Drums keep pounding a rhythm to the brain Who: Persephone and **ooooooopen** Where: Anywhere But Here When: 11:00 p.m. or so Warning: Well, you know, demon being demon-y
Persephone still couldn't believe that of all the places she'd settled in to work on her next CD, it'd been the place that her own bloodline had set up shop. Okay, actually she could because it'd seemed like an interesting place and it only made sense that people who came from her somewhere down the line had halfway decent taste. She still couldn't believe that Delta was a paramedic - she'd been better as a stripper if you asked her, she had the body for it - or that Bianca was going to school for... no, she hadn't really paid attention to that part. If it was something halfway decent or actually useful to the world then she didn't give a damn. Shouldn't a necromancer be more interested in doing something that dealt with death? Whenever she'd checked in on that particular one she'd either been violently ill outside the church while her adoptive parents wrung their hands over her or hanging in the graveyard. That was not the making of a respectful citizen of the United States of America. Which was good! Persephone didn't think that anyone who had her blood should be doing good things. After all, she was a demon and they all turned out necromancers. Didn't spell a pretty picture for anyone who played.
She half-wondered what her littles (she didn't care that they were actually full-grown, even though she'd drank with them when she first got into town her mental images still painted them as children with black eyes) were getting themselves up to and if they'd been at the march. Persephone highly doubted it since they didn't seem the activist sort and that was good, she didn't want them to be dead. Not for any sentimental reasons, mind, but just because she hadn't ever gotten to play with adult mortals that wouldn't exist if not for her. It might be fun somewhere down the road if she could catch them raising half the graveyard or making the local vampire population dance the Thriller.
I should've gone to Heme if I wanted to see that. Instead she'd chosen this hole in the wall that seemed to have its fair share of regulars who wanted to do nothing more than nurse their beers while talking to each other about their average days. Or who was missing. Persephone half-listened as she walked in and up to the bar, flashing her ID before ordering a dry martini. Come on now, Persephone thought as she tapped her perfectly manicured nails on the could-be-cleaner counter. Which one of you saps is going to be my own personal entertainment tonight? Someone needed to tick off that little spot in the back of her head that just screamed 'I use this!' or 'I'm an addict!' Her favorite would always be the ones who looked perfectly healthy but were really twitching away inside because they hadn't gotten their fix or couldn't find their dealer or worse, they were trying to drag themselves through rehab. But Persephone said 'give me your recovering alcholics... they're more fun to tip off the wagon'. If she'd kept track of how many she pulled down off that wagon then it'd have taken up a textbook. She loved her work.
"Any day now, babe," the demon drawled at the bartender, arching her eyebrow. She was only being so pleasant because her mood hadn't been ruined yet. This music might do it though. What had ever happened to the good stuff? "Not getting any drunker with you taking your sweet time." And if they spit in her drink? She'd use those nails she'd been admiring a minute ago on those pretty little eyes. Bodies could still be added to the shrinking pile in Ann Arbor.