"She was gone," and on his feet, a too-smooth flowing of movement by the time the crack of his voice is loud enough to strike the walls around them, "and I was there."

A not unfamiliar burst of tearful rage. A corpse on the ground, ignored. The smell of spilled blood, fresh death, ignored. Louis' words, catching back up, and Lestat's smile is more grimace than anything else as he flips a hand at him.

"And you held it against me. Over and over, you said this."