Lestat has pivoted a look to Louis, meanwhile, amusement clear in his expression as he assesses the likelihood of Louis developing a love for musical theatre and how well this can be exploited. It's a good thing, too, because otherwise he would not have caught the sight of a streak of flame hurtling past the edge of the rooftop. If he had to rely on his ears alone, he might not have caught it in time.

His expression empties out, tense, a baffled look upwards. Instinct, next, something like raising his matchlock towards the quail spooked out of hiding from the brush, save that the only thing that moves is a finger before the Molotov explodes into a fireball high above. Glass rains down in all directions, some stinging spatters of flame, but the most of it more powerfully vaporised than the shred of burning fabric would have induced.

Lestat is standing already when the sound of scrabbling claws and boots nears them from the opposite side of the building, drawing his focus before a second flaming bottle chases the last.