Chapter 5, A Bookshop Moves to Tadfield
Sandalphon enters a derelict thatched cottage surrounded by weedy fields on the outskirts of Tadfield. Where in Hell is the bastard? Should have been here already, waiting for him. Sandalphon uneasily wonders if it could be a setup. Michael is a shifty bitch. She'd already coopted one high-ranking demon, for Heaven's sake.
A mound appears in the dirt floor of the primitive cottage. Hastur rises from the earth.
You're late. Hell's travel bureau functioning as smoothly as always, I take it?
Shut it, you fat little faggot.
Hastur makes a rollup, lights it with his hand, takes a drag.
You aren't thinking you can go wandering around the town looking like that, are you?
That's what you're here for, faggot.
I'd punch you for that, but I don't want to get my gloves dirty. Keep it up, though, and I'll take that risk.
They continue to glare at one another while Hastur finishes his rollup. Hastur recollects a past encounter with Sandalphon. The little prick was deceptively strong. And liked sucker punches.
You can drive a car?
Of course. (Sandalphon has only taken a driver's education two weeks before, in preparation for this mission.)
Probably not as good as Crowley can.
Hastur snickers mainly to discomfit Sandalphon, not because he admires Crowley's driving skill. Hardly. Contemplates just how much he'll enjoy seeing that little runt Crowley fry and sizzle like a sausage. Beelzebub had reincorporated Hastur promptly after Crowley discorporated him by driving through Odegra. But after that disastrous Holy Water trial, Beelzebub had sent him for a visit to the sulfur pools while his Earth passport renewal papers shuffled their way through Hell's bureaucracy. And she'd told them that it wasn't a rush job.
While Hastur and Sandalphon's charming dialog continues, another angel and demon pair are conversing in Aziraphale's cozy back room. Crowley is relaxed against a couple of big puffy damask pillows propped along the arm of Victorian settee, doing an excellent male imitation of Manet's Olympia, only without the little black neck ribbon. And with more body hair.
Aziraphail, wearing a rather tatty antique cut velvet lounge robe, hands Crowley a glass of sherry, settles himself comfortably in his armchair.
Well, what the fuck, Aziraphale? We know Agnes is never wrong, but what the fuck?
Crowley, please, watch your language.
Crowley nearly strains something trying to do an eyeroll with snake eyes.
No. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Go right ahead and use whatever language you please. This situation seems to require some strong terms, doesn't it?
What I don't understand is that you seem to be the intended victim. Why you? What have you ever done to anyone? I'm the one who melted Ligur and discorporated Hastur.
I'm baffled, too, Crowley. It's not like I've ever indulged myself with smiting. Or murder. Spent all my time trying to discourage those things, actually. Nor did I agree with many policy decisions, but of course they never consulted me. I was always just left to deal with the situation on the ground.
Unlike that prick Sandalphon. Why does Gabriel tolerate him, anyway? He'd make a good replacement for Ligur.
I think Gabriel prefers to keep his holy hands clean, and let Sandalphon do the dirty work.
Typical. The juice that powers Heaven's corporate structure seems to be hypocrisy, doesn't it?
Before what happened to you – I mean, what was supposed to happen to me – I would have denied that. Now I feel differently. They blamed me for the failure of their Great Plan, instead of their own pig headedness. More sherry? We may as well finish the bottle.
Please. Good stuff. Where'd you get it?
I was sent to Cordoba about 50 years ago. Wonderful little bodega there. Terrific amontillado. Managed to convince my vintner to stock several cases. Had to part with an edition of Nostradamus at a discount, but he's into occultism and is a steady customer. The book wasn't in the greatest of shape, so I wasn't too heartbroken.
They sit silently, sipping their sherry, caressing one another with their eyes. Crowley finishes his, waits until Aziraphale does likewise.
Angel, push that hassock over here and sit beside me.
Aziraphale obliges. Loosens the sash on his robe, leans in and puts an arm across Crowley's hips.
I think a bout of Divine Ecstasy is in order?
