Graduation

Posted by PK on October 06, 2001 at 18:32:18:

GRADUATION

A heartwarming 'rite of passage' tale by PK

"Does my bum look big in this?"

Tricia eyed her roommate objectively. "No bigger than usual," she offered. That got her a
flung pillow.

"It's graduation today, don't make with the British humour, okay?"

Tricia sighed. She appraised her friend again. "Nice legs, great ankles, neat little tits.."

"Too little?" A touch of anxiety there.

"They're fine. Firm and juicy. You'd look great on a spit. And your bum is perfect. I could eat
it myself." She mimed lascivious appetite, licking her lips.

Alison couldn't help flirting herself from the waist down. She grinned. She had the enticing
wiggle down pat. Tricia wasn't gay but she had to admire the view.

"Really? You'd eat me? " - smiling nervously now.

"Of course. Anybody would."

"I didn't know you cared." It was a feeble attempt at a dry joke, her anxiety was too great for
her limited abilities as a humourist.

It was a bit of a trial. Alison was not one of the world's great brains: rather than opting for
mathematics she had taken 'Spit Muffin Studies'. Of course, there were drawbacks to this if
she was selected as valedictorian. To be fair, she had put a fair amount of work into her
course. She was a good cook (Trish had eaten enough of her cooking in preference to the
convenience foods she usually survived on to verify this) and she knew exactly what
seasonings would suit her best should the occasion arise. She kept herself perfectly groomed
at all times and her body hair trimmed. At the moment she was wearing a backless dress that
barely covered her below the crotch and nothing else.

"Wish me luck," she said.

Tricia got up and gave her a hug. The truth was, she was fond of Alison. The girl wasn't very
bright and her idea of wit was primitive but she had a good nature. Trish bit back a smart
reply. "Good luck," she said.

Patricia really didn't know how she'd got into this. The intricacies of the American educational
system baffled her. She'd only come to Miskatonic University to pursue her postgraduate
studies into the connections between her mathematical research and the Black Arts. She was
working her way through the Lovecraft library and hoped to be allowed to gain access to the
only known copy of the Necronomicon. Alison had come here through an entirely different
path, she was a graduate of cheerleading. It had been, at first, an unwelcome surprise to
Patricia when they'd been thrown together as roommates, they were as different as chalk and
cheese, yet somehow they had become friends. Alison's simple generosity of spirit had
melted Patricia's reserve. Beneath the dauntingly perfect body and angelic face, she was just
a nice girl.

As for what would happen next...Patricia suppressed a qualm.

"Good luck", she said again, and meant it. "I'll be ...er..rooting for you."

"Come with me? Please? I mean, if ...you know..."

"If you get roasted? Sorry. Look, if they cooked you I'd be happy to eat you. At least a couple
of toes." If it means that much to you went unsaid. Alison needed a friend right now. "But it
won't come to that, you'll be okay. Only one of you gets it." She tried for flippancy, to hide her
real concern. "Don't give yourself airs, kid, you're good enough but I've seen better."

Alison's perfect blue eyes watered, her face was a mask of ill-concealed disappointment.
Tricia's feeble attempt at humour bounced off her tension. All she wanted was sincerity. All
she could manage was another "Please?"

Patricia bit back a sigh. How selfish was she? She had work to do, but this was literally life or
death for Alison, she could fail to graduate if she didn't pass the course. And if she did too
well....

"Okay, I'll come," she grumbled. "Just give me a minute. I need to bring some stuff."

Alison's gratitude lit the room. You could almost see it glowing in the air. Patricia made her
preparations lit with an urgency she reluctantly gave in to. She followed Ali down to the
gymnasium where she would exhibit herself. It was impossible to ignore the perfection of her
legs, the sensual sway of her hips, even the way her bare feet touched the floor like kisses.

Born to be eaten, Tricia thought. Then again, maybe not. Maybe...would I look that good in a
cheerleader's short skirt? No fucking way. Kill the bitch! She smiled wryly. She supposed
some people really would think that way. Was that a part of it? Kill the cheerleader? How
many men would like to eat her because of the eroticism, how many in bitter and twisted
vengeance because they could never touch her any other way? Would her less beautiful
female classmates like to see her die out of pathetic envy?

