Beautiful boy. Armand watches his face for a few moments, the ways the colored lights of the club flow over the angles of his cheeks, catching in those lambent vampire eyes. It reminds him of their first real meeting, candleflame glow sliding over that golden hair, the first time he tasted the sweet bitterness of his blood. Vermouth and annihilation was how he'd described it to Daniel; he hadn't needed to point out that the annihilation was his own, the destructive price of kneeling before Lestat's altar.

Wrong as always, he murmurs, sliding into Lestat's mind, speaking in French, their first shared language.

Indulgently, wonderingly, he lifts a hand and brushes the backs of his fingers lightly over Lestat's cheek. So young, with so many secrets behind his eyes. And the way he always reminds him of Marius, just a little. Just enough to make Armand's heart ache.

You have always been able to tempt me, Lestat, he says. Drifts his fingertips to touch Lestat's mouth, lightly. With the very least provocation.