“I wasn't undead bashing.” Harold was sure his scowl was lost to Dill but Gillian's near-perfect night vision would have caught it. “Not as such. I was postulating the unlikelihood of there being a purpose for those of the undead who are forced to prey upon the living. I don't mean yu, Gillian. I can count the number of people you've killed on one hand but Dill here has to slaughter mortals to continue his existence.”
“Which frees their souls earlier than they would otherwise have had to wait?” Harold could hear Gillian's smile, even if he couldn't see it.
“Well, that's a point of view, I suppose.” He shone the torch about. “Where's Lucy?”
“Here, safe and sound.” Jasfoup's eyes gleamed red in the beam of light as he passed the child to Harold. She clung to him, her fingers digging into the soft leather of his nephilim jacket.
He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. “There, there, love. All safe again.”
“That's some definition of the word 'safe' I wasn't previously aware of.” Dill pouted from floor lever. “What am I supposed to do with fourteen broken bones, eh?”
“Slither?” Jasfoup's laughter was forced and nasal.
“Where's the little fellow, anyway? I haven't seen him for an hour or more.”
“Not since we freed the golems.”
“Skiving little bugger.” Harold clicked his fingers.