He followed her, of course. Hands in his pockets, loping through the pothole-puddles, keeping a few streetlights' distance between them. Her tears shimmered tracks like the wet dark road, like diamond dreams leaking, he thought. She was volatile, now. Tzich grinned to himself.

He broke into her house, naturally. The window was easy enough to crack open, and he fumbled through a bush to throw his long leg over the sill. Books and magazines tumbled quietly from a table with his boot on it. He picked up a potted plant, peered at his reflection in the TV, surveyed the pictures on the wall like a high-nosed curator. He left wet muddy tracks in the carpet. He ate the leftover chicken in the fridge, and he carried a leg around the house, chewing, digging in closets and sniffing every box and jar he found.

Eventually, with the chicken bones left in the bathroom trash, he knelt in front of the toilet and swirled the water with a finger, muttering in a language countless churches had named forbidden. The bowl turned black like blood, and he leaned over it and retched. Slammed the heel of his palm into his stomach. Gagged and coughed. Choked. Until that wormy leech of a demon wriggled out against its will. He sank his fingernails into the rubbery flesh, yanked, dropped it with a dull dark [i]plop[/i] into the toilet, and flushed. He found a toothbrush on the sink and gave his tongue a good scrub. He washed his hands and whistled.

He found some clothes and jackets in a ground-floor back room, and he spent the rest of the night trying them on and surveying the tunics and trousers and dresses with a critical eye.

Eventually he ventured up the stairs and looked in on Gimpy sleeping -- but, not caring to be present when she woke up, he slipped back down to the kitchen and gleefully began making an omelet. A big, butter-burnt omelet with beans and mushrooms and fish pieces and ketchup. Breakfast of kings. She didn't know how good she had it.