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Deirdre slowly eased down onto the pew beside him, shedding yet another layer, the external, buttoned sweater, and laying it across her lap. She then folded her hands on top of the garment and crossed her ankles, looking at her lap before speaking again. "The Quarantine's south of here?" Those soft words were her only reply to his statement of zombies. That would be a decent explanation for why fresh corpses looked as if they'd been dead a year. The necrosis of being undead combined with the constant motion a zombie was in would require a second killing of them.

Still, it was kind of crazy.

In response to his job opportunities comment, she laughed herself, the sound light, and only a little nervous. "Well, I was sent up here by my boss, so I'm supposed to be going back once I find his college friend. Her name's Moira...I hope she's all right." She shook her head slightly, as if she didn't have faith that her boss's friend was still alive. And honestly, if she worked in a zombie infestation, she probably wasn't, especially since the zombies were still active. That implied that no matter how many of them died, more rose, which meant they were infecting others. "Might end up sticking around, though. Could be more money in it up here than just being Mr, Williamson's assistant."

"It's not a fascination...it's just something I happen to enjoy. It's a lot more challenging than dealing with the living. You have to capture the essence of a person who can't tell you what they want you to do. More of a challenge...and more of a reward, too. You're judged by everyone who knew the person."

Nikolae quirked a brow at how easily she'd swallowed that particular pill. The little woman didn't seem the least bit phased by talk of zombies, and he wasn't entirely sure that it was because she was writing him off as crazy. At least, she hadn't run away or found an excuse to back away slowly.

"I've never met a Moira," He admitted slowly, then flexed a hand against the back of the pew. It didn't mean there wasn't one around. Or that there wasn't someone in the city who'd know the girl. Let alone someone outside it that would miss her. Still, she'd come here alone and worked for the dead of all things.

"While I can't speak for job opportunities..." He paused, considering his words. "Except to say a lot of people seem to die around here, from one affliction or another." Namely vampires, he admitted to himself silently. "I'm sure there's something here in this town for you, either way." He raised his gaze to the window which bore his own image, chuckling at the eternal-scowl he'd been accused of wearing more than once.

"After all, what's life if not an adventure? I'm sure your family and friends would understand..." He tilted his head, waiting for the woman to disagree or insist she'd be missed far too much. He wasn't entirely certain it would matter, truth be told. A phone call did wonders to assuage even the strongest of loved-ones. Especially loved-ones of younger people. It seemed almost expected that they'd go off and somehow find their way. For a moment, the dragon even reflected on the parents who'd adopted him and then seemed to know that he'd never return if he went to this town where he was born. Maybe they knew what the place harbored. It was far more than simple vampires, after all. Food for thought for another day, though, he firmly told himself. For now, the only food he needed to be worried about was the blood pumping in the lovely sprites veins. He hoped she'd survive the night, only sheer force of will seemed to see the new fledglings through. Too many never seemed to rise awake again. Still more perished under the light of day, willingly or otherwise.

Deirdre sat there, listening to him first tell her that he didn't know a Moira, then explain that many in this city seemed to die from various afflictions, as she tugged at a loose bit of yarn at the end of her sleeve. The sweater had been a gift from her last foster mother, who had been in her seventies, hand-knitted for her eighteenth birthday, and was one of the only gifts she'd received throughout her young life. The multi-shaded yarn that crafted it was all Deirdre's favorite colors - blue, green, violet, and burnt orange - and a small black letter D had been knitted into the pattern over her heart. Only six months later, though, the elderly woman had passed away peacefully in her sleep and brought to the funeral home.

It was Deirdre's first time losing anyone close to her, and it had hurt. The woman had been the first person she could call Grandma in an affectionate tone. Mr. Williamson had tried to give her the day of the funeral off of staff, but the teen had still come in, still given her foster grandmother the best care she could give. The woman's blood family congratulated her, but never acknowledged that they had been, by extension, Deirdre's last foster family.

"What family?" she finally managed to utter, taking a deep breath as she tugged the loose yarn again. "I never met my parents...spent my life as a ward of the state of Wisconson, hopping from foster home to foster home because I had a few funny little habits that you don't expect from a girl. I was a rowdy child, and eventually just absorbed into myself. Started talking to inanimate objects for what little socialization I felt I needed. They thought I was crazy...but I was just lonely."

