‘Your red-haired friend must be boring you,’ he says. It’s nonchalant the way he
mentions it, as if watching another man so closely is quite the normal thing to
do. The other young man is French, too, Lestat had heard that much.
Everything about this Howard fellow just oozes corruptness. And he’s just
Lestat’s type, just the type to sink his teeth into. Ha, ha.
‘And it’s all right is it? Going to boldly to your vices? London has changed over
the years, then, hasn’t it? I had heard of respectability in this city,’ he says, a lilt
in his voice. It’s not true, not one bit. London and the rest of the world are just
as bad as each other, there is no such thing as respectability anymore. He
continues to follow the other man, though, slowing down his gait to keep step
with the little man. And he is very little. Lestat ought to be used to the short
people by now, but it still amuses him.
Their footsteps echo in the street, where voices echo around them, hidden
away in the recesses of the labyrinthine city, hidden away for Howard (he
supposes that the man thinks) to find and ravage, when instead, truly, it is not
for him at all. This city breathes for Lestat’s kind, it yearn for him each time he
leaves and celebrates his return by putting men like Howard in his path. How
blessed he is this dear city cares for him so.
‘I know something more interesting than where you’re going, I’ll bet you.’
His tone is teasing, his tone is challenging, waiting for Howard Narcisse to take
the bait. His name, of course, Lestat already knows, it’s not difficult to pry into
the man’s mind, he’s an open book. He’s easy. “Artist”, wife, large house,
dilapidated, cocaine, pills, alcohol, he’s thinking of it all, in some respect.
turnnoffyourmind
jacobvanloon
dededos
andulkaphoto
theartofmadeline
