Nobody you need to worry about, little guide.

[ He spreads his hand beneath Iggy's fingers, inviting his touch. His fingers are long and thin, never recovered from the illness that prompted his turning. His nails are glossy and translucent, like glass, and naturally pointed, razor-edged.

He looks into Iggy's eyes, listening to his fear. ]

I do not seek to profane the ancient order and upset the dead. Call me Armand.