Not me, at least, she was glad to say. She had other sources for her self esteem, in fact she
cared little for what other people thought of her. Unless, of course, she wanted to get laid. Ali
had tried her best to help her with that. Against her normal inclinations she had submitted to
Ali's ministrations more than once, letting the girl groom her, style her hair, even wax her
legs and do her feet. What Alison didn't know about nail scissors and pumice stone wasn't
worth knowing. She had drawn the line at clothes.

"Me and denims, we get on," she had explained. "I like them, they like me." The battered old
jacket of good British leather was also out of bounds. It was like a friend to her. Alison had
given up trying to sell her on fashion, current or Dolcett classic.

Patricia, for her part, had tutored her friend in the rudimentary elements of grammar and
composition to the point where her essays routinely passed the minimum standard required
by her written course work.

All wasted effort if she ends up on a dinner menu, Tricia thought. Well, it's her choice. How
else is an academic under-achiever going to get a diploma? She had told Ali more times than
she could count that if all she relied on in life was her sex appeal, she had enough already.
Futile, of course. Ali wanted to 'better herself.' She believed she'd marry up, away from from
her corn fed origins, if she was a certified Spit Muffin: she aspired to be a trophy wife. Too
decent for politics, Alison wanted to be an honest whore, a professional bimbo. Tricia had to
admit, she had the assets for it and she could see them all.

There was a doorman at the gym, a football scholar by his build and dim demeanor. "Ya can't
come in unless ya got an invite," he explained. "Less yer one a the candidates." He eyed
Patricia with scepticism. "Or a judge"

"She's with me," Alison said anxiously. The neanderthal favoured here with a leer.

"No way, sweetie," His expression invited her to bribe him. "You, I'll let in my place any
day..."

Patricia extended her right hand, first and little fingers upward, middle fingers curled. "You
will let me in," she said.

"Or what, bitch, you'll hex me?"

Patricia smiled. It was not a nice smile. "Or I'll poke your fucking eyes out and step on them,"
she said. "Then I'll beat the shit out of you."

The grunt stared at her. He outmassed the scrawny bitch by more pounds than he could
count on his fingers. The threat was ridiculous. He looked at her again, tried to formulate a
response. She was still smiling and her murky grey green eyes - or were they brown? - he
couldn't quite see straight - held an abyss of terror he didn't want to look into. His own pupils
had shrunk, his hands were shaking. He couldn't breathe.

"Pass, " he croaked. "Get the fuck away..." He looked as if he wanted to throw up.

"How'd you do that?" Ali burbled as they went in. She didn't really expect an answer.

"Charm," she said. "Or possibly strangeness " You never know which of the vector products
will pan out. Quantum theory and magic was still an open field and her in-jokes would be
wasted on Alison.

Ali grinned, surprising her. "Just your meanness field, right?"

Tricia grinned back. "Something like that." She could have said that none of this would have
been necessary if Alison had formally invited her in advance, but it wasn't worth mentioning
now. Anyway, it was as much her own lack of enthusiasm that was to blame. She had made
no secret of her reservations about the whole thing, though she didn't go on about it too much
in Alison's presence. She'd never wanted to come and watch some poor girl get killed, least
of all her own roomie. She waited patiently as Alison registered her attendance and signed
the necessary forms. An usher or attendant of some sort showed her where to put her own
seasonings, which she had brought in a series of small jars and bottles in a shoulder bag. A
trestle table held the condiments favoured by each contestant, selected and in most cases
prepared by hand. These would be examined but only used on the candidate selected to do
the honours at the graduation feast.

Trish looked around. A bank of seats had been set up for spectators, as though this were a
cheerleading demo or a basketball game. Across from them was a makeshift stage or dais
where the judges would sit. There was some rather strange equipment on the main floor,
each item standing on matting of some kind to protect the floor. The gallery seats were
sparsely filled. Each candidate was entitled to invite one or two guests, the rest were faculty
members or visiting dignitaries of some sort. About half the invited people were probably the
current dates of the candidates, each hoping, perhaps, to eat his own girlfriend or somebody
else's.

Why an audience at all? Trish had wondered once. Of course, it made sense of a sort after
Alison explained it. "This is the final exam, 'Presentation'," she had said. "When you do it for
real, you'll have to do it in front of people. I mean if you do, you know?"

Quite so. A real Spit Muffin didn't just have to be good enough to eat, she had to look it and
go on looking it even when she was about to get her tits toasted in earnest. If there was no
roasting, there would be no performance pressure. A perfectly plausible reason, and Trish
couldn't fault it, though she couldn't resist a dig.

