[ Lestat's hands find Louis' wrists, cold palms against his flesh-- and he barely conceals a shudder to feel his skin is warm for the first time in years. Louis' still bared fangs are glossy with blood so much that it snags Lestat's attention, but not as much as the knife lodged in him, so close to his heart. It isn't lethal if it hasn't punctured the muscle, but he can't start to heal until it's removed, and so comes the complicated task of pulling Louis to his feet enough to guide him away from the body slumped on the floor between them. The drop of its head has turned the face toward him, and only in his periphery can Lestat see the wide eyes and handsome face of someone he recognises. Oh, hell, what a mess all this has turned out to be.

With impressive restraint, Lestat keeps his expression unyielding, his eyes fixed on Louis', changed as they are into something more like a deep pool of ink than a shining faceted emerald. Once Louis is standing properly, Lestat starts to drag him away, away from the creeping smell of death and away from the pool of vampire blood staining the cheap carpet of the hallway. Lestat's mouth prickles, his fangs feeling sharp against his lips as he speaks again: ]

Not like this, my heart. It shouldn't be like this.

[ He takes a few steps backwards, knowing full well he can't drag him to the party like this, up the stairs like this, in case the sight of another human drives him wild, or someone else sees the opportunity to take advantage of the wound or his mindlessness before they can reach that safety... Instead he sees that doorway to the undecorated room again, and though he'd rather not go back into a room that had just kept him a momentary prisoner, he doesn't see much other choice. He leads Louis inside by his arms, over to the dreary bed with its beige comforter, and forces him to sit. He looks at the handle of the blade in his chest, sticking out at that gruesome angle. ]

Come back to me, Louis. You'll want to have your wits about you when this comes out.