I watched, with a kind of growing horror and fascination, as Nancy continued speaking. The thief had the panicked look of an animal being tracked, hunted, cornered, her nails digging into the chair. Her eyes kept darting back to me.
The thief watched as Tzedekiel’s arms lowered, talons flashing in the reflected light from the interrogation lamp. The detective flashed another nervous look at the massive gargoyle. The angel had been on the verge of gutting the constable after the thug had struck her. Tzedekiel didn’t even seem to realize it, his eyes flashing as they moved from the detective, to her, to the constable, and back again.
Yeah, it’s time for that talk. You see, when an eldritch horror and an overly curious human love each other very very much…
The noblest of intentions do not excuse a crime
I leaned over as Jack and I sat at the red light, and checked the box in her lap. “How are those files going?”
There is an art to a proper beating. Damaging enough to hurt, not so damaging that it kills the victim. The parade of padded knuckles and body blows that can leave a victim brutalized without giving a hint of how badly they’ve been beaten. The nose unbroken, the body free of bruises, the skin not contused. The art of the abusive husband. The art of the secret bully. The art of the police officer. The sequence practiced by those who must maintain an image of moral fortitude, in spite of all their deeds. If a martial art was named for that which inspired it, then surely this panoply of beatings and soul-breaking torment would be called the Upright Constable Style.
“Is her presence necessary?”