Monday, October 7, 2013

Dead Rite chapter 159.08

“Too late.” A demon slipped out of the press next to Harold's elbow. “Too late to pretend the mortal said nothing.” The demon had two long arms terminating in stumps but he held them high and forward, as if perpetually surprised. “Too late to slip away into the dark underbelly of the city where everyone knows nothing about anything. Too late to deny curiosity.” The demon lowered one of its stumped and trailed it lightly across Harold's cheek. “What is this mortal?” He looked up at Jasfoup. “Is it yours?”

“Not exactly.” Jasfoup pushed the stump away from Harold's face. “He's his own, or so he likes to believe. A nephilim of high order.”

“Ah. Fast track applicant, eh?” The demon shuffled its mouth parts in a vertical slit. The process was reminiscent of a spider weaving silk with its spinnerets, only with extra drool. “Well, don't bother telling me whose progeny it is.”

“We weren't going to.” Jasfoup placed an arm across Harold's shoulders. “This way, Harold.”

“Wait.” The demon scuttled in front of them on, Harold noticed, four slender legs which bent obversely like the base of a machine gun. “I've already been served. You can tell me who his father is. By the time you leave here I'll have gone hunting so no harm done.”

“Except the chances are you'll be hunting us.”

“You?” The demon hooted through whatever passed for its nostrils. “Of course not. Why would I want to hunt you. You can't be that important, surely?”

“Important? Me? No, not at all.” Harold forced a laugh. “I'm nobody, me.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Just a kid lucky enough to find a demon and bend it to my service.”

“Lucky? That you have bound a soul collector marks you as a lot more than lucky my friend.” The demon drew closer, the mouth spinnerets snuffling lightly over Harold's flesh. “You have seraph blood in you, eh? Are you Gabriel's get?”

“Down here? Have you gone mad?” Jasfoup bundled him toward the counter. One of the sales assistants had already made time in their busy schedule to serve them. The demon lifted itself on its four legs and rose to a height of eight or nine feet. What Harold had taken for stumps on the ends of its arms turned out to be inverted elbows, its arms unfolding like a praying mantis.

“Then whose?” The demon frowned. “Hayot? No, It hasn'r descended. Merkabah wouldn't dare and
Tetramorph would never stoop to...” Quick as a flash it caught Harold's arm. “Was your mother a Pterahound?”

Jasfoup groaned as a tentacled beast took their place. “Out.” He said, grabbing the nearest of its appendages. “That's our damned spot.”

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