Bab 209: Lucifer Calls

Vallon-de-Grâce was quiet at eight o'clock. Solemn. Shrouded in auras of mist and nightly scents. The firmament above was without light, gray and moonless. The entire parsonage reeked of pure myrrh and burning spices—but the good kind.

The smoking sage to ward off the unwanted wights. The absinthe to absolve wandering souls. And the incense to host proper an ambience in which the Holy Ones might dwell. In one of the sanctuaries on this Vicar's lot, Israfel and his friends had just materialized out of thin air, before a clergyman.

"Welcome to the Martyr's cathedral," that old voice said. The bearer of it stepped into the light. A greying man in a long black cassock was revealed. It was the Highfather.