The girl in his arms becomes, abruptly, dead weight, literally and figuratively. Armand catches her automatically, holds her in one arm as if she's simply swooning, her head lolled back against his shoulder. Her heart stutters with a febrile beat, but he no longer cares about her -- his attention is all on John, that gently revolving orb of blood. Her friends, surrounding them, are a blank-eyed wall of privacy, their dancing stopped so they can stand in silence and guard against the intrusion of the servants.

"A deliberate gambit to see how you would react," Armand admits. He reaches up his free hand to draw it along the wound in her neck, pressing out a little more blood onto his fingertips, which he brings to his mouth. Not strictly for show this time; sustaining the mind gift to such a degree is a significant draw on his energy reserves, and the girl's blood is a sweet boost on his tongue.

"Thank you for enlightening me. What should I do with this?" He glances down at her, stroking the backs of his fingers along her jaw. "Do you have a preference?"