'Otter blood?' Both Crowley's eyebrows go up this time, but his voice holds nothing more than mild curiosity. One of those vampires, then, who sticks to animals and blood-bags from hospitals, the ones one reads about in overwrought novels about the angst between the centuries-old vampire protagonist and the woman he loves. (That was one of Crowley's; he'd been very proud of that).

'Wine for me, thanks. Never really developed the taste for blood.'