Mouthy<i>and </i>clever. And here he had stepped into this shop expecting a naive twit. Going by the stereotype, he had taken one look at the blonde hair, the doe-eyed stare from a photograph he had found during his research (stalking) in his endeavors of finding her ancestor's book and assumed young = dumb, much like one of the bubbly, bunned young ladies that sat in the front of his classroom in hopes that a pair of tits could score them an easy A and very little studying. While James took the modern institution of teaching as a joke in and of itself, he did take the teachings of<i>life lessons </i>very seriously. No ethical son of a bitch would have been able to get away with the stunts that he pulled in the classroom that bordered on the<i>quid pro quo </i>and walked a scandalous line, right up until the point that they realized potentially giving him a blowjob underneath his desk, while a hot cliché, was not going to earn any kind of letter grade on her academic report.<br/><br/><br/><br/><i>This girl, however... </i><br/><br/><br/><br/>“What is your degree in?”<br/><br/><br/><br/>He asked it absently, almost nonchalantly, but the glint in his eye gave his interest away. If he had to guess, psychology would be his first with the way she dropped the personal bomb about her father. Though that could very well lead to something in the medical field. Psychiatry rather than psychology, and he only hoped that she didn't say she wanted to be a<i>life coach </i>when she grew up. His own educational background was completely fabricated, though the details in today's modern world was posing a challenge, considering his present “lifespan” was at a forty year max before he had to hit the reset button. That is, if he could pull off twenty five, he had until the age on his driver's license read forty five – if he could a beard during his late thirties and into his forties. He'd even had a porn stache at one point that gave him an additional three years in his career.<br/><br/><br/><br/>And she thought he looked like a<b>hipster douchebag </b>now. If he could read minds – and he presently wished he<i>could </i>(potential side project) – he would have burst out laughing at her mental insults. He had pulled himself together for this occasion, like preparing for a six month anniversary. Jeans, sure, but these were at least clean and lacked holes. The blazer put him in the realm of<i>young professional </i>with casual dress code to absolute asshat range, but at least the loafers were both worn enough and nice enough to give him a laid back air. Short cropped and dark, his hair wasn't quite long enough for the comb over – or back – and spiked up naturally, with the help of his fidgeting fingers that combed through it as consistently as an addict's tic. He had shaved maybe a day ago, leaving a dark stubble that would grow out like copper wire if left to its own devices. And underneath his<i>hipster douchebag </i>look, he had the kind of lean tone that came from running and not so much from any heavy-duty weight lifting.<br/><br/><br/><br/>As it was, he grinned rakishly as soon as he saw the<i>truth</i>, as it were. She had the gift, and that was all his glance had been for. Look into the eyes of someone who sought to see your soul for too long, however, and risk being lost in its spell. Freud would be rolling over in his grave if the dead psychoanalyst knew the shit he had dredged up from just a mesmerizing stare. He preferred to use this particular skill minimally, because there wasn't anything quite like walking down the street and accidentally “seeing” what looked like slender man trolling behind an old grandma.<br/><br/><br/><br/>“I know,” he ascertained. To both her name and to her Hermoine Granger defense against the dark arts spiel that sealed the deal on her<i>good girl </i>nature. Good girl, but not stupid.<br/><br/><br/><br/>For the time being, they were out of view from Steve's (he's the real douche with a name like that) overly curious glances to the shelf they were hidden by. He turned fully to face her then, his frame looming as he pressed close to back her into a corner – so to speak. Backing her into a shelf worked just as well. His arm extended over her shoulder as he gripped the shelf's edge while his other hand lifted to nudge her chin up to better meet his stare. Brows furrowed, he had a contemplative look on his face; similar to his expression when he had first caught sight of her.<i>Ghosts of the past.</i><br/><br/><br/><br/>Oddly calloused fingertips grazed her chin when he spoke next. “I'm the sort that does that instead. Now, the key to living forever is a complex one, Ms. Lane Barnes. You have to accept death, for one; that's where your theory about necromancy comes in, and it's not entirely<i>false</i>. True necromancy is bringing back the dead, but what hopefuls don't understand is that whatever they are bringing back from death's door no longer has the same<i>life </i>they had before. The second part of the key is genetics. It's something no one wants to hear: magic is magic and should have nothing to do with science... and yet what do you think causes humans to age to begin with?<i>That </i>is science; I'm just waiting for the rest of the world to figure out how to reverse it on their own. The final key, then, is being able to accept that you're going to have to compromise a whole lot more than you were initially ready to bargain.”<br/><br/><br/><br/>He jerked away from her then, both hands falling to his sides as he rocked back and out of her personal bubble, a more sardonic smile twisting his lips now that he'd gotten that out of his system. His voice was more hushed now, when he spoke again. “You're not the kind of girl who should dabble in that kind of power. You seem more like the girl who will grow old without seeking out power and only a modest amount of ambition in your life. You'll finish school, meet a decent man, maybe even have a couple of kids to raise.<i>Normal </i>– with a twist. Tell me I'm wrong. Then correct me if I am.”<br/><br/><br/><br/>The man looked up and away so that he could smile amiably at<i>Steve</i>over there, and he hoped that Steve was man enough to read between the lines:<i>stay away, bro. Better, go away.</i>But James had a feeling that Steve was definitely not a mind reader either and would do neither of those things. So he glanced back down at the little blonde. He even reached out to pull a strand of her hair between his fingers.<br/><br/><br/><br/>“Your mother, or maybe grandmother, would have passed down a book to you. I'd like to read it.”