"Don't give me sass, worm," he said, patting the car's back as if it was a horse's flank. The hearse purred. "She can sense your fear."
"As if," I scoffed, begrudgingly climbing into the passenger side's patent leather seat. It smelled like vodka and strawberries, two substances Samael was addicted to. Samael entered the driver's seat, speaking softly to the hearse. The car practically crooned at Samael's touch, as alive as me. He donned white riding gloves before grasping the steering wheel. Camille Saint-Saën's "Danse Macabre" threaded from the stereo like a ballerina dancing across the air. I opened the glove box to reveal Samael's secret stash of his favorite fruit, kept magically preserved by some dark workings I was unaware of, and nibbled on a strawberry as he pulled out of the parking lot.
"The drive is a long one," Samael said. "Do your homework."
"Stop policing me."
