He returns to 1132 Rue Royale alongside Claudia, satisfied with the small massacre they achieved together. They take the backstreets, him with two bodies beneath his arms, her with a bundle of her own held at her hip, limp feet dragging behind. There is no conversation shared, and in the courtyard, the bodies dropped on the flagstone, Lestat considers the empty building. Louis has gone. Gone on some melancholy walk, no doubt.
He instructs Claudia to dispose of the bodies, and after changing his blood-spattered clothes, leaves, harbouring dim awareness that she will do it as fuel for her resentment, and Lestat happy to indulge it.
Back out into the evening, and Lestat considers tracking down Louis. Considers it, even as he walks the familiar path to Algiers, crossing the river. Pays attention to his surroundings. If he sees Louis, pacing the river or posted on the bridge, he will of course go to him, and see if there is an evening to be made together.
And if he does not, well. He has one constant he can rely on.
Smokes a cigarette as he goes. Recalls the bottle of bourbon on Antoinette's nightstand. She will sink her (gloved) fingers into his hair and whisper I love you, I love you, I love you into his ear, as she knows he likes it very much. He makes it all the way to her front door before he gets the sense that something is wrong. Fresh death, blood. Lestat touches the door handle, turns it. No locks stop him from swinging the door open.
Fresh death, blood, and Louis. The shock of it sets him outside of himself, voice catching in his throat. Then, heavier footsteps, moving through the house to find—Antoinette, Louis, whoever he finds first, and the front door slamming closed behind him.
no subject
He instructs Claudia to dispose of the bodies, and after changing his blood-spattered clothes, leaves, harbouring dim awareness that she will do it as fuel for her resentment, and Lestat happy to indulge it.
Back out into the evening, and Lestat considers tracking down Louis. Considers it, even as he walks the familiar path to Algiers, crossing the river. Pays attention to his surroundings. If he sees Louis, pacing the river or posted on the bridge, he will of course go to him, and see if there is an evening to be made together.
And if he does not, well. He has one constant he can rely on.
Smokes a cigarette as he goes. Recalls the bottle of bourbon on Antoinette's nightstand. She will sink her (gloved) fingers into his hair and whisper I love you, I love you, I love you into his ear, as she knows he likes it very much. He makes it all the way to her front door before he gets the sense that something is wrong. Fresh death, blood. Lestat touches the door handle, turns it. No locks stop him from swinging the door open.
Fresh death, blood, and Louis. The shock of it sets him outside of himself, voice catching in his throat. Then, heavier footsteps, moving through the house to find—Antoinette, Louis, whoever he finds first, and the front door slamming closed behind him.