“She does?” Harold couldn't help his smile. It was one thing not to be attracted to someone who could make nightmares flee in terror but quite another to be told they were as fond of you as you weren't of them.
“Of course she does. That's why she agreed to do this in the first place. It was a chance to shine, to do you a favour. Harold?” He clicked his fingers in front of Harold's face. “You've got that stupid smile on your face. You're not even listening to me, are you? You're thinking about how you could be persuaded to the idea of dating a succubus, aren't you?” He gave Harold a sharp but surprisingly gentle slap across the cheek.
“Ow. What?” Harold lifted a hand to rub his face. “What did you do that for?”
“To save you from yourself, mate.” Jasfoup propelled him toward the stairs. “There's no use mooning over a succubus when there's works to be done.”
“To extract a soul from a post-human?” Jasfoup tutted. “Honestly, Harold, you'd forget your head if you had it cut off.”
“If I had my head cut off I'd think I'd be a bit more concerned about the unexpected cessation of life.” He headed up the stairs, glancing at the huge picture if Iesu praying at the garden of Gethsemane. The artist had got it all wrong, of course, depiccting him as a white anglo-saxon with hippy hair and a beard. Harold had met Iesu and he looked nothing like that. Swarthy, close-cropped hair and clean-shaven. Also Jewish. People generally forget that.