Armand strolls his way down the concrete slope a few feet, stopping there still at the top of it. A tall, willowy presence with his cat-bright eyes and chilly composure, the cuddly soft cardigan even more of a costume than it was before.

"I thought this was my test, not yours," he says. When has he ever felt the need to defend his own killings? He had toyed with Louis and his moralising, engaging in the kind of debate that he assumed Lestat had no patience for, and never felt the need to appear more human to the other vampire. Perhaps it's because Daniel is younger. Because it's because it's Daniel, the ever observant, ever opinionated, or because it's Daniel, who dismantled him, and now he is pieces of himself.

He has no pity in the dead meat now sinking into black waters. His fledgling his fed. For that, he feels satisfied.

"It's only blood." Food, like Claudia said.