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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