original of the species (edward)
For late afternoon, the City was remarkably bright.
Must have to do with the snow. The goddamn snow made Lestat think of France. And wolves. And things he did not want to be thinking about. It made his mood more volatile than normal. And instead of walking around happily in the fading daylight, this made the vampire cling more to the shadows, like characters in the penny dreadful horror novels he'd come to despise so much.
Behind purple glasses, violet eyes narrowed. The zombie fiasco had been fun to watch, but really, the City was wearing on Lestat. He wasn't sure he didn't like his sojourn in Hell better. He'd lost an eye, sure, but he'd come out swinging. And hadn't losing the eye meant all sorts of visits and attention from his kind? The ones he really cared about, at least.
Strings of thoughts filtered in and out of the vampire's mind as he walked down the street and into a music shop. It was darker in there; he could stop this hiding nonsense.
When thoughts of mountain lion's blood wafted toward him from the classical music section, Lestat smiled slowly, a large smile. A predatory smile.
The owner of those thoughts had bronze colored hair and seemed very intent on the music he was searching through. Lestat found him, arched a brow, and tilted his head, looking at the CDs in front of him with his hands behind his back.
"Do you play?" he asked, nodding with his chin toward the disc the lion-eater's hand rested on.