"My Hell is less abysmal than this drink," Crowley answered, before remembering the woman who had arrived, presenting him with a glass of something that was most certainly what he preferred to be drinking. Severine had been a strange and smoky creature, distinctly dark and beautiful. If she had been in his world, demons would have clambered all over each other to possess a suit like that; and he would have paid anything to get her soul.

But they weren't in his world, they were at some fancy otherworldly garden party, and she was handing him a glass of Glencraig, which automatically put her up in his top five list of favourite individuals, living and dead. Of course, a woman like her would be more than aware of how to play up to others, especially those of power. It wasn't that Crowley thought himself powerful; the fact that she was extending him thoughtfulness and courtesy told him that she thought he might be.

"Ah, Sévérine," he said, taking the glass from her, immediately putting down the swill he had been saddled with minutes ago. "You're certainly adding to the atmosphere. Thank you. To what do I owe the honour? Getting stir crazy in your room?"