"Yes."

The word comes out—barely. A sound, a hiss, quiet in his throat.

Standing, and his hands out, and his arms out, like they could embrace if Louis allowed it, if he stumbled from his coffin and if Lestat could catch him.

But there is no romance to this, not in Lestat's expression, where wonderous relief has given away to (a dark flicker) a tense wariness, a focus. The knowledge that there is simply no room or space to feel the thing he can see in Louis' face, hear in his voice. Beholding a burning corridor, wondering if there is a least painful way through.

"Louis, you have to come with me now," voice thick. "Quietly, away from here."