Rachida has already arrived, managed check-ins, overseen the delivery of comically large boxes into the adjoining rooms arranged for three vampires. Some debate must have occurred over the coffin placement, but an executive decision had been made rather than send a text: three coffins occupying one room, blackout curtains hung. Luggage apportioned between the remaining two and hastily procured third room, nothing unpacked but neatly arranged at perfect slanting angles along the far walls of each bedroom.

Rooms allotted to human entourage takes up a fair amount of this charming little lodge's availability. A bewildered clerk questioning if Mr. Molloy always traveled with such a crowd as Rachida smiled charmingly and collected her many room keys. Rooms procured for herself, for security, for Daniel's assistant. All billed to Mr. du Lac, of course.

All there is left for three vampires skidding into the parking lot in the greying dawn hour is to fall into their coffins. (There is some preparation before going to coffin. Minor unpacking. Louis' pre-dawn ablutions. The murmur of voices on the other end of Daniel's phone. Lestat's instruments and headphones arranged just so. Maybe someone has strong feelings about the coffin placement.)

Regardless, the long drive has been completed. They rise. They dress. They depart to observe the local culture.

They have breezed through one chain restaurant with bottomless margaritas and one local bar with a slanting pool table and a wide range of beers on tap before they happen upon the karaoke bar.

"It's crowded," is Louis' mild observation. Maybe a complaint, maybe not. They are inside. There is a healthy mix of tourists and locals. There is an elevated stage. Louis looks across Lestat to Daniel to ask, "Which table?"

Assuming that yes, they are going to stay.