"If you ask me, it's just so those horny old bastards on the faculty get a taste of roast totty
every year," she grumbled. "That's what this whole thing is really about."

Alison had laughed. "Of course they enjoy it, if they didn't what's the point?"

Tricia signed in as a guest, apparently her lack of a ticket was no problem as she had
accompanied Alison. With a final quick hug, she left her friend and found herself a seat at the
front. Once uncomfortably settled - the seating wasn't luxurious - she took another look
around, craning her neck to see the people behind her. There was the Head of her own
department, Professor Steadman, the world famous author of "Introductory Mathematical
Goetics." Come for a nice little slice of cheerleader rump? she asked with a raised eyebrow.
He nodded her a noncommittal greeting. Maybe one of the students was his daughter, who
knew? Campus gossip was not Trish's forte. Most of the audience were neatly and
fashionably dressed, the female minority wearing costumes only a little less revealing than
the Muffins themselves. Obviously they didn't want to be too badly upstaged. Anybody else
would have felt out of place wearing Levis and a leather jacket over a black T-shirt with
'Cthulhu sucks' written on it in dripping green letters, but Tricia didn't give a rat's fart. She
fingered her ring, an oddly carved garnet in a heavy bronze setting. It looked like the show
was about to start.

Most of the demonstration was a formality, in fact. All the girls present had passed their
course work. Each of them was sworn in, repeating the Spit Muffin Creed which had to do
with being fit to eat at all times and mindful of the needs blah blah blah. Nobody fumbled a
line, all of them knew it by heart. So did Trish, she had heard Alison reciting it often enough.
She tuned it out, wishing she could smoke.

Next came the fashion parade, as she saw it. Each of the girls - there were about two dozen
of them - walked up and down in front of the judges in her chosen costume. There was one
criterion for their choice of costume, apart from the fact that they had to be in some way
dressed at all: - it had to be appetising. One girl, for instance, wore a simple string bikini.
Another displayed herself in a flowing silk robe which, brushing against her body, hinted
broadly at the fact that she was naked underneath it. Alison, partly on Trish's advice, had
gone for the classic cocktail dress which suggested, correctly, that she had no panties on. All
of the girls were either barefoot, like Ali, or wearing very sexy and open toed shoes.
Objectively, Trish had to admit they were a stunning group, each beautiful in her own way
and each alluringly dressed. And soon, one of them would be dead. She shuddered and
reached for her chewing gum.

To nobody's surprise, all the girls were deemed presentable and next the condiments were
presented, tasted and explained. It struck Tricia as odd, suddenly. As far as the judges were
concerned, this was a restaurant where you didn't just pick a lobster from the tank, each one
explained why you should eat it. Here these girls were, effectively selling their appeal as food
to the people who would eat one of them, in order to get a qualification. Trish shook it off. It
wasn't her business to criticise or interfere, all of them knew the score and the risks. She just
hoped it wasn't Ali. She had looked forward to her lively roommate dragging her to all the end
of term parties - term, semester, whatever - while she feigned reluctance to be dragged away
from her postgraduate studies. No more Alison? No more too-sexy clothes on the floor and
frilly underwear hanging from mirrors and doorknobs? No more annoying, silly, intrusive,
noisy, over-friendly roommate to disturb her peace?

Sentimental bitch, she admonished herself. Leave the maudlin reverie until she gets cooked,
if she does. There are a score of others to choose from, it won't be her. She looked around at
the audience again, wondering why they were so quiet. Because they were transfixed, she
realised, seeing the faces flushed or pale, sweaty and working or rigid, all intent. The women
were as fascinated as the men. They knew what was coming. Did they envy the candidates?
Was that horror or fascination on their faces? Both, of course. Patricia wondered how many
of them were aroused by it. Maybe all of them, maybe some were here just like her, to lend
moral support to a friend. Either way, the spectacle was compelling for reasons having
nothing to do with the rather dull events up till now. It would get more interesting soon
enough. She wished she'd brought nicotine gum instead of peppermint. She felt edgy but she
couldn't just nip out for a quick fag now.

Sure enough, it was getting close to the main event. For the next act, the candidates
removed their clothes, such as they were, entirely so they could be inspected. The
ceremonial wraps were off, this was pure meat market. Each girl was, of course, physically
stunning. Not one of them had any unsightly body hair below the neck, only the downiest fur ,
stuff that would burn off in a warm breeze, survived. Their luminously bare pubes drew the
eye, even Trish's. Four and twenty pretty birds, one to be baked...

