Lestat wonders if it might be some sort of curse, that young women of a certain age and confidence seem doomed to recall to him an unholy terror. Ruby, charming and amenable, is nothing like the hellion in question.

But perhaps, once upon a time, before it soured and curdled, there was a streak of this same fearless assurance of her own terrifying might.

"They are certainly more...visceral," he agrees, tipping his head in acknowledgement. "If I were a monster, I'd shudder to think you had caught my scent, one way or another."