Like words echoed down a long well, Daniel's call. Assurance, warning. He should tell Daniel he is alright, he doesn't need help, he doesn't need anyone to come for him, but cannot manage to string the thought together. Maybe because he is not alright, and would like help, and desperately wants someone to come for him. How many days, nights, did he spent after the masquerade wishing just that? Months and years, after a while.

What can Lestat say? Don't come here, he doesn't deserve it? The imagining almost breaks a laugh through the shuddered breathing, palms of his hands pressed over his eyes.

An indistinct hovel, this one. Flaking blue paint and rust. The scent of unpleasant amalgamated trash and then, that thing all vampires can detect, blood. And something else in the air, a kind of emanating sense of psychic fuck off that's been veering humans away all day, but can be likely brushed aside by sturdier creatures, easy as cobwebs.