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The cage comes with an honor guard of corpses, one on either side, blood crusted dark red. The dead vampire on the right has a viciously torn throat, head clinging on by a thread—Lestat’s doing, quite obviously. The one in the right has the smaller, more precise marks that suggest Armand’s discreet work.
Louis scoops up the cage carefully, feeling the wire frame under its cloth covering. He squints over the balcony, but there’s no sign of either Lestat or Armand, Dubai’s electric surface singing and pulsing as if nothing has changed.
He carries the cage back inside, setting it gingerly on the dinner table. The contents coo sleepily when he tugs the cloth away, mirrored sets of black eyes blinking in the low light.
Two doves, clearly selected for their plumpness as much as their pure white feathers. Still sleepily from the cage, they do not seem perturbed when he reaches in to stroke their fur, or when he lifts one out to lift it into the air.
Blood bursts sweetly across his tongue, bringing with it memories of flight, blue skies, puffy clouds. Then the memory of something else, a blurry human face seared into the bird’s short memory, distorted words that it didn’t understand, but Louis does all too well.
”Come…Milan…” Armand offers, amber eyes bright with concentration, his fingers just visible as they keep the dove’s head still. “Lestat…I…amusing. Pretty athletes to…your appetite, Maitre.”
The memory in the blood of the other dove is clearer; Lestat always had a way with the woodland creatures. He looks haggard, but his eyes are bright with a familiar merriment.
”Miss…mon cher,” he says. ”We could…slopes at night…lovely. The gremlin and I…to the bottom…time us. Winner gets…kiss?”
Louis lowers the dove from his mouth and tucks it back into the cage with its motionless companion. He sits and studies the two dead birds, letting the taste of blood linger pleasantly on his tongue.
How clever they are, his Armand and his Lestat; how desperate to appeal with novelty. He traces his fingers along the bars of the cage, permitting himself a fond smile.
Then he picks it up and carries it outside, tossing it over the balcony, watching it vanish in a puff of glittering dust far below. Perhaps next time, they’ll be smart enough not to send birds.