Following him through the hall, she was strangely amused. She watched him place bibles on the same spot at every door. She's not heard of hunters doing this for cultists before. She wondered if all of them did it, it only this man. Most cultists didn't give a damn about life outside of the demon they worshipped, and they certainly didn't want to be "saved". She also wondered if the hunters knew that, once the cultists realize their lord had been murdered, most of these men and women kill themselves, believing their souls will be guided by that of their lord. Some lucky few will find themselves migrating into a different demon's cult. Even fewer find escape. Most of the people here believe in their lords. This was their one place of escape, acceptance and safety. At the measly price of their mortal soul. 

Just as she wanted to tell him to wait, he stopped. The whiskey. It may soften him up a bit more, but she somehow doubted that. "In the pantry," she stated, turning to the kitchen. She disappeared into the pantry for a long moment, reappearing with two bottles. They were still sealed, a black and silver label printed into the glass.

They opened the front door, the storm raging outside. She was not looking forward to getting drenched and chilled in this thing that could barely be called an outfit. Sometimes, she felt the slightest bit jealous over the demons' thick skin. They were barely ever affected by temperatures and weather. As she stood there, bracing herself to step out, a door slammed shut somewhere in the rear of the house, making her head whip back. She thought for a second, then grabbed the hunter's wrist, pulling him outside, "We have to go. Now!" She clutched the bottles under the other arm, forgetting she wanted to give them to him to put in his bag. There was no more time to dally around this house.