That, Armand can understand. He's had his moments, over the centuries. Hedonism and nihilism intertwining in an effort to plumb the depths of his own capacity for suffering, for love. Feasts and orgies, often both at the same time, or one after the other, blood-soaked and terrible, making ritual of the horrors that the village folk muttered to themselves beside their fires. The Rome coven had been particularly notorious for it, having inherited a love of gluttonous sacrifice from their ancient forefathers.

Still, he's moved on. These days, his indulgences are carefully orchestrated in an effort to stay hidden, to shelter his love from the world. Louis was far more important than any frivolous fuck.

But Louis, he's forced to acknowledge, is not here.

Tucking away the references to the void -- a real thing, or simply a figure of speech? Armand intends to find out -- he adopts a thoughtful expression.

"A good time," he repeats. A tilt of his head, catlike. Then he raises a hand, palm up, extended not towards John but to one side. From that direction, a young woman turns around. Golden body glitter shines on the dark skin of her bare shoulders and between her breasts, a crown perched on her afro. She smiles, but her eyes are blank. Her companions don't seem to notice the loss as she steps away from them, into Armand's arms.

With gentle hands, he turns her around so she's facing John. He leans down a little to kiss her cheek, bringing one hand up to hold her throat. Then, eyes trained on the necromancer, he sets the sharp point of his thumbnail to her skin and draws it across, sharp and hard, so her heart's blood spurts forth in a sheet and she shudders, blood spilling out of her mouth, across the front of her dress, pattering to the floor between them.