There was a way of looking at people that Tarabotti had. The Templars might say it was the look of a demon spawn. Mr. Tarabotti had narrowed it to a more plausible cause: that hooked nose and the dark eyes bestowed upon him by generations of preternaturals who also happened to be Italian. There was something about them that amplified the contempt and disdain in the way he looked down at people.

Or it could be the Templars were right, after a fashion. Being called demon spawn for a good deal of your childhood didn't improve one's manners. Speaking of which...

"The English have a phrase: respect your elders, since you seem determined to label me as one, it should apply. Although you are American. I shouldn't expect that much of you."

He'd met several. They had a habit of standing much too close. At least the crowd spared him the young man from inflicting that much suffering.

"My advice-- if you can't control your mouth, use silence."

He was keen to take his own advice though less that he trusted his words. He saw no use for them now that the youth had failed to prove his worth, at least on a consistent basis. There would be time later to test his future worth. For now he had a crowd to herd.