Later, maybe Louis will hate him for this too, even as he recognizes the reprieve couched in the temptation laid out before him. The man's intention. The woman, unsteady on her feet but more than capable of fleeing the thing Louis becomes in this moment. Straightening. Scenting them on the air. Hearing the pulse of blood.

And for a moment, thinks of Claudia. Not her absence. Not her death. Thinks of her, aglow with the joy of her kills, French spilling out of her mouth.

I never want to hunt alone again.

The sound Louis makes then, halfway between a snarl and a sob, startles the man. The woman's laugh goes high, a shrill cackle at what sounds nonsensical to her. What must look nonsensical, in the shadows. Is not identifiable, until it is too late. Louis is older than he had been in New Orleans, faster now than he was then.

This man is already dead. He is already dead when he begins to shout. He is already dead when the woman begins to scream, when Louis flings her away from her companion without looking to see where she lands or if he has left her only to Lestat's mercies. He hasn't chosen her.

Louis tears this man's throat out. Blood spills down his chin, down his chest. The scream turns to a wet gurgle. It is not enough. It will not be enough. His hunger and his anger are one thing. They are a wildfire. This man is only kindling. Louis hears bone snap as he slams the body against the bridge rail, and abruptly the struggling ceases.

He drinks.

The world around him quiets, for a moment.

(Claudia. Claudia is dead.)