The hunger isn't gone, only momentarily abated, a slavering thing in Louis' hind brain with all too much influence. It scents the blood in the air, the torn mess of Lesat's forearm. It's fed by Louis' rage, fed by Louis' grief. It demands more. (Do they sleep upstairs? Santiago, Armand. The coven. Did Lestat have a coffin there among them?)
One thing at a time, Lestat had cautioned. There are stones in the folds of his clothing, closed into his flesh at the heels. Louis' chin and throat are slick with blood. His eyes are dark when he finally looks fully at Lestat. Swaying on his feet in a casket full of stones, heartbeat accelerating, chest heaving deep, unsteady breaths.
"Help me," is a furious, bewildered rasp. "Help me?"
Claudia is dead.
Louis hand closes in on itself, a feeble preservation of that last moment, of Claudia's hand in his own before he'd been ripped from his seat.
no subject
One thing at a time, Lestat had cautioned. There are stones in the folds of his clothing, closed into his flesh at the heels. Louis' chin and throat are slick with blood. His eyes are dark when he finally looks fully at Lestat. Swaying on his feet in a casket full of stones, heartbeat accelerating, chest heaving deep, unsteady breaths.
"Help me," is a furious, bewildered rasp. "Help me?"
Claudia is dead.
Louis hand closes in on itself, a feeble preservation of that last moment, of Claudia's hand in his own before he'd been ripped from his seat.