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scarier.
    Even as demons went, Findo Gask was very old. He was centuries old, and this was unusual. For the most part, demons had a tendency to self-destruct or fall prey to their own peculiar excesses rather early in their careers. In completing their transformations, demons shed their human trappings, reducing themselves to hard, winged husks, so that when stripped of their disguises they looked not unlike bats.
    But as hard as they worked to shed their human skins, they remained surprisingly dependent on their origins. To disguise themselves, they were forced to resume looking like the creatures they had been. To satisfy their desperate need to escape their past, they were forced to prey upon the creatures they pretended to be. And to survive in their new forms, they were forced to struggle constantly against a small but intransigent truth—they hungered endlessly and helplessly for contact with the creatures they despised.
    As a direct result, they were torn by the dichotomy of their existence. In their efforts to give vent to their schizophrenic personalities, they descended swiftly into madness and bestiality. Their control over themselves collapsed, their sanity fragmented, and they disintegrated like wheels spinning so fast and so hard they succumbed to the heat of their own friction.
    Findo Gask had avoided this end because he was not driven by emotion. He was not hungry for power or personal gratification. Revenge did not interest him. Validation of his existence was never a cause he was tempted to pursue. No, he was simply curious. Curiosity provided a limitless supply of inspiration for Findo Gask. He was smart and inventive and able. As a man, he might have uncovered secrets and solved riddles. He might have accomplished great things through research. But a man lived a finite number of years and was hampered by rules Findo Gask did not necessarily accept. A demon, he was quick to see, could do so much more. If he was willing to let go of the part of him that was human, a part he considered of no particular consequence or purpose in any case, he could explore and discover and dissect forever.
    Moreover, he realized early on, humans made great subjects for his studies. They fit with his needs and his wants perfectly. All that was required was that he separate himself.
    He had done so with surprising ease. It was difficult to recall the details now. He had been alive for so long, a demon for so many centuries, that he no longer remembered anything of his human history. Even the century of his transformation had been forgotten. He was the oldest of his kind perhaps, though it didn’t matter to him if he was because he took no satisfaction from it. The Void was his master, but his master was a vague, substanceless presence who pretty much left him alone to do what he wished, appearing only now and then as a brief presence—a whisper, a shadow, a dream of something remembered.
    Other demons envied him. Some hated him openly. He had what they wanted and did not know how to get. He was older and wiser and stronger and more immune to the trappings of humanness that still tore at them like razors. His insights into humans were deeper. His assimilation of both demon and human worlds was more complete. He undertook the challenges that interested him and gave himself over to the studies that intrigued him.
    Except that every once in a while the Void reminded him there was a price for everything and choice was not always an option, no matter who he was . . .
    He watched Penny emerge from the church, red hair uncoiling from her head like a mass of severed electrical wires, gawky form working its way along the sidewalk and across the street, a poorly made marionette, jerked and tugged by invisible strings. He smiled indulgently, watching her progress. Outwardly, she was a mess, but one couldn’t always judge a book by its cover. Inside, she was twisted and corrosive and lethal. Penny Dreadful. She’d heard that the name