“What on earth couldn’t wait until the blood moon was down?” said Alexander, fuming as he unpacked his auburn looking glass and folded up his pack of moths. “I was just about to catch an aspect of the third moon,” he said.
“Yes I know, and I’m very sorry, but I just had to talk to you tonight,” said Timmy. “Do you remember the sigil I purchased from the one-eyed man in Damascus?” he said.
“The one guaranteed to summon a lieutenant of Beelzebub? I do, and I still think you let yourself be swindled in buying it,” said Alexander.
“Oh I was swindled, all right, but not by the one-armed man,” said Timmy, pacing back and forth right over the good church earth that Alexander had just taken the trouble to de-sanctify. “No it wasn’t the one-eyed man,” he said again.
“What then,” said Timmy, “you’re trying my patience with all your fretting.”
“The sigil worked, and I summoned a lieutenant,” said Timmy.
Alexander looked at him agape.
“He read my thoughts, or said he did, and offered me ten thousand years of life in exchange for my soul,” said Timmy, “and of course I thought he meant the philospher’s stone so I said yes. Blood signature – the whole thing.”
“What did he give to you,” said Alexander, saying each word as though it was a stone he was dropping down a well.
“Penicillin,” exploded Alexander, “some bullshit mold excretion that cures infection.”
“But,” said Alexander.
“The years won’t be mine,” said Timmy. “And now I want a takebacksies,” he said.