He liked where he was, under the pale yellow glow of a closed flower shop. Why anybody in their right mind would want to open their business in a mangy location downtown, across the road from a Goth’s wet dream, he didn’t know. What he did know was that the location could be useful for him, what, with all the women coming in and out of the building across the street, it was only a matter of time before he found one who caught his eye. Damien gave into carnal pleasure; he knew as much from when he had told him about Logan and Sylvia. An offering in the form of a young, supple woman would be sure to please his new Lord. Someday soon, he’d place his hand over one’s mouth and drag her back to the hotel, give her to Damien and see what sort of reaction he would get from something like that.
Until them he was with Rachel, twisting the truth so that it fit his needs. “A sculptor,” he said, listening to the backdrop of the disordered, unstable sounds that came from the music. “It’s annoying that we can’t take most of our things with us when we’re brought here. I had an admirable piece back home.” And it had been splendid. It had taken months for him to seek out those women, all unique and lovelier when dead than when they were alive. “What is it that you?” It was always polite to ask.