So it’s not all doom and gloom.
Ghastek stood by the floor to ceiling window, sipping coffee from a white mug that said, “Graveyard Shift: we do it in the dark.” From this side, the glass of the window was crystal clear, offering an excellent view of the undead stables, and Ghastek surveyed it like he owned it, because he pretty much did. He wore a tailored pair of sleek navy pants and a woven grey sweater with a hint of blue. Both looked elegant and deceptively simple, which probably meant they were hideously expensive. A small black velvet triangle interrupted the texture of the weave just below the flat-knit collar. The triangle alone probably cost him extra $300.
The clothes fit him with some slack. He needed to eat more.
For some reason, the thought of Ghastek and food made me uneasy. I puzzled over it until the answer floated up oh so slowly: we starved together in Mishamar. That was it.
“So you liked the mug?” I asked. I had sent it to him for Christmas.