Lestat is standing, the cuffs of his trousers damp from the water and a sleeve now red with blood, staining white cloth, paler for blood loss—but much as he was during the trial, strong and poised and deliberate as he gazes down at Louis. Not cold, here. None of the sharp accusation he'd projected, when the script had demanded it of him.
The question, then, takes him off-guard. His hands form fists at his sides.
"You need blood," finally, tone flat, but lacking in edge. "And a coffin, when the dawn comes."
He would like to shatter into a million pieces. Fall to his knees in front of Louis, grasp him, explain everything, a tempting outpouring of hysterics, as if he believed Louis would hear it, would want it, would need it. Lestat would like it, at least, and he doesn't. Because Claudia is dead.
"Come with me. Hunt, sleep. See what revenge looks like then."
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The question, then, takes him off-guard. His hands form fists at his sides.
"You need blood," finally, tone flat, but lacking in edge. "And a coffin, when the dawn comes."
He would like to shatter into a million pieces. Fall to his knees in front of Louis, grasp him, explain everything, a tempting outpouring of hysterics, as if he believed Louis would hear it, would want it, would need it. Lestat would like it, at least, and he doesn't. Because Claudia is dead.
"Come with me. Hunt, sleep. See what revenge looks like then."