Christine had been the first. She was sweet, a little thing, all big blue eyes with hair that fell down her back in waves as black as an oil slick, a face that could have tempted the angels themselves. The beauty of the girl almost made him feel something like remorse for the way it had ended, but there she was infinitely more appealing towards the end, when her beauty had been drained from her like grains of sand through an hourglass; slowly, leeched away with every kiss, every touch. Edward had come next, an idealistic boy that imagined himself a poet, then Samuel, Elizabeth, Victoria, Charles, Jack, George, Rose, Sarah, a million others that blurred together in his memory until he couldn't tell the difference between them. They were sailors, musicians, actors and actresses, blacksmiths and tailors, farmers, servants. All of them had been young, blind to the ways of the world and achingly eager to please in any way they could. They were always vying for his attentions at first, playing a rather amusing and violent game of pick me, pick me. Over the years, the beauty turned to something ugly, something deeper than skin that stained them in a way that could never be removed, darkening their souls until he grew bored and moved along to the next pour, unsuspecting soul that fell into his lap.
He'd seen everything the world had to offer, taken it all in over the course of a life that would never end unless he chose it, and yet something makes him take the streets leading away from his current home instead of towards it, and he moves silently through the crowds as he follows the alluring pull. It leads him into an unassuming book store, air thick with the scent of decaying paper and the subtle scent of cut flowers, through the shelves towards a boy sitting alone at a table towards the back of the cramped building. He seems unaware of the world turning around him, focused on the book that lays across the table in front of him, his fingers slowly turning the pages as he reads and a smile spreads across his face. He looks like a Raphaelite painting come to life, like an angel had walked right off the edge of the canvas and into modern life, his skin so smooth and unblemished that he could've been carved from marble by Michelangelo himself. "Can I help you?" He blinked, whisked out of his reminiscent state of mind by the boy looking at him, and smiled slow and deadly, his lips like the curve of a knife against his skin. "I certainly hope so, darling." The wood of the chair seemed to vibrate underneath his fingertips as he pulled the chair out and sank into it, holding the boy's eyes as he folded his hands into his lap with his fingers curled together. "Has anyone ever told you that your face would make Michelangelo cry?" A blush took over his face, coloring his pale skin, and he looked down to hide his smile, letting his hair fall in front of his face. This one would be an interesting chase.