Eidolon Ave: The Second Feast
And, as present as he was in her life, her thoughts, her history, her secrets, this is something, were she to climb these stairs and go past that door, she feared she most certainly would do.
But this sudden avalanche of memory, of red wine and numb lips, silent martyrs and skewered saints, fire glow and butchering her Harrow, was one she could not escape.
“I tasted you on his fingers,” the devil said oh so many years ago that night she’d drunk the wine under the watchful gaze of wounded Saint Sebastian the Deceiver.
Yes, most surely the devil himself, though he looked like Corrompero and smelled like Corrompero and sounded like Corrompero.
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