saying this once. I don’t care what a bunch of old men—and they are all men, aren’t they?—I don’t care what they say about Michael, whether they think he has a soul or not, whether he’s worthy enough to be freed or whether he’s going to be left here to rot for as long as his batteries last, slowly going mad in the dark. He is my friend, and I will not let him die.
“What?” said the priest.
“Stay away from Lucy. If I find you’ve so much as glanced in her direction, I’ll gut you from neck to navel with a rusty spoon. You can tell Cardinal Ximenez that, too.”
“That’s not…” Father John gave up. “You can’t stop them. Your cooperation is not necessary.”
This time, Petrovitch did give the priest his middle finger. “You’re about to find out just how wrong you are.” He climbed up, and out of sight.
The crowd shifted nervously. They were missing something, but couldn’t tell what. Most of them started to drift away. Others, the hardcore watchers, decided that they’d wait for someone to tell them what had happened.
BY SIMON MORDEN
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Simon Morden
Excerpt from
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First eBook Edition: May 2011
ISBN: 978-0-316-17541-8
