Harold danced backwards, a leap he suspected felt more elegant than it looked to judged by the misplaced footing when he landed. Had he not had the element of surprise the demon would have opened him up from shoulder to spleen. It was, he had to admit, the first time he'd ever relied on the virgin Mary to help out in a crises, but the bottle of holy water from Lourdes had served to distract the demons for the second or two he'd needed.
Nothing ever worked as well as it did it films. Harold had expected the blessed liquid to burn like acid into the flesh of Manoach's demonkin, but all it had done make them step back in fear when they saw the Virgin-shaped bottle. It had been a fake, probably bought at the airport and filled from a tap on the way home.
“That wasn't blessed at all.” Harold rubbed his shoulder where he'd slipped and slammed it into a stone pillar. He glanced across at Jasfoup, who was fumbling with the inside pocket of his jacket. “Where did it come from?”
“Devious.” Just voicing the name of the imp responsible made Harold's gooseflesh shiver. As infernal servants went, imps were the most hard-working and the most reluctant to do a mortal master's bidding. It certainly explained why the water hadn't been blessed. Imps were as likely to be burned by the stuff as a demon of higher standing. Harold wouldn't have put it past him to have stolen the bottle and filled it with urine.