Black ice flowed across his heart in that slow glacial way. He saw her emerge from the cocoon of automotive joy she had arrived in. Holding one hand out, he offered his assistance. She graciously accepted. She was wearing gloves, a 1950s affectation that had suited her well ever since her grandmother the movie star had advised her to take it up when she was a girl.
She was still a girl, but one with wisdom and talent behind her. All eyes upon her, she proceeded into the restaurant, followed by paparazzi and goons to bash them senseless. He eyed her hungrily, though the menu lay open before him. His eyes were oblivion, but her eyes were oblivious as she stared him into a hazel resolve.
He actually blinked. Just once.
She boldly ordered the eight hundred dollar scotch. It was brought to her by two impeccably dressed servers, trained in decorum and presentation. Which was utterly ruined by her telling them to get on with it. No savoring, no sniffing, no checking, just open it and pour over ice. Two glasses. He could choose which. The. End.
Three shots later, and she was ready to speak.
“I get the vial. You can have anything else you like.”
He looked at her from across the table, and it may have been across the room for all the attention she paid him. She had a way of making him feel human again. How did she do that?
“What if I want you?”
She looked at him, one eyebrow raised, and smirked. “I’m autopossessed, and desecrated. So sure. Why not?”
He pulled out a Damnation and lit it up. A solid glass of water to the face took care of that bad habit. He prepared for the burn, but it was regular water.
“Bitch! How dare you!”
She grinned. “Shut up and have a drink! I’m way ahead of you.”
He paused mid-rant, and grabbed his scotch on the rocks. He drank it slowly, looking at her lustfully. She flashed him one of her breasts, and showed him one of her fingers.
“The vial.” It was a statement.
He fished the vial out of his jacket pocket and gave it to her. The room got very quiet, and very dark, and a wall appeared, securing their privacy for what was to come. He leaned in, grabbed her hair and kissed her, then motioned to his pants. She just looked up at him, batted her eyelashes and started undoing his trousers, removing the belt slowly.
Suddenly, foam and vomit started spewing from his mouth. He shook violently, and quivered erratically until he finally collapsed, partially dissolved.
She removed her gloves carefully, tossing them into the scotch glass where they burst into flame. She opened the vial, whispered a chant and slogged it down.
It was the belt she wanted. Made from the skin of Azrael. Granted strength and speed, but only if one knew how to work it. He hadn’t.
He also should have learned how to drink his liquor, she thought. No nursing. He just found out the hard way that holy water makes some hellacious ice cubes.