"Very little in this place is the real thing. It might look like it, but it isn't. This..." He shook his head. "Doesn't even look like it might be real."
Dexter eyed the thing laying on the table. "Only the people themselves are real." And sometimes he wondered at that. There were some people here that just felt ... surreal.
But he'd learned to accept them either way. Innocent until proven guilty. Or something.
It squirmed nicely, hating every little pain inflicted on it. Crying out as the arrows entered it's body. Clearly disturbed at seeing it's own innards. Things still weren't as good as they would have been if it had been human, but he couldn't really pass up the chance to kill something mythical, even if it was a fake. On top of that, to kill something directly belonging to this place, well, that was just special.
She didn't seem to want it dead just yet, and neither did he. He was loving the torture element of this. He didn't generally torture any of his victims, but he longed for more blood. He and the Passenger both.
Idly, he held the hand closest to him, using his knife to peel away the skin of the palm. Blood flowed out of the wound over his skin. It was hot. The way that blood should be. Sticky, the way that only blood could be. The smell of it entered his nose. He hated it. He loved it.
Dexter glanced at her, studying her. He had loved her, like he'd never loved anything. Now when he looked at her, he felt nothing like that. He didn't even really feel the loss of it. But the memory of it lingered.
"I've never loved anyone until you." It sounded cliche, he knew, but it was the truth. "It was strange. Strange to feel, and strange to feel that of all the emotions out there."