Trish caught Alisons eye and gave her a friendly thumbs up and grin. Ali was as perfect as
any of them. Too perfect? Ali gave back a quick wink. The inspection, with the judges down
from their seats and moving amongst the girls, was unhurried. Ostensibly a check on their
qualifications, this was simply a selection process. All the work Ali had put in to look like
that....

They had even done it together sometimes. Not the cheerleader gymnastics that kept
Alison's body, particularly her legs, in such great shape, but stretches and bends in their
room. Tricia in her T-shirt and ratty knickers, Alison in her pretty underwear, they had done
Yoga together in the mornings on those rare occasions when Tricia rose before noon. And
sometimes, when Trish was tense and edgy from study, Ali had given her neck massages,
easing the knots in her wiry upper back and shoulders with firm but gentle fingers.

Another reason for the polite behaviour of the jocks in the audience came to her. Idiot, of
course! Nobody would dare risk being thrown out. They wanted this too much.

Finally, the judges resumed their seats and read out their verdict. Everybody passed
inspection, big surprise. The candidates congratulated each other with guarded enthusiasm.
There was nothing left but the main event and the potential Muffins waited, still naked, to
hear which of them would grace the banquet table. Trish gritted her teeth. The tension in the
room was palpable.

"It's always a risk," Alison had told her in one of her philosopical moments. They had shared
a bottle of wine late one night, Ali sitting on her bed in her flimsy nightgown, Trish in a
sweatshirt and boxer shorts. "Don't you ever worry about what you do?"

It was true enough. Applying advanced mathematical techniques to thaumaturgy, the lore of
the grimoires tamed through research and study; the practice was not without its dangers.

"It's not the same," Trish had protested. "I'm not making myself into a victim by choice. Of
course there are risks, but you don't have to give up your life wittingly.."

"Wittingly? Y'mean willingly?"

"Not exactly." Pat didn't want to discourse on etymology and semantics just then. She was
starting to slur and had run out of arguments.

"I'm not smart like you," Ali said gently. "I couldn't do what you do, I don't know what you're
talkin' about more'n half the time. You got the brains, me?" She thrust her shoulders forward.
"I got this. It's all I got, y'know?" Her cultured accent slipped in and out when she was half
drunk or emotional.

I should have said something, Tricia thought. I should have said you have a lot more going
for you than that. Alison knew she was beautiful, without being vain about it. She knew
Patricia was more intelligent than she was and vastly better educated, she didn't resent it.
She thought she was dumb, she wasn't. Not really.

The droning pronunciations from the chairman of the judges reached their climax. "And the
place of honour goes to..." Dramatic pause.

Get on with it, you shit eating bastard, thought Trish.

Alison breathed deeply and evenly. This was important. Just stay calm, it would all be over
soon, she had qualified and the diploma she had worked so hard for was hers. She glanced
over to the stalls where Trish sat. So kind of her to come when she had so many more
important things to do. After her own breakup with her last boyfriend Trish was the only
person she wanted here for her. Her parents...

What would they think if they knew she was rooming with someone who trafficked in the
Black Arts? She had never really understood Tricia's explanations, but she was sure her
friend wasn't really evil and equally sure that her parents wouldn't understand that. Well, any
second now she'd know. Trish had promised she'd eat her if she got cooked. It was a comfort
to her to know that, she was sure Trish wouldn't break a promise. She remembered to
breathe in again. "You'd look great on a spit," her friend had said. Her inner muscles
clenched.

"...Isabel Marchant!" the judge announced.

The pretty black girl's knees sagged for half a second before she regained her composure.
Alison joined the crowd offering her pats on the shoulder of congratulation and
commiseration at the same time. The next few minutes went by in a haze. Isabel was led to
the spitting machine, an old but reliable Jessie, gutted and placed on the spit, then
transferred to the roaster oven. Alison caught her eyes for a second and saw the despair in
them. Her own vision blurred for a moment.

Somebody was saying something else.

"...and since we have so many distinguished guests today, we have decided to dedicate our
second favourite to the feast. Step up, Alison Jane McBride!"

Izzy did it, so can I, Alison thought. She stepped forward. Bye, Trish. Thanks for everything.

