. . .

She looks around. She stares at the receptionist, who is cowering. She says, “Clean this up, would you?”

Then she scoops up a diamond or two, because you never know, and she dashes out.

Bertram places a call. One of his soldiers answers it. He nods. He hangs up. He unlimbers his holy water squirt-gun.

“Sorry, kid,” he says, to Linus.

“It’s just,” Linus says, because this kind of thing actually happen to him quite a lot, “that I’m the antichrist. Right?”

<< . . .

. . . >>