"These... televangelists," LaCroix says idly. "Perhaps they are a lost tribe of ours, or we of theirs."

Crystal turned in long, elegant fingers, refracting candlelight, varicolored glints lost in deep unforgiving red.

"That isn't funny," Nick answers dryly, pulling a bottle out of the refrigerator. "It's bad enough being... what we are."

"You weren't so reticent, my Nicholas, once upon a time. Living among the living has taught you to loathe yourself. It's rather charming, really."

On the back of Nick's neck, the barest whisper of skin on skin. LaCroix's fingertips are cold.

"Yes," Nick says, and means something else.