Just one ghost, actually, but Lambert will discover that very soon. Anyway, the comment on heat has John raising an eyebrow and looking back over his shoulder at the house. Well, technically—
"I do have a space heater," he says, glancing back towards Lambert and shrugging. "But no gas. It's a little like camping out, I admit."
There are also enough blankets for the rest of the time, but being a changeling from the Winter Court has other perks. Cold just doesn't bother him. He imagines that's an answer Lambert will get later tonight if his questions ever wander into 'things that do and don't affect faeries' or whatever.
"Feel free to grab any blanket you want, if you really get cold enough."
But that's all there is to say because after that he'll offer to take one of the bags — whichever one, doesn't matter — and lead the way down the stairs. Whether he's worried paranoid neighbors might do anything about them, well, you'd be surprised what kind of enchantments you can buy for a place. Let's just say he's not bothered by that, either. Down the steps directly to the balcony, then along the semi-circle of it, leads to bay doors padlocked shut. He doesn't produce a key, just touches the lock. It falls into his hand, along with the chains, seemingly without breaking and without ever being unlocked, almost like the chains themselves melted through the door handles and reformed together again. That done, he'll push it open and step in, heading for the lightswitch.
The place is strung up with various strings of lights, some generic ones, some for holidays, all sorts of different shapes. It's enough to light the place up just fine, if strangely. The rest of the house probably looks like shit but in here? It's been cleaned up. Previously, it must have been used to host guests or parties, including a small kitchenette, a minibar, and an amazing view of Portland spread out below. The floors are clean, the walls are clean, the furniture is clean, even if it's all very sparse. There's probably a bathroom and a washing machine room tucked away somewhere, too, though it's dubious if the water will actually work in here (it does, but it requires John to turn the pipes on manually and, oh, you better not hope for hot water).
Furniture-wise? A mattress on a boxspring in the far corner, actually made, sheets neatly pulled up and folded under. A coffee table, a secondhand couch, a TV stand with a cheap, older version of what flatscreens are today and one or two older game systems hooked up. Books, too, stacks of them, though it looks like the most he's invested in bookcases are cinder blocks and wooden boards. And, yes, there is a space heater, but it's tucked away to one side, as if not often used. So basically, it's like a college student took over a fancy basement, only the college student is a thirty-something changeling who turns into a bird sometimes.
"Not the best place to live, I admit, but it does the job."
no subject
"I do have a space heater," he says, glancing back towards Lambert and shrugging. "But no gas. It's a little like camping out, I admit."
There are also enough blankets for the rest of the time, but being a changeling from the Winter Court has other perks. Cold just doesn't bother him. He imagines that's an answer Lambert will get later tonight if his questions ever wander into 'things that do and don't affect faeries' or whatever.
"Feel free to grab any blanket you want, if you really get cold enough."
But that's all there is to say because after that he'll offer to take one of the bags — whichever one, doesn't matter — and lead the way down the stairs. Whether he's worried paranoid neighbors might do anything about them, well, you'd be surprised what kind of enchantments you can buy for a place. Let's just say he's not bothered by that, either. Down the steps directly to the balcony, then along the semi-circle of it, leads to bay doors padlocked shut. He doesn't produce a key, just touches the lock. It falls into his hand, along with the chains, seemingly without breaking and without ever being unlocked, almost like the chains themselves melted through the door handles and reformed together again. That done, he'll push it open and step in, heading for the lightswitch.
The place is strung up with various strings of lights, some generic ones, some for holidays, all sorts of different shapes. It's enough to light the place up just fine, if strangely. The rest of the house probably looks like shit but in here? It's been cleaned up. Previously, it must have been used to host guests or parties, including a small kitchenette, a minibar, and an amazing view of Portland spread out below. The floors are clean, the walls are clean, the furniture is clean, even if it's all very sparse. There's probably a bathroom and a washing machine room tucked away somewhere, too, though it's dubious if the water will actually work in here (it does, but it requires John to turn the pipes on manually and, oh, you better not hope for hot water).
Furniture-wise? A mattress on a boxspring in the far corner, actually made, sheets neatly pulled up and folded under. A coffee table, a secondhand couch, a TV stand with a cheap, older version of what flatscreens are today and one or two older game systems hooked up. Books, too, stacks of them, though it looks like the most he's invested in bookcases are cinder blocks and wooden boards. And, yes, there is a space heater, but it's tucked away to one side, as if not often used. So basically, it's like a college student took over a fancy basement, only the college student is a thirty-something changeling who turns into a bird sometimes.
"Not the best place to live, I admit, but it does the job."