You see the question coming from a mile away. It's a wonder the interviewer had held out so long; his gaze had been flicking toward and away from your horns the entire time. There's a thin chain around his neck, and you'd bet a dollar to a dime that there's a crucifix hanging from it. One tends to notice such things when they get spritzed with holy water as often as you do.

"Just one last question." The interviewer gestures vaguely. "Your, ah..."

"Horns?" you say, making him wince slightly. "What about them?"

The man swallows, gathers his courage. "Any relation to Lucifer?"

"None whatsoever."

"I see. Would you terribly mind..." He ducks behind his desk and pulls out a Bible. "Would you mind touching this for me? I don't mean to insinuate you're not honest with me, it's just..."

You lean forward and lay your palm atop the faux-leather cover, then lift it. No burns. The interviewer exhales and slumps back in his seat.

"I am sorry about this," he says in a tone much warmer than before. "It's just that our company deals with Celestials sometimes, and employing someone related to the other place might cause all sorts of awkwardness."

You fake a smile. "No worries. I understand completely."

"Good. Excellent." He eyes your horns again. "But if it's not Luciferian heritage, may I ask..."

You suppress a sigh. "Dragon."

"Good lord! How did that happen?"

You fake a smile. "My grandfather was an adventurous man."

"I... see." The interviewer shakes his head. "Sorry, I bet you get questions like that a lot. We'll call you back tomorrow, all right? Thanks for your time." He rises and extends his hand over the desk.

You get up to shake it, and that's when it hits you. A wondrous smell-that's-not-a-smell, reaching out to some primal hunger slumbering deep inside you. Your fingers come short of touching his hand and instead close upon his fancy cufflinks. Your breathing quickens as you roll the decorated metal between your fingers. The man stares at you, then tugs at his sleeve, but you don't let go. Can't.

"What are you doing? Hey. Hey!" He yanks his sleeve free and glowers. "What's come over you, man?"

"I..." You shake your head as reality crashes back on you. "I'm so sorry. It's just—I couldn't help it, they're so nice, gold, genuine gold—"

"Whatever." The man motions roughly at the door. "I think we're done here."

You mutter an apology and flee, clenching your fists. Damn it, blew it again.