Something dead approaches. It isn’t dangerous because it’s strong — and it’s ungodly strong. It isn’t dangerous because it’s fast — and, oh Christ, it’s fast! It’s dangerous because the prey see something beautiful in it. The prey want to be devoured. These dead things sway, as fascinating as bioluminescence in the endless dark. They are the smoking mirror. They are the glowing orb at the end of a stalk, dangling over a great, glass-fanged mouth.

The Daeva are all allure and objectification. They embody the social horror of vampirism more elementally than any other clan, because they exploit mortal hungers to feed their immortal ones. They are exploitation. They do not hide so much as clothe themselves in the images we’ve constructed — of beauty and charm. They co-opt all the things we want to be and want to fuck.

The Serpents arose from the sticky musk of the ancient world. River tides teased the gaping valleys to frothing fertility. The elder nights throbbed with temple music. Priests and priestesses practiced their love arts for coin — communion of the cunt and the cock. There was no difference between god and demon or sex and worship. In that space between, the Daeva curse gestated. They reveled in that time and place where deities cared enough to do horrible things to you directly. But the world turned. The capital “G” God changed the paradigm. When they could no longer be gods, the Daeva became succubi and incubi. The world turned again. Tonight, when it is no longer practical to be a demon, the Daeva become zeitgeists. They are the walking dead personifications of the future bias. “I’ll resist tomorrow.”

Let the other clans skulk and lope. The Daeva strut through their damnation. They’ve danced down the centuries as both Madonna and Babylon whore. The thing we want is the thing we shun. They are the perfect predators. They are paragons. If only it didn’t get harder and harder to enjoy. Stimulus fills the hole, but also erodes it wider. Yet the Serpents will never stop striving. They know that if you’re not the one doing, then you’re the one being done. The Daeva are never done.

The Daeva of Paradi City revel in an endless party, at face value. The city teems with millions upon millions of fresh faces for the Serpents to peruse through. There's a new party every night and one could spend centuries never visiting the same place twice. Paradi is a gluttonous banquet for the Daeva's atrophied soul and hungry Beast.

In a world that worships the self, as new micro-gods of social media and trend-setters rise and fall, it's never been easier to be successful as a narcissist. It might not be practical to be a demon but history is often circular and many of the clan sense the changing of the seasons. It won't be long before it becomes fashionable to be a deity once more and the Greco-Roman festivities can begin anew. Depending who you ask, they already have.