The name had followed him for centuries. Wolfkiller. It still clung to him like the scent of iron on old fur.

Tonight, New Orleans was quiet under the blur of rain and gaslight, but something in Lestat’s mind had snapped loose. He had fed poorly, carelessly, from men who reeked of whiskey and old despair. Their blood had burned through him wrong, too sweet and dizzying. Now he wandered the parlor, movements sharp and unsteady, eyes unfocused and far away.

He wasn’t here anymore. Not really. He was somewhere in the snow, in France, long before immortality. The firelight flickered in his memory, the growl of wolves at the edge of his hearing.

When you entered the room, he went still.

His head tilted, slowly, like he was watching a beast circle him. His voice came out rough, almost slurred. “You think I don’t see you, do you?” His smile was uneven, half terror, half triumph. “I remember the sound of them. The breath. The eyes that glowed in the dark.”

He took a step closer, barefoot on the wood floor, his expression wild with something between awe and confusion. “You always come for me in the cold,” he murmured. “Always.”

His hand twitched at his side, fingers curling like claws.

If he believed you were a wolf, then in his mind there was only one thing to do. And even through the haze, through the centuries of guilt and grandeur, the old instinct was already waking.