For Demi, bars were like buffet meals. Never short of the sad, lonely, and desperate, nearly every hunting trip she made to a bar came away with a bargain for her - and the sadder, lonelier, or more desperate her target, the easier it was and the less they bargained for as if desperate to get any tiny thing they could get their hands on. The more they drank, the easier it was, and Demi had no compunctions against sliding a few drinks down towards the more downtrodden-looking of the group to soften them up before she approached to make the deal. She'd been dealing in bars for decades; the atmosphere, low lighting, booths designed for privacy - it was all ideal for illicit dealings.
Of course, the down side to bars was that she didn't look physically old enough to get in. It never failed to amuse her that not only did she need fake ID to pass as actual ID, but she needed a doubly-fake ID to be able to get into a bar, despite the fact that she was older than probably everyone in the room. But few challenged the ID, at least, and this bar was about as easy as they came to get into. Demi had seated herself at the bar, ordering one of their best scotches, and was sipping slowly as she scoped out possible targets. After a day trying to get favors from hysterical parents at the school, she'd wanted a change of pace. Less acute tragedy, more ironic tragedy. Or just sad drunk people.
She was just reaching the bottom of her glass when a fresh one appeared; she usually had to request refills from bartenders these days, so it was something of a surprise to have her desire beat her request. Until a familiar face approached. Demi gave him a delighted smile, reaching for her new drink to clink lightly against his. "Lazarus, darling," she greeted. "What in Hell's name are you doing here?"