The sight of the carnage all around them and suddenly Lestat feels like he’s going to be violently ill. There’s no telling how many humans he’s killed throughout the centuries, especially during those first few years in the Blood, when he was constantly ravenous and feeding on upwards of three, four people a night; often entire families. He never spared a thought to the morality of it, viewing the hunt and the kill no differently than he regarded the same with game animals when he was still a mortal in the Middle of Nowhere, France.
For many of the roughly seventy years Lestat spent in the vampire equivalent of domestic bliss with the closest three vampires can get to being husbands and daughter, Louis considered Lestat a monster, but even then every kill was for food.
This isn’t that. As he takes in the mangled, mutilated corpses dotting the night darkened beach, it’s abundantly clear this isn’t that. No, this is senseless murder carried out for no other reason than he was told to do it. A massacre of defenseless mortals who only made the mistake of wrong place, wrong time.
But what’s disturbing is Lestat enjoyed every second of it, adrenaline still slicing through his veins. A shaky breath as he pushes his hands through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of emotions, unable to keep looking at what they’ve just done, definitely unable to look at Akasha. He can only imagine how weak he must seem, and there’s a rush of shame and disgust that that’s what he’s worried about.
Finally, Lestat manages to speak, “This is wrong.”
