Thursday, December 27, 2012

Dead Rite chapter 133.28

Harold shone the torch about, despite the beam being noticeably weaker now. “Where did he go?”

“Presumably to do your bidding.”

“No, I mean...” Harold threw up his arms, sending the beam of light to dance crazily about the cramped chamber. “He used to open a little window in the air and step through it. Now he just vanishes and reappears in a cloud of smoke.”

“Ah. That could be my fault.” Dill shuffled to what appeared to be a more comfortable position, assuming Zombies could actually process the concept of comfort. “We had quite the chat, he and I, while I was hiding from the police on the roof of your house. He told me about the imp tunnels and I might have told him about magic shows.”

Jasfoup looked at Harold, then back to Dill. “Illusionists, you mean? The parlour trick brigade? Smoke and mirrors?”

“Yes. There was nothing wrong with that, was there?”

“I suppose not.” The demon frowned, his eyes red in the beam of light from Harold's phone. “We all use a bit of theatrical pomp now and then. I blame Goethe. Since he wrote Faustus everyone expects the red smoke and burning flames of hell.”

“Hell doesn't have burning flames?”

“Only when the weather turns chilly.”

“That'd not strictly true, though, is it?” Harold checked his phone for messages, his face lit from below like a campfire story teller. “You still have the fire pits and the rains of boiling blood.”

“True.” Jasfoup took something from his pocket. “But not on Sundays.”

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