She took a deep breath, wiping at her eyes with the same sleeve which bore the loose thread to keep the tears that welled up from falling. "I might as well stay in this place. Only thing I'm good for is making the dead look like the living."

The dragon watched the play of emotion on the woman's face with a slight bit of curiosity. He'd never been all that interested in hearing others' woes, even less so once he'd become a vampire, but she seemed to need to get it off her chest. And it would be rude to ignore or interrupt her, he dutifully reminded himself as his attention drifted.

He wasn't usually so callous, he surprised himself in thinking. He hadn't yet fed tonight though, and the girl was a distraction to his senses on all accounts. Even now, while she told her story, his slitted gaze was focused more on the vein pounding at her throat than the words she was breathing out. It was a tragic tale, but then so was everyone's. Seemed this city picked up only the lonely hearted, only those who had little else to live for outside it's boundaries. Maybe there was something to that. He'd add it to his list of mysteries to solve, the next time Azraeth came around with the list and a pen.

"Well. If you're going to stay it would be remiss of me to allow you to spend any time in those fleabag motels," He replied suddenly, flashing a kind smile as he reached into his jacket pocket for a skeleton key. The whole Temple was outfitted with them. Even though he'd been born long after the invention of more modern keys - even the technological ones that he secretly liked a whole lot - he'd decided to leave that bit of history of the Temple intact. It added to the place even more than his Raeth's ghosts usually did. "Plenty of people stay here. I'm a bit of a philathropist you could say... it wouldn't cost you anything save your company and help cleaning." He held the key out to her. This would be her choice - and once made it would be irreversible.

Once she was safely in the lower floor of the Temple, the only way she'd be leaving was with a pair of fangs.

Deirdre's grey eyes lifted slowly to the key held out to her as he made his offer of a place to stay. "I'll have to make a couple phone calls. Mr. Williamson's going to miss me, I know, but...he won't be mad," she murmured softly, her left hand coming loose of the yarn sticking out from the end of her right sleeve to comb through her brilliant hair, a splash of vibrant color against the gentle gloom of the Temple.

Even though she would stay, she would do what she had come up to do in the first place. She would look, at the very least, for Moira, learn of the woman's fate. She owed Mr. Williamson that much at least.

Still, she couldn't help sitting up just that much straighter as she gently wrapped her thin fingers around the handle of the skeleton key. "You'll help me get settled...right?"

And it was that simple for Deirdre Therese Shelly to agree to move from Wisconsin to Harper Rock permanently. All it took was for someone to make the offer. It showed how much of a connection she really had to her hometown - which was nothing at all.

She'd been a loner her whole life.

It was about time for her to find a family...

Nikolae bit back his smile of triumph - he'd had a feeling the woman had a spirit borne of ice just waiting to be awakened. Still, he held the key for a moment longer, searching out her face to be sure there wasn't a hint of doubt or regret.

"Of course. What sort of host would I be if I didn't show you to your room?" He replied as he released the heavy iron key and stood fluidly, plucking up his jacket and slipping it on again. He moved past the new Ritual Alter he'd installed recently, shivering at the power that seemed to be emanating off of the thing. He couldn't use it himself, not really, but those of his blood could and it was an easy enough gift to his beloved Dragons. Pushing open the door to reveal the stone staircase that led down into the secret home of his lineage, Nikolae held it open and turned slightly to peer back at her.

"After you, my dear." He intoned solemly. Already he was preparing himself for the long night that was to come. It had been a long time since he'd turned a new immortal - he only prayed that the gift of his blood wouldn't be wasted. That his judgement had been correct. That Deirdre would awaken a Dragon.

Deirdre slipped the key into her jeans pocket the moment Nikolae released it, standing and slinging her button-down sweater over her right shoulder. "I would think no less of you," she commented, watching him wish the slightest smirk. She didn't quite know why she felt so enthusiastic to follow this man she'd only just met. She felt that he was someone trustworthy, and trusted her gut over her mind.

Her brain was focusing on the simple fact that his eyes were like a reptile's...like a dragon's. There was a predatory gleam in those eyes, and the rational part of her was thoroughly confused. But Deirdre was following her instincts, and those instincts were telling her to go down into the now exposed stone staircase, down below this temple he called his own. Every fi er of her being was intent on following him, save that tiny, rational part of her.

So she followed him to the door and took the first two steps down, boot heels clicking against the stone surfaces, the sound echoing around her in the tight space.

