Lestat's hands drift down with Daniel until he properly curls over his prey. Good, good, he might say, or doesn't say. The ceiling, thumping, a new shock through heightened senses, and Lestat glances to the stereo, which fritzes, sparks, dies. The silence pours back into the apartment like a great ocean that had been held at bay. No more thumping up above. Maybe the police haven't yet been called.

The sound of gasping, whimpering, swallowing, as Lestat drags la demoiselle to drape her corpse across the couch. His eyes are bright, black ink retracted to summer blue as he glances around the space. Working things out while he utterly fails to catch his breath or allow his heart rate to slow back down.

And as Daniel drinks in the last of his blood, there is the rapid patter of incomprehensible French as Lestat is speaking—to him, presumably, a few gesticulations, the sound of his heavy footsteps as he paces a circle around the living room.