as well. "Everyone is jealous of me. Everyone would like to bleed about their problems as I have done, have something to show for it all. Well," a flip of his hand, "claw at each other as you like. The truth lives somewhere under the skin, we all know."

He fusses his robe shut.