“You know,” I said, as we studied the crypt, “this is really nice.”
Every good story uses threes. The reasons for this are complicated, but mostly come down to what humans call prime numbers. Numbers that cannot be easily separated. Amounts which are difficult to split. From such unity comes strength, but also, great pride and a tendency towards self-reinforcing behavior. Three, Five, Seven, Eleven; Thirteen.
“This is vile,” I growled, pacing the streets. “It’s late September, and it still feels like July.”
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…