Nice to have breakfast delivered. He could have done without the piss, but it's very convenient; he just has to figure out how to dispose of the fucking corpse, now, but he supposes that's a part of whatever Armand is doing. Teaching him to swim by dropping him head first into the deep end and observing from the high dive platform, miles away, big eyes.
Reckless. Right. Daniel thinks viciously, If you gave a shit about discretion you wouldn't have started any of this, to no one.
Which suggests, upon reflection, that Armand doesn't hate it as much as he says he does. Repulsed, repulses me. Little hitches, shifting under Daniel's boring, insignificant attention.
A response can't come right away. Even if he had a method, he'd wait. He has to think about it, and he has to time it appropriately; it's not Louis' business, it's not that any of the vampires circling him, and certainly not Lestat's, though his intermittent company has been educational. More directly educational than Armand's so far, even if he's got to pick at him and go at it sideways to get an answer which he then has to decode. They are alike, in that way. He'll tell neither. Too soon to get murdered.
Talamasca sends him numbers (too many vampires, not enough scuttling photographers to track them). He oversees a surreal, nervous, funny Zoom call in which DJ Sam catches them up on a few things. They go to Quito in Ecuador, the oldest city in the whole continent (San Francisco de Quito, the whole title, what a funny little thing that makes two of them exchange old looks and one of them fume for being out of the loop), and foil through blood and one intense sunlight therapy lamp a plot to punish Louis for his violation. Daniel gets his own room. A third wheel keeping his third eye out for the fourth. A grain of sand in the Sahara, this plot.
He makes his decision there, in the heat. He buys a plane ticket and sends somebody else on in his stead with badly forged papers, just a joke, heads elsewhere back north, and to Vancouver.
Like a fucking spy movie. He contemplates the bond in the meantime, and wonders what news of these aberrant activities has reached his maker.
no subject
Reckless. Right. Daniel thinks viciously, If you gave a shit about discretion you wouldn't have started any of this, to no one.
Which suggests, upon reflection, that Armand doesn't hate it as much as he says he does. Repulsed, repulses me. Little hitches, shifting under Daniel's boring, insignificant attention.
A response can't come right away. Even if he had a method, he'd wait. He has to think about it, and he has to time it appropriately; it's not Louis' business, it's not that any of the vampires circling him, and certainly not Lestat's, though his intermittent company has been educational. More directly educational than Armand's so far, even if he's got to pick at him and go at it sideways to get an answer which he then has to decode. They are alike, in that way. He'll tell neither. Too soon to get murdered.
Talamasca sends him numbers (too many vampires, not enough scuttling photographers to track them). He oversees a surreal, nervous, funny Zoom call in which DJ Sam catches them up on a few things. They go to Quito in Ecuador, the oldest city in the whole continent (San Francisco de Quito, the whole title, what a funny little thing that makes two of them exchange old looks and one of them fume for being out of the loop), and foil through blood and one intense sunlight therapy lamp a plot to punish Louis for his violation. Daniel gets his own room. A third wheel keeping his third eye out for the fourth. A grain of sand in the Sahara, this plot.
He makes his decision there, in the heat. He buys a plane ticket and sends somebody else on in his stead with badly forged papers, just a joke, heads elsewhere back north, and to Vancouver.
Like a fucking spy movie. He contemplates the bond in the meantime, and wonders what news of these aberrant activities has reached his maker.