Lestat's quick retort should startle him to his senses, but it only reminds Louis how much more uphill he has to climb than Lestat every damn night. Lestat the indomitable, the survivor. Mercurial as always: absent gun, Lestat seems more himself, or maybe it's just that he had no need of a hunting rifle in New Orleans.

Louis closes the door and leans against it with his arms crossed and a morose expression on his face. The office is hardly private, anyone could come in, but it'll do.

"Let's say, hypothetically,” he continues in French, “this thing can kill vampires. We can't allow anyone to open us up. They do advanced things with examinations now in this century," he explains. "They can take our blood and discover its properties."

He pushes off the door with his shoulders and wanders over to Lestat. The presence of the bodies no longer darkens the air, but he can’t shake feeling unsettled. He tells himself he doesn't want closeness, but here he is leaning against the desk very close anyway, head turned to the side towards Lestat.

"I've already mentioned to one person I'd prefer to be cremated. It's morbid, but it's necessary."