His name, his ghost, ever sits between them. Lestat. Armand has grown used to it over the years. Accepted it, though not happily. Driving Louis to madness seemed fitting for the spectre of the Brat Prince; Armand hadn't enjoyed playing the part of impotent witness to the haunting. Too often in those days he'd cast his mind into Louis' thoughts only to hear the soft burr of Lestat's voice, beloved and hated in equal measure, already there. His own grief and love and hatred had festered within him, driving him to irrational acts, driving him to --

He avoids Louis' gaze, for once, though he holds his hand tight, as if clinging to a lifeline. The old feelings claw at his insides, dangerously sharp.

To refocus, he concentrates on the pulse of the young man in the maze, letting the drumbeat of his mortal heart fill his senses, the tidal throb of his blood moving through his veins. The young man, who has committed no crime except being drunk and young and in the wrong place at the right time. Lestat, Armand recalls, enjoyed hunting such prey.

Armand stops walking, turning to look at Louis.

"You've seen him," he says, not meaning Daniel.