The Vampire Armand (The Vampire Chronicles, #6)

by Anne Rice

Vampires slobber blood only in motion pictures. Even the most mundane immortal is far too skilled to spill a drop.

It was The Vampire Lestat. It wasn’t his fault.

There was no need to wound him further, to shift from him the limelight of his own tale, which Lestat, being the bright star, must always have.

It would be regular Lestat talk, for nobody aggrandizes as he does his preposterous adventures.

But it’s the way he describes things that happen to him that maddens me, the way that he connects one incident to another as though all these random and grisly occurrences were in fact links in some significant chain. They are not. They are capers. And he knows it. But he must make a gutter theatrical out of stubbing his toe.

Angel, I’ll give you cigarettes. Angel, I have plenty of good cigarettes. Come back. Angel, that’s just a joke. I know you can get your own cigarettes. But this is really vexing, you leaving this dead body, Angel.

You loved them perhaps more respectfully than I … than I ever loved you.”