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No one should be that good at math, even if they are a fiend from Hell.”
I am being held captive underground by a vampire wearing body glitter, with the remains of a Yorkshire accent and apparently no sense of irony at all.
He looked down at the rose in his other hand, its neck drooping like a tubercular heroine’s, and felt abruptly and horribly sorry for it: for the fact that it had been grown somewhere, fed and watered and nurtured, and cut and brought all the way here to this airport to be bought and given to someone, to make them smile, and here it was with him instead, dying in his hand. Thwarted of its purpose. Its small brief life all wasted.
Looked again at the drooping stem of the rose—and with another of those impulsive choices, cut the stem off short with a slice of his thumbnail, and tucked it into the buttonhole of his lapel. Against the dark grey of his suit, its bright peach-coral petals looked undeniably, absurdly brave.
QUIS EST ISTE QUI VENIT.
The world was, as several of his kind had taken pains to point out, a terrible old vale of tears in which unspeakable things occurred with depressing regularity.
I’m honestly less worried about ripples in the fabric of reality right now than I am about a murderous group of baby vampires infesting the undercity, which is probably not the most farsightful or balanced thing I’ve ever said—
