Upriver from real civilization, San Francisco Bay and Oakland, is the stuffy and headache inducing state capital— Sacramento is closer to Modesto than any other major city, though, and Daniel knows it well, including which downtown haunts cater to more than just suits. Not much in the way of identity politics; class issues, mostly. Hundreds of thousands of would-be politicians and lawyers and conservatives pretending to be open minded.
There is someone in the bathroom. There is someone sitting next to him on the bed, touching his back. Outside is the city with its half-dozen squat little excuses for skyscrapers, the Americn River, his wife packing boxes for the move to Los Angeles, and...
It's easy, the way he shifts from the past to now. "Now", at least, in big wobbly quotations. Daniel is not one hundred percent sure when or why now is, and for a moment he is outside of himself, and Armand - even as he is imparting his first and last true telepathic messages - will have that same view, the two of them on a motel bed, wrist to mouth, hand to back. As though they are also standing a yard away, watching themselves.
Standing there and watching themselves, Daniel turns to Armand (also standing there, watching themselves).
You don't think your maker saw a spark in you, do you. Because you asked for it.
Armand's blood is more euphoric than any drug. It is more filling than any food. Daniel hears Slowly like the chime of a hypnotist's bell, but he can't quite figure out what to do about it.
Throw-away comments about chatter happening around a scene, as Daniel picked at it to get the timeline straight before waxing poetic about the points on it. Madeleine, bright-eyed, young, not of Armand like her lover wanted, but of Louis; and through him, of Lestat, and the bloodline Armand had detailed out like a Biblical heritage. He had bigger fish to fry and couldn't waste time on pushing about why she felt compelled to clarify that Louis does, in fact, love Armand. Why it made it into the retelling.
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There is someone in the bathroom. There is someone sitting next to him on the bed, touching his back. Outside is the city with its half-dozen squat little excuses for skyscrapers, the Americn River, his wife packing boxes for the move to Los Angeles, and...
It's easy, the way he shifts from the past to now. "Now", at least, in big wobbly quotations. Daniel is not one hundred percent sure when or why now is, and for a moment he is outside of himself, and Armand - even as he is imparting his first and last true telepathic messages - will have that same view, the two of them on a motel bed, wrist to mouth, hand to back. As though they are also standing a yard away, watching themselves.
Standing there and watching themselves, Daniel turns to Armand (also standing there, watching themselves).
You don't think your maker saw a spark in you, do you. Because you asked for it.
Armand's blood is more euphoric than any drug. It is more filling than any food. Daniel hears Slowly like the chime of a hypnotist's bell, but he can't quite figure out what to do about it.
Throw-away comments about chatter happening around a scene, as Daniel picked at it to get the timeline straight before waxing poetic about the points on it. Madeleine, bright-eyed, young, not of Armand like her lover wanted, but of Louis; and through him, of Lestat, and the bloodline Armand had detailed out like a Biblical heritage. He had bigger fish to fry and couldn't waste time on pushing about why she felt compelled to clarify that Louis does, in fact, love Armand. Why it made it into the retelling.