He had meant death. He had meant madness. He had meant the kind of hatred that would separate them forever, a sure intention of the script he had played to, as if Armand wouldn't be satisfied by Louis merely dying, but to solidify his hatred first as well. Lestat had meant these things as sincerely and wholly as he had meant their physical proximity to each other, if not more so, although only in theory could he stand the idea of them parting ways.

And Lestat studies his face with the intent of trying to decide if this deal between them is true.

These words are assuring for their sobriety alone. His grasp of Louis doesn't loosen immediately, as if not truly trusting that he won't immediately fly back to the coven, wrathful, suicidal. But he does let him go, and when Louis doesn't leave, he nods. Yes, they have to go.

The dead man is slid into the river, and they leave. Louis is covered in blood, and they move through dark sidestreets, avoiding the late night crowds and the lamps. It isn't far to go, at least, wherever Lestat is leading them.

They kill again, whatever poor soul wanders into the same dark alleyway. Louis can slake his hunger, Lestat keeps watch, again refusing to share in it, and they move on, easy as shadows.

They arrive at a small apartment in a poorer neighbourhood. The smell of old blood lingers in the air, but not decay, prior occupants long since taken care of, disappeared. A cellar and a coffin, a cheap affair of plain wood, and gathered comforts from the apartment upstairs to line it. Only one, of course. Whatever Lestat had planned for, in Louis' rescue, it didn't appear to involve the scenario in which they both arrive back in his hideout.

"You can have it," he says. "I'll guard you."