In some part of her, she knew that she was leaving her life (and mortality) behind her.

Nikolae slid the door shut behind them, ensuring it was safely locked to guard his loved ones from any of the outsiders. Though anyone was welcome in the Temple itself, he never took the safety of his blood for granted. They would always come first; always had, and always would. Shoulders relaxing with the knowledge that the red haired pixie wasn't going anywhere now, he took the steps a bit quicker to pass by her and lead the way himself.

He didn't pay much mind to what room she'd be using. It didn't matter, with so many to choose from. Few really came here anymore, anyways. Soon enough he was pushing open a heavy wooden door and turning on the lighted wall-sconces. It was a bedroom like any other; a bed, a pillowed bench at it's foot, a few chairs and a table. Nightstands, and a wardrobe in place of the closets he could never manage to carve out of the rock walls. It was quite a bit chillier below the Temple, but it was home to dragons so none had ever complained.

"There's... a computer with internet access in the great room. You're free to use it, if you'd like." He'd probably stop by and hack into a few things before he left her for the day himself.

The Dragon plucked a book from the top of the rose-wood dresser, the same book that graced every room in the lower levels of the Temple. Every page was filled with paintings of dragons, stories of their glory. The last page had been his own sketch, however. It was of his own bloods version of dragons. Pale men with slitted-eyes and sharp fangs. He glanced sideways to her as he held out the book to her.

"Have you ever thought of dragons? Vampires, even?" The flippant talk of zombies hadn't seemed to stun her. Nonetheless, if Raeth were here he was certain his golden-childe would give the pixie her chance.

With the faintest smile, Deirdre laid the button-up sweater across the bed. She had been renting a very small studio not all that far from the funeral home she worked at, on a monthly lease, but this was much more spacious. And it promised good, heavy sleep, with its underground location and lack of windows. She could easily adapt to the chill of the stone rooms. She'd already grown used to the icy cold outside.

Access to a computer didn't matter all that much to the young woman. All she truly needed to know was, "Where's the nearest library?" The grin that spread across her face, however, did not last long, as he asked her about dragons...and vampires. Oh, no. Please don't let this guy be crazy. I actually like him. But had she really been expecting anything else?

The uncanny likeness between her host and one of the more morbid stained glass windows. His eyes. The enticing and foreboding feeling of the altar. The general gloom of the upstairs room.

The underground living quarters, far away from the tkuch of the sun.

The craziest thing was, she wasn't afraid. She couldn't feel frightened by what he said. In fact, the fact thar he asked about dragons was kind of ironic.

"It's funny you should ask about dragons, Nikolae Dragomir," she laughed, lifting the homemade sweater over her head to reveal the acid green tee shirt she wore. Scrawled across it in Gothic blackletter, in rick black ink, it read:

Do not meddle in the affairs of Dragons, for you are crunchy and good with ketchup!

"As for vampires...well, I can believe in zombies easily enough. I'll bite - no pun intended."

Nikolae eyed the scrawled lettering on her shirt with shrewd amusement. It had been a long time since there had been any young blood in the Dragomir Court. A longer time still since any of easy smiles and light heart had graced the cold-blooded lineage. They all breathed fire though, and had hearts of the same. Maybe it was meant to be after all. Not that it mattered now. The Dragon had long since made up his mind.

He sat on the edge of the bed and patted the spot beside him, waiting until the girl sat as well before setting the book into her lap. He opened it to a random page - any page would do, really. These thick leather-bound journals were still being written. History was still being made by the dragons of the new era.

"There's a lot to be said for dragons. Loyal, fierce, true to their cause once it's decided." He idly flipped to the next page, though by now his gaze had slid away from the heavy pages. "A sort of hierarchy exists, too, in the older texts. When the skies were ruled by dragons, and the humans worshipped them." He hid a smile and leaned closer to the girl, as though he were about to tell her a secret.

"And dragons live forever, did you know that?" He murmured even as his fangs lengthened. His patience had reached it's zenith - Azraeth was surely the fount of it within the blood line and Nikolae would never even bother to contest him for the title. In an instant he'd struck, like a cobra making it's venomous kill. Fangs buried into the woman's throat as an arm curled around her shoulders to pin her in place. He drank deeply, all but pulling on her vein in his rush to see things to their natural conclusion.