"...Isabel Marchant!" the judge announced. Trish thought, 'Who?' then she saw the leggy
dark-skinned girl falter and catch herself. Not Ali, thought Trish, thank whatever powers there
be. She watched in sympathy mitigated by half-guilty relief as the tall girl - Isabel - mounted
the contraption designed to turn her into a spit roast. It had to be said that after the first lapse
she carried herself well. At this stage, Trish would have been kicking and biting. She knew
what to expect though she'd never seen it done before, Ali had explained it all and offered to
show her training videos -she had declined - but it was another thing entirely to watch it
happen. I seemed to her, waiver or no, that she was watching murder being done in some
bizarre ritualistic fashion. Modern day human sacrifice. Though horrified, she couldn't look
away, there was a macabre fascination to it. As the steel spike penetrated the girl's vagina
her own insides winced in sympathy. With grotesquely mechanical precision, a cutting device
opened the girl's slim belly just like a ziploc bag and spilled her entrails into a chute. They
even fell out gracefully, as if enduring the whole procedure was her natural function. Trish
wondered what would happen to them. Would Isabel's kidneys be available in the student
cafeteria, devilled and served on toast? She had to suppress an insane urge to giggle.
Instead she looked for Alison.

Alison's face was blank with shock, her eyes seemed to glisten. She didn't catch Trish's eye.
Both of them watched as Isabel, now completely spitted - Trish had just missed the point
coming out of her mouth - was transferred to a glass-fronted roaster oven at one end of the
display area. The oven, as Alison explained, was much more suitable for indoor venues like
this than the traditional barbecue, and quicker. Nobody wanted the ceremony delayed by
weather, nor did they want to wait too long for their dinners. Trish wondered if she should try
some of the meat. Since it wasn't Ali she wasn't obligated to, but she was curious and it
couldn't hurt Isabel now...

What was that stuffed shirt saying now? The bastard was smirking as he spoke.

"...and since we have so many distinguished guests today, we have decided to dedicate our
second favourite to the feast. Step up, Alison Jane McBride!"

What? Not fair! Could they do this? Trish stared about her. So many guests my arse, there
should be enough of Isabel for a good slice each, as part of a balanced meal. Haven't these
people ever heard of potatoes and greens? Somebody just wants an excuse to roast another
girl. Maybe they couldn't decide who gets the cunt so they're toasting Ali's for a spare. She
twisted her ring and seethed as Ali stepped meekly forward. Another part of her mind thought
inanely, I didn't know her middle name was Jane.

Alison knelt on the Jessica. No problem, she thought, I've done this before in practice. The
attendants fastened the ankle straps, not uncomfortably tight. Thanks, guys..

And then all Hell broke loose. The light level seemed to drop suddenly and flicker through
some odd colour changes. Was she having a panic attack? She could hear people gasping,
muttering and babbling in panicky voices. Her attendants seemed to have gone. She had to
see what was going on, so she sat up and twisted around. A huge column of red-black smoke
had appeared inear the middle of the gymnasium floor, a few yards from her bare backside,
and a huge shape seemed to be materialising inside it. This definitely wasn't part of the
presentation. It seemed that her part of the show would be delayed so she unfastened herself
to watch. She felt oddly calm, even when the shape resolved itself into a twelve foot tall
monster with a sort of wolf-like head and leathery wings, obviously the Devil or something
like him. Had he come for her? She gasped as the figure reached out a massive hand and
picked Dionne up. Her scream was loud and terrified but cut off suddenly when the Thing
swallowed her whole. What in the Lord's name was going on? Were they being punished for
their sins? She looked at the audience, half of them frozen in shock, the other half scrabbling
for the exits. Except one. Trish was standing up and coming forward.

All right! thought Patricia. This is my kind of gig. Let's do it. The stunned Muffins, those still
standing, moved out of her way with alacrity, but it didn't seem to occur to them to run away.
Were they just going to wait for the Demon to eat them all like jelly babies?

"Hey, Marchosias!"

The Demon paused in the act of reaching for a delectable blonde who was sprawled on her
butt on the floor. Then he resumed the motion and picked the whimpering girl up.

"IAEO, IEALO, IOELET SABAOTH, ITHOTH BAE," Patricia intoned. The words cast an
echo.

The Demon turned to her and snarled, a deep and guttural rumble. "Foolish Mortal. Do you
think to banish ME with THAT cantrip?"

"No, that old style crap was just a minor binding to get your attention," said Patricia
conversationally. "Now piss off out of here before I really get nasty. Oh, and hands off the
merchandise, if you don't mind. And even if you do."

