“It's all the rage, I'm told.” Aziraphale picked up the second glass, his mouth suddenly as dry as Golgotha. “Good for the digestive tract.”
“I sincerely doubt that. I've always found a single malt followed by the rest of the bottle was the best thing for mine. What's in it, anyway?”
“Spinach. Whey powder. Wheatgrass. All natural ingredients.”
“So is horse dung.” Crowley sniffed at the glass. “Which coincidentally is what this smells like.”
“Stop complaining.” Aziraphale grimaced. “It might alleviate your flatulence.”
Ligur padded up the slime encrusted steps and knocked on the door to Hastur's quarters. The elder demon opened it wearing a white gown and nightcap and carrying a saucered candle. He yawned, pointedly. “Ligur. I might have guessed. Do you know what time it is?”
“January. I can't sleep.”
“So? I warned you about torturing those people with an end-of-the-world prophesy until all weeks.”
“It's not that.” Ligur incy-wincy-spidered his fingers. “Can I sleep with you?”
“Oh dear Lucifer! Why?”
“I think there's an angel under my bed waiting to get me.”
Demon wings are the same as angel wings. But no two sets of wings on either side are exactly the same.
Beelzebub and Metatron bore flames instead of feathers, red and gold.
Azrael’s were wing-shaped holes in space, star-sprinkled.
Hastur, since the incident at Arkham, had become famous among demonologists for his wings; brimstone yellow. Ligur’s were shadowy grey. Vague memories of gold and silver wings occasionally nagged at Crowley.
As he sat beside Aziraphale, the angel’s white wings brushed against Crowley’s black. One like pearl, the other like an oil slick. Both shone with rainbows, in the right light.
Police Constable Ryan Marsh looked away, regretting his lunchtime prawn and pickle baguette. "I'm sorry sir." He paused while the whine of the low loader made speech impossible. "This vehicle matches paint traces from one used in a hit and run last Tuesday. It's being impounded pending further investigation.."
"Good grief." Aziraphale watch them strap the Bentley down. "Do you know a good lawyer?"
Crowley looked at the receipt the policeman had handed him. "I know all the lawyers."
This week's challenge is: Grief. Have fun!
- Current Mood: busy
Thunderclouds gathered over the field, as if at the drawing of a furrowed brow. The first fat drops began to fall, raising small clouds of dust where they hit the sun-baked ground and mingling with the red stain of blood, making it glisten.
Heedless of the rain, Aziraphale stood unseen in the centre of the field, eyes fixed on the place Cain had disappeared back into the trees. "How could you?" he murmured.
"Don't look at me," came an indignant hiss from the stubble near his feet. "I fear they're going to be rather more inventive than we ever expected."
Lady Macbeth sleeps soundly after the thing is done; kings, to her thinking, make better bedmates than thanes, even kings with damp kilts and delusions of cutlery.
And the stench of another man's blood on his arms follows her into her dreaming.
There, she meets a woman, whose breath, dreamed, is warm with waking blood's tang. Breath like a sword held under the nostrils, against the skin.
The woman says: "Hey there, tiger. You just hit the jackpot," and smiles bright as firelight on glass.
"Majesty," she adds, kissing Lady Macbeth's white hand.
(Her mouth, dry and unpainted, leaves a mark.)
"Accidental death, surely? He jumped out in front of me. I couldn't avoid him."
"After you chased him along three streets and through a pedestrian alleyway." Hastur examined the paint scrapings on the wall. "The Powers aren't going to like this. They frown on us killing mortals. Takes away free will."
"An accident." Ligur gestured and all the flecks of red Firebird paint changed to glossy black.
"What was the point of that?"
"Now they'll be looking for a black 1926 Bentley."