She advanced on him as he sat down on the couch. He was staggering. He was staggering drunk, and Evey went up in a conflagration of rage. At one time, she would have had sympathy for him. She would have sat with him, taken his hands, and asked him what happened, and let him tell her. But Evey had long ago forgotten what gentleness felt like, and she certainly couldn't give it to anyone else.
His head was down, so she hooked two skeletal fingers under his chin and made him look at her. "How many did you kill?" she asked directly. She wanted to know. She wanted him to tell her. She wanted him to know that she knew. "Tell me."
Not even when he'd drank from her had he been anywhere close to this. She remembered what he looked like, there in the blood and the mud and the darkness, and he was a far cry from that broken vampire in the Ruins.
"Did you like it?" she asked, already knowing the answer. "Is this what you are now? Do you even know why I came back here?"