Lamb was smiling just a little, the corners of her lips turning up as this new boy described her. "The chemicals are gone now," she assured him. "All washed away." She'd been in this body for almost seventy years, the morgue slab long behind her.
Lamb leaned across the table toward him, a tilt of her head, her eyes moving around his face. What was he? Not like her, no, not that, never that. Lamb never met any of her own kind anymore; they didn't like to leave their graveyards. They didn't want more than the corpses brought to them. They had no sense of adventure or desire for more. She'd been like that once, but no longer.
"The meat can't spoil while I live inside it," Lamb told him. "And no one is going to eat this body." She paused, considering that. "Unless it's me. I'll eat this when I move on."
As he sat back, Lamb remained leaning in. "You can call me Lamb, and I do anything I like here."
No, that was a lie. She'd like to kill a lot more of her co-workers, but she wasn't allowed. She didn't want to kill them for any reason or any great need, but it just seemed like it would be fun, maybe sometimes, for giggles.
"Ah," she paused, narrowing her eyes on him. "You mean work, my circus role, why they pay me." She sat back, leaning against her chair. "I work in the freakshow. I hang myself from meat hooks and watch the humans squirm. They love it even while they pretend they don't, can't look away, the little mouses. Where do you hang from, little hungry wolf?"