“Who are you?” An old man shot up in bed and pressed his back to the headboard. “What are you?” “What do you think?” Ashbury raised his lantern to the gnarled, scarred side of his face and took pleasure in the vicar’s anguished whimper. “A demon come to drag you to Hell, you miserable wretch.” “To Hell? M-me?” “Yes, you. You crusty botch of nature. You poisonous bunch-backed toad.
