25.2

 

Roisin trembles. She feels the same as she felt the one time her boyfriend in high school made her go on a rollercoaster in Taunton. She’d been afraid of heights since she’d fallen off the top of the Helter Skelter at Laverstone Mop when she was six. The Mop was a travelling fair that rumbled around the country for nine months of the year, stopping at villages and towns and setting up stalls and sideshows for between three and five nights, usually packing up in the early hours of Monday morning and leaving nothing behind but some flattened grass and several tons of fast-food litter.  She’d likes slides, so the Helter Skelter seemed an adrenaline filled ride that fitted safely within her comfort zone. Her dad (he was still around at this point) had paid the entrance fee and sent her scrambling up the stairs in the middle, but somehow, she’d continued climbing at the top of the stairs and walked right over the safety barrier, falling forty feet onto the hard surface of the Conservative Club car park. Without a scratch, it must be said, but it had nevertheless instilled in her a lasting case of acrophobia. When Jordan had tempted her onto the rollercoaster at fifteen, she’d felt a crushing feeling of impending disaster, and sure enough, halfway through the ride her phone had flown out of her pocket and smashed. It was that same feeling of impending disaster she felt now, and her mobile was safely in her pocket.

Astaroth leans in, his voice low and his aniseed breath filling her lungs with the memories of childhood. His words drop into her ear like drops of honey, each one tempting a line of ants to journey through her ear canal. “You are the one who stands between the Four when they drift too far from their purpose. The one who tempers their extremes. The one who reminds them what they are.” He draws back, stepping around her so that they are face-to-face again. ““You are the memory of balance and the One who keeps the world from ending by accident.”

“Accident? Really?” The Artist gives a bark of sarcastic laughter. “Forgetting to ice the right name on a birthday cake is an accident. I think angels manipulating to opening of the Seven Seals a bit more than an accident.”

Steve takes an intake of breath. She can hear his heart hammering and his lungs straining to hold it as he waits for Astaroth’s reaction. In the room behind them, Paul makes a small, strangled sound.

Astaroth chuckles. “It was certainly an accident from our point of view. Ending the world was the last thing we expected them to engineer. That was a bit of an oversight on our part. We rather dropped the ball on that.”

“Dropped the ball?” The Artist shakes his head. “I take my hat off to you, Old Chap. You are the very master of understatement.”

“A rare compliment indeed, from someone who said Covid-19 would be a ‘bit of an upset.’

“I made my point, didn’t I? The seas turned blue again, the fish repopulated, the skies cleared the Hole in the ozone layer started to close again and people began to appreciate the arts once more.”

“Not to mention the huge jump forward in technology.  Humanity wouldn’t have established Artificial Intelligence for another twenty years without your intervention.”

“Let’s deal with one Armageddon at a time, please.” The Artist shook his head. “You can hardly blame me for that. How was I to know that six billion people would sit on their computers all day trying to find someone who’d pretend to listen to them from the other side of the TV screen? Pardon me for being short-sighted, but I actually thought they might talk to each other and settle their differences.”

Roisin shakes her head. Two of the most powerful beings in the universe with the fate of the whole of the world in the balance, and all they do is bicker about who caused what. “I’m not strong enough to stand between the Four and the apocalypse.”

Astaroth’s smile sharpens. “Strength has nothing to do with it. You are not a weapon. You are not a force. You are not a rider.” He taps a finger lightly against her sternum — not touching her, but she can feel the push of air against her as he presses on it. “You are the shape they orient around.” Astaroth continues, voice softening. “Ignore this old fool. He’s spent so long plotting the recovery of his children he’s forgotten how to adapt when circumstances require it. We’re trying to avoid the apocalypse, not stand in its way like… like…”

Roisin looks him in his petrol-coloured eyes. “Holding up a cross to ward off an angel?”

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