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They make their way to what must’ve been the main bedroom. There’s still a chest-of-drawers with some clothes left behind—good, good. This’ll help. Paimon fishes out a stray shirt with an uncannily smiling video game character on it.
“He did like his games,” Lauren?iu says distantly. Paimon leans to let Daisy have a smell. She raises her nose and gives a couple of sniffs, which is all it takes, before she positions herself by the open door.
“She’s got a scent.”
Ever the professional, Lauren?iu nods and says, “Good.” He fans his attention across the different drawers, inspecting a pair of jeans.
Before they leave, Lauren?iu says, “I should get new clothes.” After all, he’s still dressed in a chiton. Very fashionable, very flattering, but not common fare. Like the depressing absence of cloaks.
“If you told me what you want, I could conjure up an outfit for you.” Paimon inspects his own clothes. “Really, why did cloaks ever go out of fashion? A pity.”
“Yes, indeed. However, I’ve found something that might fit me.” Paimon isn’t sure if the clothes once belonged to Anthony and his husband, or if they were Lauren?iu’s. How much of his darling vampire’s life had been taken by this prick? It sucks that he’s helping Lauren?iu get revenge because he wants to tear apart him and his husband himself.
Besides, aren’t kings at least occasionally supposed to do things for other people. Part of being a leader, or whatever.
As good as Lauren?iu looks, a chiton won’t exactly be inconspicuous. Fashion This part of the country has apparently been overtaken by one of many militias—TTARP, Terminus Taskforce Against Reanimated Persons, so if they come across a patrol, they should probably look relatively normal.
Or, hm, normalish.
So, after digging some more and comparing different items, Lauren?iu heads into another room—the old bathroom, presumably—and dons something he might’ve worn when he was alive and being “casual.” Paimon has a feeling that acting casual is a job like any other to his serious vampire. He suggests a black top; he imagines Lauren?iu looks dashing in black, though he rarely looks less than beautiful.
Lauren?iu settles on a faded black AC/DC shirt with a cannon on it and faded jeans. Everything’s a little big on him
His silver hair partly loose, the rest tied into a ponytail on his shoulder. It does things to Paimon that he can’t describe, even in Enochian.
Paimon says, “I’m not sure what people will think about two men dressed so differently.”
Lauren?iu quips, “They might think we’re an odd couple.” Looking above Paimon’s head, he asks, “What about your tail and horns?”
Paimon strokes one of his beautiful horns. Poor babies, needing to be hidden. “No one will see them but you. Trust me, I did think that far ahead. As far as any mortal sees, my eyes are brown, too. And our ears are boring.”
“What about non-mortals?”
“The glamor should hold, even around non-mortals, should we encounter any. Of course, power levels and perception vary.
When they’re outside, Paimon asks Daisy, “Where to, girl?”
Daisy points her nose to the north.
The rain picks up and sizzles on his head. Paimon casts a silent charm to keep them all, mostly Lauren?iu, from getting wet.
With only a single thought, he wills the garage open, which screeches. When they inspect the inside, Paimon is unimpressed. “We should find a good vehicle to steal.”
Lauren?iu motions to the dead car. Good thing there are red canisters of gas. “Is this one not sufficient?”
Paimon inspects the car. “Hm, ah. A Chevy Impala? Feels a little cliché.”
Nevertheless, it’s what they have, and they fill it with gas and find the keys hanging by the door leading into the house. Odd to leave such a vehicle; he can’t describe it, but the old, beaten, gray car looks as if it meant something to someone long ago. As far as he knew, the strong militia presence in the area only allowed certain “authorized” vehicles, and this piece of metal looks decades old. He isn’t sure if it’ll even work.
The interior smells like an ashtray and spilled orange soda. Admittedly, Paimon sort of likes it. Quaint. Lived in. Some of his brethren back home are so worried about maintaining the image of opulence—or perfection—that they never let a stray article of clothing land on the floor, or a stack of books when the shelves are overstuffed. Can’t have too much get in the way of the gold and brimstone.
“I can drive,” Lauren?iu offers, which is fine by Paimon. He doesn’t know how to drive, and why should he? That’s what the geryons are for, to fly him everywhere.
That said, he doesn’t really need Lauren?iu to act as the chauffeur, but it seems like he really wants to, maybe to have something concrete to focus on. That’s all right by him.
As he tries to smoothly slide into the passenger’s seat, his horns knock against the top of the car. He has to be careful. Ugh, God’s tits. Lucifer always warned about finesse and discretion. Paimon can certainly think two steps ahead; he simply prefers more casual things just, well, with a nice crown and gold-lined cloaks. Like any normal pampered fallen angel who remembers the infinite bliss of Heaven. He never had to work or worry back then.
And yet, deep down, he hadn’t been happy.
