A little fragment of a memory—How could you keep it from me!—and then, what he barely remembers being his own voice—You have misunderstood everything. And then disaster.

"It would have ruined him, back then," Lestat says.

Not because he knows Daniel well, or understands what kind of young man he was. But he understands Louis' caution. He has felt it himself. But Louis had been wiser, and stronger, clearly, than Lestat had been. He sways a little, leaning into the touch at his shoulder. That he thinks of Nicki again, that he thinks next of Gabrielle, only confirms to him something that he knows is true.

All vampires share the same story. Face the same conflicts. It takes some conscious effort to draw himself away from the enticing whirlpool of his own past, sitting bare and vaguely out of time, the scent of floral soap and blood and Louis in the air.

Yes, he can relate. In too many ways. Maddening amounts.

His arms come out of the water, heedless of the mess that will be made as he follows impulse and circles them around Louis' waist. "I'm glad all the time that I made you," he says, gazing up at Louis with a certain kind of transparent adoration that both comes easier these days but harks to earlier history. "That you live still."

I'm sorry, he wishes to say again, but resists only because Louis will shush him if he does.