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"You had a mustache when we met," she demurred, angling her shoulders away from him on her stool. He stared back with sad, wet eyes. They flickered red in reflection of the glowing neon, the light dancing in his deep black pupils.


"I did," he grinned, with white teeth. Too white. Unnaturally white. The neon danced on them as well, his whole face a twisting, flickering dance of red and shadows. "But styles change, sugar. Time grinds on for us all. Even I can't do anything about that."


The hum of neon filled the silence. As she looked back up at his flat gaze, head slightly tilted, a reptilian movement, stretching his neck. She realized how tall he was. He seemed to loom in the dark street, himself a shadow, tall and long and dark. She met his gaze, steeling herself against the fiery pools gazing back. It was then she noticed his hair. Spiky, finely coiffed, hornlike. He hadn't aged a day.


"And now," he purred - familiar, friendly even; said behind cold, pools of utter black.

Staring through her very core, somewhere into the smoke-filled room behind her.


"It is time to come with me, my dear."

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