The Known/Unknown Quantity

Chapter 113 : Sight for Sore Eyes

Chapter 113: Sight for Sore Eyes

Shadwell's eyes bulged as he found himself being lifted up by his collar. With improbable strength the demon pulled him up into the air, holding him marginally higher that his own head. The toes of his shoes at first scraped, and then dangled over the floor. Now he was looking into the turbulent horror that was Crowley's expression, and those flaming eyes held him in their grip.

He had no time to react.

The demon seemed to be struggling with something in his frenzy. His brow kept furrowing, then rising, working like a slinky. He squinted but never really blinked. Finally, Crowley cursed, wrestled to free his thumb and forefinger from Shadwell's coat, and snapped them together.

The world blurred for a moment from Shadwell's vision, and then abruptly he was standing on an odd street corner, trying to regain his balance.

After a bewildering minute, he collected himself. "He wanted no arguments, I'suppose," the witchfinder muttered, instinctively touching his coat and head. Spying around, he brusquely realized where he had been transported.

Crowley wanted to make well and good that he was out of harm's way. The flat must be blocks from here.

"And no money for a cab," the older man groused. So, after some inner deliberation, and steeling his nerves, he purposefully set forth, then started jogging down the street, puffing and wheezing thru the afternoon crowds.

No matter what, you can't leave a man behind.

The woman on the roof continued chanting, clearing her mind of the vague angst she felt at knowing what the dukes of Hell could do to her, if she failed. She centered a small part of her energy on the demon's eyes and eyelids, and felt him push back with jaw-dropping strength. How could he be so strong!

Do they know how powerful he's grown, she found herself faltering. She readjusted. He's become stronger than they!

But maybe he has no knowledge of it.

Stretching her red rimmed lips into a smile, she concentrated harder, and broke thru.

And with that done, she focused the remainder of her magic into her living weapon.

The thing known as "Jinny" righted itself, and remembered.

It remembered form, and function. Its mission and desires. It had a name and a goal once more. Whatever recollection it retained of its maker ebbed away and it took on her characteristics.

The daughter the spitting image of the mother, the mother the spitting image of the Tyrant.

And turning triumphantly around, she appraised the glowing mirrors as they opened up like windows to a stark half-lit flat, and saw, standing there with his arms raised, her target as exposed as an open wound to the salt of the sea.

Crowley couldn't blink.

This wouldn't have been a concern in the past. Often he just forgot. It didn't affect him until he noticed, and in some cases there was this really neat trick he performed involving his exceptionally long tongue that produced the same results.

It didn't set well with the angel, to see that. Actually, made him turn green. So, Crowley didn't attempt it often.

And he didn't now, because his mouth had gone dry, the moisture slowly replaced by the taste of acid.