Noor

Frighteningly enough, Damien's was becoming a second home for me. 

“The regular?” Signor da Silva asked, winking.  He poured me a foaming mug of root beer.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to pay him.  For the umpteenth time, he refused, smiling indulgently.

“Now now, it's costing enough to be in Samael's company.  Best keep what change you have.”

“Shannon is an expensive girl,” Samael noted, ducking behind the bar.  He grabbed the vodka off the shelf and downed it in one gulp.

“How is the Reaper holding up?” Damien asked, ignoring the liquor theft.

Samael groaned, slumped into a worn chair.  “Not rosy.  Metatron's on my ass to do tax returns on lost souls.  There's a cholera outbreak, again.  And, according to my schedule,” he muttered, whipping out a worn agenda, “some idiot is going to set off a bomb at a Ru