Alchemist. It was different from being a witch, or a warlock, wizard, magus, shaman, or anything else out there that dealt in the mystique, of divine powers, of magic. It was derived from science, steeped in pain, to give the artificer of the art the ability to create. The mistake those who thought to underestimate the alchemist was when they were thought to be less powerful than all the others. Because his abilities were not defined by pure, raw power, he was considered to be weak.<br/><br/><br/>His body might have suffered from the choices he had made, the deals he had struck, but his capabilities belonged to the mind, and that was still sharp. Though James wondered if time and his prowess had warped his mind as well as his physical form. Closing his eyes, he nodded silently. Unable to resist, he reached out again, regardless of her resistance against him, and placed his arm across her shoulders in order to pull her against his chest on the couch. His face bent down so that he could nuzzle the top of her head.<br/><br/><br/>“No, you aren’t a child,” he murmured his assent against her hair as he breathed her in. His pulse was steady in his chest this evening, but sounded loud like a drum in his ears, which drowned out the sound of his own voice that seemed to echo in the room. He exhaled softly, giving her a squeeze back against him, then drew away his arm and nodded with a wry grin, his darkened gaze sparkling. “I promise when we lay together, I will be a perfect gentleman.”<br/><br/><br/>James wasn’t about to question her choice in spending the night with him tonight. Instead, he pulled himself up and off the couch and extended his hand down for her to take if she so chose. He led them both back to his bedroom and felt the shroud of guilt float around his shoulders like a mantle when he crossed through that particular threshold. Clearing his throat, he gestured for her to enter before him. “You know, you’re beautiful when you’re angry,” he offered once she had passed, a hint of his usual flare easing back into his voice.<br/><br/><br/>Once she had settled, he sat on the edge of his bed where the sheets were thrown aside and pooled at its tail and pulled off his shoes before scooting up and using his elbow as a prop. From there, his attention wandered back up to her face. “What do you want to know about Fiora, the fairy queen of ice?” He grinned at that, knowing how ridiculous it sounded. “Other than she’s an icy bitch. I mean, look at poor Remy. He can’t help it, but he’s her thrall; she’s powerful enough to have created him from scratch. Only he isn’t quite an unthinking golam, but a living, breathing… sculpture that can actually think for himself. She’s probably going to act as sweet as spun sugar, because that’s what they do, until you do something that they don’t like.Then she gets a little bit creative with her methods of convincing people to do what she wants.” He hesitated, studying the woman in his bed, then reached out to touch her cheek. “I know you can handle this, I do, but Lane… Fiora is very old and very cunning and very.. Unapologetic in her ways. I want you to be safe. Maybe I can summon Anastasia and start a wager on who would win in a fight: fairy bitch or demon bitch.”