There is some distant awareness of a pulse suddenly stopping, of the splash that follows. That he is starving still. That he can still taste Lestat in the back of his throat, even as blood flows forth from the mangled man pinned up against the side of the bridge.
Not so much flow as sluggish spurts, but there is still the promise of more.
And then after, what next? Another, and another after.
More, until he is no longer weak. Until he is no longer a fool. (More, and more, because the world is quiet while he is so occupied, because the oppressive reality of Claudia's death is no longer crushing him beneath its truth.)
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There is some distant awareness of a pulse suddenly stopping, of the splash that follows. That he is starving still. That he can still taste Lestat in the back of his throat, even as blood flows forth from the mangled man pinned up against the side of the bridge.
Not so much flow as sluggish spurts, but there is still the promise of more.
And then after, what next? Another, and another after.
More, until he is no longer weak. Until he is no longer a fool. (More, and more, because the world is quiet while he is so occupied, because the oppressive reality of Claudia's death is no longer crushing him beneath its truth.)