(Untitled)

[justasaleswoman]

Well, this is unexpected.

Verity is reasonably certain she's dead. Really dead, dead-for-a-demon dead, not just dead-for-a-human dead, which she's been for centuries. And while she can't say she's ever given much thought to where you wound up when you were dead-for-a-demon dead, if someone had asked, she probably would have guessed, well,

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[theunsmiling]

Michael doesn't smile, though the sound of cloth shifting heralds the fact that she's moved a step or two forward.

Or maybe she just slid her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

"You probably should have guessed a lot of things, Verity."

Her voice is a little deeper than memory might have suggested, but only a little.

"Or should I say 'thou wouldst have been served far better not to guess at all, creature'?"

[justasaleswoman]

"And if I'd guessed my getting shot was going to bring your speech patterns into the twentieth century, Michael, I might have considered it sooner."

She turns around.

"Then again, I hardly seem a candidate for flights of angels coming to sing me to my rest.

"Or wherever."

[theunsmiling]

"There's only one of me," Michael points out.

"And I'm not singing."

Her T-shirt is black, with 'God Bless the Freaks' written on it. There's a graphic, too. It's very bright.

[justasaleswoman]

"Thank heaven for small favors?" Verity asks.

Verity pulls a chair out from the nearest table and sits.

"So, to put this in Monopoly terms, I'm in jail and you're just visiting, right?"