The Demon raised a massive hand (the other one) as if to strike at her, paused for a moment
and asked, "What barbarous words of banishment are these? And who are you that
think to dismiss me so lightly?"

"I'm the one who has your Name and Number and Sigil and the Geometry...." - Patricia's
hand traced a Sign in the air, witnesses would later swear they saw it glow there briefly -
"..that can send you to a nether dimension even less salubrious than the Hellhole you popped
out of. Now you can fuck off out of it on your own or wait and see where I send you." Her
voice was level, calm and only slightly irritable. Rule one of Goetics, DON'T PANIC. It should
be on the cover of the book, like the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy.

Kathryn had fainted in the devil-thing's hand, Alison saw. Probably a mercy. But the Thing
wasn't eating her, it was talking to Tricia. And then listening. Now it snarled and reached out
a hand, it was going to eat Trish! No, it snatched its hand back, something like a blue
transparent crystal, composed of strange angles she couldn't quite see, surrounded her
friend. She hadn't seen it before the Thing tried to touch her. Now the Thing had stopped and
was fading out. Kathryn dropped to the floor in a heap, Ali hoped she hadn't banged her
head.

"WAIT!" Patricia commanded. "Give back what you took, or you don't have my leave to
depart."

"But, Mistress, surely this one will not be missed? Just one after all these centuries? I
will ever be at your command..." The Demon's voice had taken on a wheedling note.

"You'll be at my command whenever I fucking well say so. You have your terms of dismissal.
And you can dispense with the standard dire warnings about what you'll do if I summon you
unwarded, I've read the Book. Deal or limbo?"

The Demon sighed massively. "Done," he grumbled. The lights flickered again. There was a
pillar of fiery smoke followed by an anticlimactic *pop* and he was gone. Where he had been
was a dazed looking redhead.

There was a moment of silence and then everybody started talking at once. The judges
crawled out from the table they'd been hiding under and their Head of Department
approached Trish, who was trying to deal with Alison's half-coherent questions.

"I don't pretend to understand what happened, young lady," he said, pulling together his
shattered composure, "But I believe we're all in your debt."

Trish smiled and shrugged. "No biggie," she said. "Unless you've got a cigarette? And
somebody pass me one of those cans of pop you guys call beer, we've got a party to finish."

The Head looked startled. Then he looked at the oven, where Isabel was still roasting away
nicely (and smelling pretty good, even Trish had to admit) and then at Alison.

"Well..." He rubbed his chin. Alison looked resignedly at the Jessica.

Patricia looked around. Half the audience had managed to escape and she doubted they'd be
back any time soon, if ever. "Hey, it looks like we won't be needing my friend Alison after all,"
she observed brightly, emphasing 'my friend' just a little, "Will we sir?"

The Head started to say something and stopped. This wiry, dark-haired girl in the scruffy
clothes was still smiling and her murky grey brown eyes - or were they green? - he couldn't
quite see but there seemed to be something green in there and it was moving and suddenly
he wanted passionately not to know what it was. He cleared his throat, which suddenly
seemed dry. "N-no, I suppose not," he rasped.

"And she has already won her diploma, of course. No problem about that?"

"Of course, yes, no problem....if you'll excuse me?" He hurried off, doubtless to supervise
something important.

"Better put your party dress back on," Tricia told Alison.

Her friend grinned and shook her head. "How did you...oh forget it. I'll get us a drink"

"Very nice job, Miss Holm," said a voice at Patricia's shoulder. "Bit unconventional, but any
banishing you walk away from, as they say. Marchosias, Duke of Hell, wasn't it? From the
Lemegeton?" It was Professor Steadman.

"Ah..yes, sir."

"Don't often see one of those in this day and age. I hope you won't be expecting class credit
for this. Oh, just joking. Of course, one has to wonder who or what summoned him in the first
place, doesn't one? The Solomonic demons don't usually just pop up like that. Attracted by
the sacrifice, d'you think?"

"That would be my theory, sir." Patricia twisted her ring.

"Well, I suppose we'll never know, will we?"

"Probably not..." Patricia glanced pointedly at the tables being laid out for food and drink.
Everybody seemed to want to forget what they had just seen.

Steadman looked at her for a minute and nodded. "As you said, party time." He smiled.

Tricia relaxed. "Just one thing sir?"

"Yes?"

"Doesn't anybody know where I can get a bloody cigarette around here?"