Stuart talks so fluidly about this particular special interest that Lestat, for a minute, stops viewing him as a cardboard cut out, which—is not better, really. Leaning on the countertop, a smile, a question as what music he prefers, an evaluating look that measures the thickness of arteries in the throat.

But, no, he had been given advice. Don't stalk people out of brightly lit places with cameras when you've marked them so obviously. Stick to the edges of things, the shadows. Unfair that the world should become so brightly lit that the old ways are tugging at his hem. Annoying. He should be able to eat whoever he wants.

A hunt later, anyway, maybe the two young women from before. Hunger aside, he will want to get away from Daniel after this is over, at least until it's time to head for DC. Daniel has done nothing wrong. Lestat might.

Dismissing Stuart as a prospective meal, Lestat peels off the packaging for his things as they finish out the paperwork, stiff plastic giving way like wet cardboard under his fingers. Clicking the case into place, hooking the headphones around his neck and pocketing the charger, fiddling with the device as the last of the transaction is complete. Some hours later, his lawyer will be startled out of bed thanks to a telepathic directive that he requires an email address and Daniel will be spared from helping him set up his own Spotify account.

The mall itself is close to empty, preparing to close. A very strange palace, Lestat observing the glass ceiling high above as they go. Even the most common of places are like grand opera houses, in this age.

"His number," is said once he rolls his focus back forwards, offering his new sparkly phone out. "S'il te plaît."