The condescending words are enough to make Armand's eyes first widen in shock, then narrow with distaste. He endures it, having endured far worse from less gentle hands, while training his gaze on the steady throb of John's pulse in his neck. The touch to the top of his head, to his cheek, is not so easy to ignore -- he starts, his eyes round with outrage, and snaps up a hand to grab John's wrist before he can pull his hand away.

"I do not need your advice, necromancer," he hisses, digging his thumb in hard against the collection of veins and fragile bones, feeling the stutter of his pulse. A small point to prove, against a creature who can stop death with a gesture, but Armand's pride is a thing made of jagged glass.

He sends a hook into John's mind, trawling for vulnerabilities. It's like sinking his fingers into oil-drenched sand, like tuning into queasy static on the radio. He can only get fragments, scraps of humanity floating in a tar pool of grief.

Armand's face changes; his grip slackens.

"What are you?" He repeats, now far more wary.