Re: [log: antique store - daniel/claire/louis]
Inside the cabinet was an excellent scotch that had been a gift months before, alongside glasses and a very fine mid-century barware set salvaged from the store room downstairs. The glasses were neatly arranged, and even clean, though a faint rim of dust indicated they hadn't had too much use.
The word geld earned a delicate sneer from the thing, which cast its roving eyes on Daniel again. "Swilling scotch and talking of gelding. How Mancunian of you."
But it no longer seemed quite as at ease or as in control as it had when it first made its presence known. They were talking of it as if it was no longer in the room, and it rose to its feet again, listening to the pair of them talk moving souls and rituals gone wrong, and it felt a rising sense of rebellious dislike.
Or was that itself? "Something is always desecrated," it spat, but it wasn't quite right, lacking force or vitriol. It turned its head, looking out the blank eye of the dark window. Something was wrong, somewhere. And while it did not confess to fear - never fear - it thought of an empty future, starved out at the edges of civilization again, and felt a nascent despair. It wound round the soul tighter, sank in more deeply.
Then, it disappeared. One moment it was spitting at them, and the next the temperature in the room dropped like a stone, cooling the sweat on brows to uncomfortable beads of ice water. The air conditioner spun up again, and when Louis turned again, it was gone. There was no mistaking the dismayed, then briefly pleased, then exhausted turn of expression.
"Good god," he said, weakly, and touched his temple, squeezing his eyes shut. "What a bloody headache." He sat down, slowly, one hand on the arm of the couch. "I am - very sorry."