"Some bigger."
I said, "I haven't gotten bigger. If anything, I've gotten smaller."
"And you won't get bigger because each night you're at full strength. And even during the day you're not completely incapacitated."
"No," I said. "Even though I feel weaker during the day, I'm still far stronger than I used to be."
I recalled my boxing match with the Marine last year, the match that had occurred just before sundown. Sure, I had felt like crap, but I was still strong enough to take down America's finest.
"Also," added Kingsley, reaching over and cutting off a chunk of my nearly raw steak, "it's just the nature of my kind."
"For the host to grow big," I said.
"Right. We all have our quirks."
"I think your quirks are better than my quirks," I said.
"And who among us can fly?" he asked.
I thought about that. "Good point."
As the water refilled our glasses of wine, Kingsley asked what I was working on these days. I told him about my latest case, and as I did so, Kingsley began nodding. Turns out he'd seen the fight live on HBO.
"Wasn't much of a punch," he said. "Not enough to kill a man."
"Or so we think," I said. After all, I had done some research on the subject. "We still don't know his condition prior to the fight, or the amount of punches he'd taken in practice and other fights."
Kingsley shrugged. "True. Either way, it wasn't much of a punch; in fact, I thought the fight was pretty even up to that point. What's your gut tell you?"