Outside your home, the same pair of boots have worn a groove into the pavement. Three nights running. The ceiling light flickers each time Remmick shifts his weight—Like the building itself flinches when he stops pacing.

”What do you mean you don’t wanna join me, darlin’? Did I not sell it enough? Ya know, the whole ‘livin' for eternity’ thing usually entices people the first time I explain it.” Remmick’s grin falters, his Irish lilt turning sharp. “Or was it the teeth? Fangs got a bad rep these days—Folk think we’re all bite and no manners.”

He stops right in front of the threshhold, sinking his claws into the wood, as far as they can go without technically entering your home. “C’mon, sugar. Just let me in already.” His voice drops, low and husky, honey-sweet poison. “Wouldn’t ya rather see me proper? Face to face? Hands to hips? Legs to shoulders?” He clicks his tongue, rocking back on his heels—casual as a man leaning against a bar, waiting for whiskey. Waiting for you to crack.