Lestat felt something close to sympathy for the dog, which was interesting, as he was largely too selfish to feel such a thing. But he did.
Maggie.
Lestat supposed that fit her. Perhaps not as well as it could have, but that had much to do with his vivid memories of Irish immigrants arriving in New Orleans, and how different those women named Maggie were compared to the one standing before him.
He laughed, and this time, there was music in it, the kind Louis always described. "Perfectly alright. I've got very cold hands," he said.
"My name is Lestat," he said.
Tonight his outfit wasn't over the top; he probably looked like little more than a twenty-something coffee house rat or dressed-down goth. Not being able to find Logan had taken some of the joy out of being him. There was no frock coat, no lace. No satin ribbon. There were black jeans, and boots, and a black leather jacket. He wore an olive green t-shirt under the jacket, one of those fancy ones made to look more distressed than it really was (such an inane concept to him, but Lestat loved fashion). His hair was tucked behind his ears, and he'd made no attempt to hide the color of his eyes.
There was a chance, depending on where and when Maggie was taken from, that she had no idea what he was. Lestat wasn't prying to see, but he did want to know why it was Maggie smelled the way she did. He sort of liked her. If she was sick, perhaps he could, at the very least, get her in to Hannibal at the hospital for some help.
Because that smell... it wasn't a good one, as smells went, to vampires. It was a little like death, if he really thought about it. Something about it was...