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Summary
Lestat lifts a hand slowly and lets his fingers brush against the side of Louis’ neck. The skin there is warm and alive, the pulse beneath it strong.
“Perhaps you are my god,” he whispers. “My salvation. I have not believed in a god for years, yet your existence almost convinces me one must exist. Or perhaps we have it wrong entirely—perhaps god is not some distant force in heaven, but an eighteen-year-old boy in New Orleans, with brown skin and honey colored eyes.”
Louis has waited three years to be bitten and become Lestat’s. Lestat has waited centuries.