Louis

He is, as Lestat observed with some exasperation, a library of confusion. Dark vetiver, a good suit, bitter coffee, and something burning at its edges, the acrid note of a man seething quietly at every injustice he has swallowed, stalks through the night-blooming osmanthus of New Orleans, smoke wafting from from the Fair Play Saloon, a splash of bay rum, and the heady sweetness of magnolia. Beneath it all is scorched sandalwood, dry patchouli, and the unmistakable hot, spiced sweetness of blood. I hate the sunrise and the reminders it brings. Notes: Dark vetiver, bitter coffee, bay rum, osmanthus, magnolia, scorched sandalwood, dry patchouli, blood