Many nights and many days, in the founding of the Théâtre des Vampires. Hedonistic and wild after the strictures of his coven's previous life, Armand had thrown himself willingly into it all. Had, he knows now, lost himself in it, and been paid in kind. But there's a part of him that doesn't regret it, that will always be that desperate child, that heartbroken lover, wanting only to reach out and find a willing hand clasping his own.

They're alone in the Library, for now. Even if they weren't, Armand wouldn't care. His world, for the moment, is narrowed down to Lestat, and the shape his mouth makes when he smiles.

I would let you do it all again, he says, into their telepathic connection this time, whispered words for nobody but the vampire in front of him. He reaches up a hand to touch his fingertips to Lestat's cheek, gently at first, then more firmly, crooking his fingers so the sharp points of his nails dig into his flesh.