Marcus whistles at the mention of a house. Exorcists get nothing so fancy — certainly not excommunicated exorcists, anyway. His days are spent in his truck and in motels, or occasionally on the sofas of various friends willing to risk the potential ire of the Church.

The question makes his lips twitch, eyes crinkling as he smiles. "Business, I s'pose. Work, anyway. Business implies I get paid for it beyond, you know, charitable donations from the occasional grateful relative. I dropped in as a favour for a friend of mine, heard word about a possible possession, but wasn't what it looked like. Just a very old man being treated like shit by his kids. Managed to pull some strings, got him away from them. But the motel's paid up for a little while longer, courtesy of that pal of mine, and." He shrugs, takes another long swallow of beer. "You know. Gift horses, something something."

He can't justify wasting the expense by moving on just now, but he's antsy too: he doesn't like being without anything to do.