A literal glow is not an ability Lestat possesses, despite occasions where he's been compared to that first illustrious rebel of the dawn himself, the great and terrible Morningstar. He manages to approximate one by sheer force of pleasure as he beams up at Rorschach as if he's been given a gift of incomparable value.

"I am only wicked to those who deserve it," he tells him, and he means this as truthfully as he means his current goodwill for the strange and violent man perched above him. It's only that his measure of what is deserved is, no doubt, not the same measure Rorschach takes of the world and the wretched sinners in it.

He shouldn't be intrigued by the man's promise of violence against him, but have not all of those he's taken into his closest confidence visited harm upon him? There's an intimacy to hatred, to wrath, that hews close to the brighter passions of the soul.

Lestat very carefully does not imagine what Rorschach's mouth might look like, or if his teeth have the jagged set of a dog himself when his lips pull back in a snarl. They're coming along well. No need to upset that particular apple cart before its time.

"I'll strive not to transgress," he thinks, instead, "May I join you?"