One head will swallow the stars and moon and sun. Another will swallow the seas and lakes and rivers. The third will swallow the land, and every living thing upon it — and only then will the Darkwalker be satisfied and return to sleep once more.

Shaking in the night, Louis wondered if the woman and the beast could be the same, howling and screaming enough to raise Hell. This time, Louis held himself back from biting his arm, but his fang still slipped and broke the skin on his lip. The angry red welt, iced down as well as possible, glares on his face now.

If Tim didn't notice Louis, he'd be forgiven for both not looking for people he knows and because Louis stands quite (too) still in the shadow of a pillar, face carefully (barely) held composed like a statue of a saint, hat under his arm. He might be a priest on a good day, or (more accurately) a man just keeping it together before he enters the confessional and removes the mask.

At the mention of blood, Louis's head turns fast enough for anyone to wonder if he'll hurt his neck doing that.

"...What?" he asks, half incredulous. One could say blood is his special interest.