One hand turns, like the instinct is to go to Louis again, help him to his feet. Lestat can imagine doing so, and can imagine being shoved away. A stumble turns into something worse. Turns into Louis realising he can simply leave, turns into Louis leaving him.
And—voices. Foot steps.
Walking the river's edge, the smell of alcohol almost as vibrant as the clap of the woman's drunken laughter. She is wobbling on the arm of the man she is with, and he is moving them with intent. Lestat does not seem surprised, does not even look, as if maybe this manhole had more to do with the sound of easy prey up above than the nearest location of whatever he's managed to procure himself.
Louis is as Lestat has never seen him, not really. Pieces of it. Fury, bloodlust, hatred. But a proper hunt between them, they'd never quite managed. Always Lestat's hunts, and Louis in attendance. Always Louis' fumbles, and Lestat looking aside.
Now, he says, "Go on," and, "I'll keep watch," and expects Louis to do as a vampire should.
no subject
And—voices. Foot steps.
Walking the river's edge, the smell of alcohol almost as vibrant as the clap of the woman's drunken laughter. She is wobbling on the arm of the man she is with, and he is moving them with intent. Lestat does not seem surprised, does not even look, as if maybe this manhole had more to do with the sound of easy prey up above than the nearest location of whatever he's managed to procure himself.
Louis is as Lestat has never seen him, not really. Pieces of it. Fury, bloodlust, hatred. But a proper hunt between them, they'd never quite managed. Always Lestat's hunts, and Louis in attendance. Always Louis' fumbles, and Lestat looking aside.
Now, he says, "Go on," and, "I'll keep watch," and expects Louis to do as a vampire should.