“I’ve noticed that when the only man a woman earthling ever really loved demises—shuffles quite beyond her reach, you know—she proceeds to love, as soon as she can locate him, the second only ever man. I’d like to demonstrate that the rule holds down here. You wouldn’t be true to type if you didn’t have a lingering sort of affection for every one of your ex-onlies.”
“But I don’t see——”
“I make John die a second death before your eyes, in order that he be regenerated unto sin. I crunch to dust the bones of his spirit. I tear to bits the sinews of his soul. When you see him an unrecognizable heap in the morgue of Gehenna, will you like me, do you suppose now, more or less?”
At her failure to reply, he sauntered toward the nearest mirror; there carefully adjusted his red cravat. Evidently reassured by the magnificence of his reflection, he added amiably enough:
“That Judge Strang was no more a sport than am I. He took a long chance on you after one short look. After the some few looks I’ve had, I’ll take a longer one. What say you, fair fiend? Be a sport, too. Come, let’s make it a bet!”
Her response was a worded moan. “Why, John—why did you come?”
For a moment His Majesty considered the drooping, dusk-crowned head.
“Evidently,” he made remark to whom it might concern, “she doesn’t consider mine a betting proposition.”
As if suddenly aware of the hellion guard cluttering the great room, he amused himself driving them back against the highly-charged curtains.
John Cabot mounted the dais steps; removed the girl-soul’s hands from her face; held them while he bent to look into her eyes.