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    Summary

    "He might die like this, being ridden, drained, loved to oblivion by Lestat. Pinned beside the wreckage of their demolished bed. He might not mind it so much. He imagines the others would, if only because his death would make it hard to get at least one decent 'I told you so' in there.

    The others. They’ll have to call them soon, order another bed. The others, who had looked at him with such caution and pity as he’d said he’d go up to Lestat’s room. The others, who’d each individually tried to talk him out of it, convince him that Lestat needed time and space, needed to be kept clear of. Akasha’s damaged war dog, half-crazed in her blood, not to be trusted. Something penned up for the good of all until time or hunger makes it tamable, to whatever meagre extent it ever could be. 

    Idiots, Louis thinks, using the neglected fingers of the hand clutched by Lestat to stroke along his chin. They don’t understand Lestat. They don’t know what he needs. They don’t know how to comfort him."

    *

    Five days post-Akasha, Lestat is struggling with the wicked appetites of the ancient blood and the unfortunate physiological effects it provokes. Luckily, Louis doesn't mind being put through a bed or four.

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