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Summary
The rusty aroma of blood floods Armand's nostrils before his eyes fully process the scene before him, lighting up every nerve in his body with hunger. He feels his fangs ache in his gums, spurred on by the dizzying scent and the sight of blood pouring down Lestat's body, flowing along the muscular planes of his torso.
Armand pushes against the instinct to drop his fangs, and faintly regrets not having fed before visiting the tour bus. Lestat is making a show out of it, flexing like classical Greek sculpture and moaning indulgently at the taste.
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Or: Armand doesn't get very far in his apology letter.