In the early hours Bishop Francis, under the shelter of the cloisters, stood gazing out at the machine-gun rain bouncing off the neat square of bright green grass. Every minute for the past week the ‘book’ was constantly on his mind. When he wasn’t running his fingers over the cool surface of its symbols and studying everything he could about the box and its contents, he was enjoying its life-enhancing powers. Day by day he watched the Cathedral fill up with the worried well as he grew healthy and stronger. Sleep came to him less and less: at first his dreams dwindled to nothing and then finally he gave up rest all together as it was no longer needed. He was reaching the point where he was unsure whether, all that was happening to him was real or part of a vast illusion whilst at the same time not caring. It was all too late, and he was enjoying the intoxicating rush of power.
In The Devil's Own Words