[ Jean-Claude is such a showman, she can't really be blamed; even now, he accepts his empty wine glass and twirls it by the stem idly, lounging back in his chair with one leg crossed over the other with all the poise of someone being photographed. Only he remains that way, indefinitely, his normal lounging position.

It is flattering to be the object of such concentrated attention by one as esteemed as the Devil himself, and Jean-Claude does enjoy being flattered. He doesn't quite preen, but he looks supremely comfortable. The joking does not bother him at all. ]

The line of who made whom; she who made me was made by Belle Morte. We inherit much of our abilities that way. Calling her Grandmémère is not a bad comparison. I have no such titles. [ He smiles with more than a hint of wickedness beneath it. ] I am simply Jean-Claude.