Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Dead Rite chapter 130.01

Harold rubbed his eyes and tried to ignore the pounding in his temples. It was either a headache or a case of extreme anger, either of which would probably relegate his reason and logical thought to a Tupperware container in the refrigerator of his mind.

His cheek was pressed against the cold marble tiles of a cathedral floor. His face felt numb and, now that he came to think about it, his ribs hurt so much he felt he'd been given a thoroughly good kicking by Nancy Sinatra. He pushed himself up and twisted around, the familiar sight of gilded statuary and the smell of stale incence reminding him just where he was. It might be a cathedral but no god had ever graced its walls.

A glance toward the altar confirmed Gillian was still a captive of the Legionnaires. The name struck a memory, and he imagined the twisting black spirals as cartoon dachshunds and he grinned suddenly.

“Is there something that amuses you, Mr Waterman?”

Harold looked to the left of the altar. Manoach advanced several steps, his demon accomplices swirling around him. He looked as if he was trying to remain calm in the face of adversity, which just made Harold grin all the more.

“There is, rather. All that--” He waved a hand at his own head “--was your attempt to get me to take a demon willingly, wasn't it? You found I'm too strong to be forced but it might work if I invited one inside.”

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