Nicky wasn’t exactly thrilled to host, but he was still feeling sheepish about missing the boat with the anagrams in Asmodeus’ summonings, so I had a little leverage to work with. He let us in off the street, giving the bundle in my arms - Juliet, now wrapped in my greatcoat and still more or less out of her head - a curious look. Gil McClennan shivered as he stepped over the threshold. The change in temperature from the warmth of the air outside was sudden and marked. ‘Place is as cold as a tomb,’ he muttered. ‘Well, shit!’ Nicky sneered. ‘Here I’ve been looking for a good analogy all this time, and it was right there in front of my face.’ Gil’s face went through some interesting changes as he realised belatedly that he was talking to a dead man. ‘No offence,’ he offered at last. ‘None taken,’ said Nicky. ‘To be offended, I’d have to give a fuck. Go on upstairs. Joan of Arc is already up there waiting for you.’ Trudie was pacing the floor of the projection room, wearing two jackets against the cold.
