Darcy took a long drink while Crowley talked, keeping her eyes on him in a show of interest as she did so, but needing something to do with herself while she thought about what he said. It was a frightening thought to consider that one's soul could be bartered away so easily. Frightening, and strangely fascinating too. Darcy was suddenly very sorry that she'd asked him to explain himself further, as she had a sinking sensation that the solution he'd just explained was the sort that wiggled into one's brain like a worm and set up a nest. She had no doubt that the next time she felt she truly, direly needed something that was far out of her grasp, what he just said would come to her, if only briefly. It was only human nature, and it was a thing that, she was sure, slick motherfuckers like this one counted on.

She resisted the urge to chase that line of questioning even further, settling for a nod, then smiling at his claim to being famous. "Well, I dunno," she said. "Maybe that Ozzy song is about you. Who can truly decipher what he's trying to say anyways? I don't know if you need parseltongue or maybe just early onset Alzheimer's to really pick up what Ozzy's putting down, but it's certainly beyond me."