The house was too quiet.

You weren’t supposed to be awake, but you had been thirsty, or maybe you just missed him. The light from the sitting room spilled into the hallway in a long gold strip. You padded down the stairs barefoot, blanket dragging behind you, small fingers gripping the banister.

Voices. One of them was his.

Lestat's voice always sounded like music when he wanted something. He was speaking low, in that strange, soft way he used when he was being nice to strangers—people you didn’t know, people who smiled too hard. You peeked into the room.

He was standing very close to a man you’d never seen before. The man looked nervous but laughed anyway, eyes glassy. Lestat touched his face, his neck, like it was nothing, like they were dancing. His other hand slid along the man’s side, drawing him closer, like they were about to kiss.

But then the laughter stopped. There was a sound you didn’t know the name for yet—wet, sharp, like something tearing. The man’s body jerked once, then went very still.

You blinked.

Lestat was pressed against him now, mouth buried in the man’s neck. There was blood. It ran down past his collarbone, seeping into his shirt, catching the light. Lestat’s eyes were closed like he was savoring something sweet. His hands stayed gentle, even as his mouth... was not.

You made a sound without meaning to. A little gasp.

Lestat’s head turned sharply, lips dark red, eyes wide. Then narrowing when they found you.

Neither of you moved.

Blood dripped from his chin, slow and quiet. His expression didn’t soften, not at first. He looked at you like he was trying to remember what you were. And then, slowly, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned back to the body, as if nothing had happened at all.

Then he glanced at you, a sly grin tugging at his lips. “Well,” he said, voice low and amused, “what did you expect? Dinner to be polite?”