Trixy set the mug down softly and listened to him explain his thoughts on crime. She couldn’t help but smile. “You sound like you’d be a good fit for the NYPD’s supernatural division, should I put in a good word with the boss for you?”  she asked with a raised brow. Right, the boss, she realized she should text Carl and let him know that she dusted The Rogue. So, she pulled out her phone and did just that.

[i]“So you vampires still can taste everyday food, plus a compliment from a Frenchy, I’ll take what I can get.”[/i] Bartholomew’s voice brought her attention back to him. “Yes, I can still taste everything. I might be dead, but I still have a tongue.” She smirked. “But, we don’t eat. Solid food makes us sick, so it’s liquids only.” She’d thought that a vampire hunter such as himself might know more about his favored enemy. 

“So, tell me. What kind of wolf keeps a pair of silver blades on display in his home, with nothing more than a piece of glass to secure them?” She wondered if he had a death wish, heaven knows she did in that first century after losing Francis, but after a few failed attempts, the urge had passed. Béatrix sat back in the chair and crossed her legs, causing her jacket to splay open and reveal a toned, pale midriff and her bra. Had she been human, she’d probably be cold with her wet hair and skimpy outfit, but she wasn’t. The pleasant scent of Tholo’s shampoo still clung to her tresses, and it was peaceful. For the first time in ages, something about this moment felt incredibly… [i]right[/i].