Bring Out Your Dead
““Oh God, not more…”
Followed by a dozen or so tiny yellow imps, I burst out of the tube station and ran like a maniac down the street, tossing apologies over my shoulder as I occasionally bumped into people on their way home. It was early evening, and the sodden sky did nothing to lighten the way as I raced down streets, cut through alleys, leaping over fences and rubbish bins in the manner of a hyperactive Olympic hurdler. “Pardon me. So sorry. My apologies, sir.”
“Belle!
Vous êtes banging my head dans la bottle of water!”
“I’m a little busy at the moment, Sally,” I muttered through gritted teeth. Mindful of my spirit guide’s head, I spun around the corner as carefully as possible, but ended up skidding on the wet pavement and slamming into a large figure that loomed up out of nowhere.
“Oooph,” the man grunted as I collided with him, falling backward. Inside my purse, Sally yelled out copious curses in mangled French.
My arms flailed as I attempted to regain my balance, but it did no good.
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