“Bingo.” The zombie stepped back as the door slid open.
Harold risked a look inside. The room looked to be a workshop, a production line of sorts where a line of people worked on something. He recognised a pile of the black cubes destined to become spirit cages. This then was where they were made, each person inscribing one of the sigils before passing it to the next. Judging by the completed pile, he estimated there were enough cubes to completely enslave the residents of the whole of Laverstone. Perhaps even Salisbury.
A dozen people turned to the open door, their eyes lacking both white and iris. They stood as one, their movement curiously choreographed, as if they were puppets merely doing their master's bidding. “Which means...” Harold looked up. The walls were twice the hight of normal, the upper half of which being widows of the room beyond. A figure regarded him from behind the glass. “Is that...”
“Manoach. About time we came across him.” Jasfoup gave the demon a coquettish wave, like a virgin signalling desire for the most handsome man at the dance.
Gillian thrust Lucy at Harold. “The minions don't seem all that pleased to see us.”
“They're not going to fight us, surely?” Harold turned to Jasfoup. “Weren't we on his side? Or were we working for Legion? I can't remember now.”
“I'm on the side of not becoming discombobulated.” Jasfoup lifted Lucy out of his arms. “I think you're going to need both hands for this one.”
Dill entered behind them, took one look at the advancing, hollow-eyes figures and muttered a single phrase. “Oh shit.” He backed out again.