[He's owed this.

By anyone's rationale, but especially by a vampire's, oh, Lestat surely owes him for this. Dumping his miserable paramour onto Armand, forcing him to either babysit or imprison him for the sake of the coven . . . and give Armand credit, for he has done his best. He is no caregiver, but he has tried, for it isn't as if he dislikes Nicki. He cannot say he is his biggest fan, no, but there is something wretchedly dark about him that appeals— and god knows Armand can sympathize with a newly turned vampire who loathes his maker.

But it is no mercy, imprisoning him instead of allowing him death. And still Armand does it.

He knows why. He knows very well why, and resents it as much as he cherishes it, his dead heart twisting miserably.

So: a bar.

So: the scent of humans all around, the thrumming notions of sex and hunger all around them.

So: Lestat across from him, and never mind the flare of anger that spikes across Armand's mind as he hears that inevitable question. How is he, and though he wants nothing more than to seethe, Armand lifts a single shoulder.]

As well as can be expected.

[A nothing answer.]

He has stopped performing. He has stopped answering any of us, except to alternate between grief and anger, and focuses only on his playing.

[And I took his hands, he does not think. I locked him away and stole his violin from him, and it was a cruel as it was kind.]

Did you expect differently?