The interruption to the usual tidal surge of blood in Armand's veins is noticeable. His lips part as he draws in a breath, surprised and fascinated at the feeling of warmth flowing into his skin, his slow-beating heart speeding up a little to compensate for the loss.

"Teacher," he breathes. "Maestro." So he'd named Marius, centuries ago. He holds John's hand in both of his, thumbs over his wrist. The same sharp and perfect thumbnail that had pierced the girl's throat tilts and presses into John's skin, over the beat of his pulse. Armand holds his gaze steadily.

"And if I spilled your blood, Maestro? Would you rescue yourself?"