The air from the Pit was hot and fetid, and the light was a blood-tinged orange as Marshall opened one reluctant eye. Beneath the hiss and crackle of the flames, he could hear the far-off screaming of souls in torment, and above all, the steady, insistent panting of the dog nuzzling his face.
"Sparky, down," he mumbled, reaching up both hands and gently pushing the gaping maw closed. The sights, sounds and smells of Hell cut off abruptly, and he sat up in bed, staring into twelve worried red eyes.
He checked the clock, groaned when he saw it was a little past four in the morning. The empty space beside him on the mattress was cold and light oozed beneath the bedroom door. He closed his eyes, buried his face in black fur that smelled of woodsmoke and the screaming void that waits at the limits of eternity.
His eyes snapped open again.
"Sparky," he said. "What are you doing in here?"
The Hellhound looked to the door, then back again. He whimpered, six ears flat against three skulls.
"Okay," said Marshall, reaching for a discarded pair of pyjama pants and slipping them on. He steadied himself against Sparky's broad back as he did so, wondering if it was worth looking for his slippers, or even a pair of socks. Based on the dog's reaction, it didn't seem like he had the time.
He unlatched the bedroom door - apparently Sparky had solved the mystery of the doorknob, which was something else to worry about, should he survive the current crisis - and stepped back as three hundred pounds of coal-black Devil Dog slipped past him into the hall.
He followed the anxious pup down the narrow corridor towards the living room, where flickering lights pulsed against the dirty walls and excited voices conversed in hushed whispers. The television was on, displaying the familiar green-on-green background of the Eerie-tron. On the worn sofa, faces washed pale in the inconstant illumination coming from Corn Critters: The Movie: The Game, were Dash and Simon.
They looked up as he entered, eyes hollow, expressions guilty.
"It's four am," said Marshall. "On a Tuesday. And that games console should be in the Evidence Foot Locker, not plugged in and spewing cursed pixels all over the lounge."
(Sadly, their small rented apartment was not big enough to fit in a dedicated Secret Spot, or even the free-standing cabinet that had once held their evidence. The foot locker was cheap, locked easily, and doubled as a coffee-table)
They looked at him. They looked at Sparky.
"I can't believe your dog ratted us out," said Dash.
"Bad Sparky," said Simon. "Very bad."
"Very
good Sparky," said Marshall, crossing the room and unplugging the power cord as the Corn Mother on their television whispered promises of arcane delights in his ear. "Excellent Sparky, who came and got me before you two idiots had your life-force sucked out through your eyes."
Sparky nodded with all three of his heads.
Ongoing Verse: Microwave( Read more... )![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
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froodle
