By all rights, Sidney should be dead. Once, he'd been thrown through the windshield of a Toyota Prius, hitting the pavement at about 40 MPH. He'd left one hell of a red smear behind, and he'd been back at the bars only a few nights later. Then there was the time that's ass-hole Dylan stabbed him through the ribs with a pocket knife. The blade slid up, clipped his heart, and he'd bled like a boar.
By all rights, he should be dead.
Injuries never seem to take to him. Give him a few days and even the worst damage will have mended itself, leaving him in pristine fighting form. Nothing's killed him yet, but he's not sure if that means he's actually unkillable. Half the time, he's not in the mood to find out.
Never one to look a gift-horse in the mouth, Sidney's avoided digging into the truth behind his fantastic healing ability. It feels wrong to pry, because he knows damn well something's been prying right back. It's hard for him to explain the sensation he gets sometimes, that insect-skitter up his spine, the way the meat shifts beneath his skin, and that constant sound of ringing bells coming from somewhere almost, but not quiet, too far away for him to hear.