Daniel had been incredulous when Louis told the Wolverine Blues story. Some white guy slyly dragging in credit for a jazz standard, incidental or not. The recording of his voice for his love song was compelling, the tone of it had stuck in his head for the rest of the day and a while into the next, but still just a flawed recording.

So of course he's great. A jukebox musical straight from Broadway-pop, the kind of thing only somebody who really, really loves music could pull off at the drop of a hat. Even with superpowers. He listens, cheers along with the biggest swells of crowd reactivity, and thinks Lestat could probably read the alphabet and have most everyone in here enraptured, but he's really doing something special. Goofy, sure, obnoxious, definitely, but special. Enough that several tipsy patrons have their phones out, but hey, they opened that pandora's box a long time ago. No one's ripping any van doors off, Talamasca can let this one out into the wild. They're part of the fucking world now.