Closer than most, Lestat might say, but he does not actually put so much stock in pedigree, despite his own occasional bragging point, dredged up from the muck. Daniel will either grow into the kind of power that Armand's blood will work on him, in time, or he won't and perhaps he will suffer instead, and so, it doesn't matter. The vampire population has doubled in the last decade, he thinks. It's become all the rage.

"Oui," Lestat says, and they set the car to rolling beneath their hands again. The water, lapping around their ankles. "Glamourous, isn't it."

All this. Alleyway murders, body disposal. For every long night with blood collected in crystalware while he unraveled the egos of his victims like a ball of yarn while dressed in white tie, there were a dozen or more messy scuffles, quick murders in the shadows, bodies dragged across the flagstone.

"There are double the amount of young ones than there were some years ago. It is harder than it ever has been to hide a murder," counter to Armand's claims, unknowingly, "and now this book. It's an exciting time. You haven't asked me what I thought of it."

You know, as a reminder. Maybe Molloy was getting around to it.