“It’s me, and your door’s locked,” he reminds her, “as it should be. I taught you well.” They taught her well, and what a murderous trio they made, walking glittering down the streets of New Orleans. Apex predators with a few very specific weaknesses.

“The air hurts. I can’t get in, my strength is gone. And I don’t want to break your lock anyway.” He coughs like an influenza patient. “I’m sorry, Claudia, I’m so sorry…”

It works just as well as a calling card. Only Louis de Pointe du Lac could sound so miserable. He ought to be. He refused to burn Lestat. Somehow, Lestat returned, or this world plucked him from the jaws of death. Even now Louis dallies with him, wishes no harm except petty inconveniences and what he might visit upon him in impotent anger, ever unwilling to finish what Claudia started.