Norman Thackeray obsessively wiped the bar at the Mouldy Finch pub with his grey rag, a ritual he performed with almost religious devotion. He’d scrubbed it a half-dozen times in the last three minutes, always in a counter-clockwise motion, as he’d been taught by his father.
Maximillian Sitz, the vampire that John Readman had pursued across an ocean and a continent, was dead. Or dead again. Once undead, now most definitely doubly dead.
“Aren’t you embarrassed?” Asked the blonde news anchor of Wake Up! Waterloo. “I’m sorry?” Sarah asked, running her hands down the front of her smart gray suit. That question hadn’t been on the list her publicist had sent over.
“Aren’t you embarrassed?” Asked the blonde news anchor of Wake Up! Waterloo. “I’m sorry?” Sarah asked, running her hands down the front of her smart gray suit. That question hadn’t been on the list her publicist had sent over.
“Mommy. My brain is, is, is buzzing.” “Brains don’t buzz, babygirl.”
‘The Dawning Basilica has no place for this “cloak and dagger” nonsense’ the bishop huffed, gesticulating wildly as the twisting haze of incense rose behind him.
My granny says only grifters and idiots get religion. I learned which one of those my momma was when my stepdad Russel came along.
