An echo of a familiar cackle is shoved out of Armand's mind with the rest of him. Bonne nuit.

Lestat turns his hand so that Roy Travis' dead body doesn't strike him on its way to collapse, just a slight breaking of sweat across his brow from the exertion of his own little trick. Ringing silence in the hallway, heavy breathing, thumping heart beats, and he can smell blood and sweat.

Reality like ice water, dousing adrenaline. He sidesteps the corpse on the floor and moves nearer to the two, eyes zigzagging in his assessment of them. "He's gone," Lestat says. Touches, first, the back of Louis' neck, the soft contact of fingertips running up the centre before his palm settles. His other touches Daniel's arm, a touch that firms into a grip when he seems to realise that the fledgling is barely on his feet.

"Come, sit for a moment," he says. Disinclined to use the same psychic inroads to reach out to Daniel. They both need to come to the surface. He doesn't need Louis' help when he says, "Louis, help me with him." Because Louis is also hurt, but perhaps not in imminent danger of drowning unless he stays this way.

All too possible they're both too far from him to heed him, but he shall try. It's either that or have a tantrum, anger temporarily strangled.