“He lost too much blood,” says Sol Weintraub. He touches the dead priest’s face, his own eyes closed, head bowed. “Great,” says Silenus. “Fucking great. And according to his own story, Hoyt’s going to decompose and recompose, thanks to that goddamned cruciform thing … two of the goddamn things, the guy’s rich in resurrection insurance … and then come lurching back like some brain-damaged edition of Hamlet’s daddy’s ghost. What are we going to do then?”
