Uninterested now Marc caught Anne's eye and the panting hound backed silently away. Marc pulled from his jean pocket a canary yellow cuboid of brimstone, the size of a ring box. Inside contained a NUGET.

Decarabias Encyclopedia Demonica has the following to say on NUGETs:

A NUGET or Naved Universal Gravitational Energy Trap is a naked singularity [See: Black holes] or a greedy speck of infinite density with no event horizon [See: Event Horizons]. Omniavore, not to be confused with Omnivore [See: Classification by Feeding of God's Dumb Prototypes], it consumes everything, matter and energy, with no capacity limit.

NUGETs trap very large sums of raw IC as Potential Charge [See: GCSE Physics] between an infinite number of anti-bonds [See: GCSE Parachemistry] and are as tricky to handle as Rainbow Scaled Dragonites of the Apocalypse of Abraham [See: The Infantile Stages of Dragon Specie of Level 7. V Violence].

The only known substance able to contain a NUGET is the sulphuric isotope S23 native to the glacial caves of Level 3G Gluttony [See: Brimstone] because the smell of rotten eggs is so pungent a NUGET's gravitons simply won't go near it.

In short a NUGET could be considered God's AA. Marc who basked in the idea of nicking from God's utility drawer, currently compacted in this particular NUGET the raw IC of Verrine (whole) and Mammon's donated, five percent fixed current account the loss of which had bankrupt it from deity to demon.

Marc fancied himself too low in estrogen to ever truly appear kept but right now, apprehensive, his face had taken on the wears of having spent several years in a war-torn muggy climate with neither a multivitamin nor mindfulness.

He'd look at D!Online. They always got the best pictures.

He placed the box down by the side of the boy's head sliding it's lid with his index finger. The skin of the seraphim's, and house Agare's next descendant's, shoulder began to slip away like upswept sand exposing his vocal cords which withered to harp strings. The boy began trying to claw his way up against Marc's binding which ebbed scarlet with his house sigil as it repelled his advances. Marc stepped back dropping into a collapsible deck chair. He dropped his eyes from the lad as the boy's legs gave in a puff of silvery dust and a fine pink mist, grains lining up like soldier ants magnetising in streams to the mouth of the little stone box. The worn lines of Marc's face lit with his screen.

The article's picture was of her exiting Toast. This deeply pissed Marc off. He'd been at Pandemonium. Something ached between his right gums and his right eye. He blinked hard wiping the smirk he'd been wearing. Ah but she's lovely. Frail. She looked carved from china, child-like in clothes which swamped her frame. The hand she held towards the camera with a comical look of incredulousness was bony, her fingers tapering to pinpoints.

Human witches are considered casualties of the fate’s miscalculation. The human metabolism lags to accommodate a witch’s IC and at consequence fragile development and malnutrition exhaust most before puberty. Aye, pet's starving 't death. If it hadn't been for Marc's demon placed in her by Lucifer he'd have lost her long before now.

He pinched his screen to zoom in on her face. In the times he'd imagined her whilst mortal, before liquid highlighters, plumping glosses and gilded powder blushes, he'd painstakingly sketched mental etches of his ideal of Celtic fairness. If he'd seen her the way she looked there a mortal man.

Mm, 'n this world must pull angels from grace tearing away their selves, and by metaphor their wings, so that men such as myself may keep them forever. Aye. I liked that. Old words, different time.

A crude fantasy he'd so easily overlay on her. She wasn't a gift choked out by an absent God. He'd made her. Bargained for her. She was his gift to himself. For enduring immortality. She'd fall to damnation at his first bedding her which was poetically nasty. Sweet little virgin built to wet for no man but him. She'd tunnel all gravity into pleasing him. Needing him.

Her ears pointed two inches further up beneath her missarrayed ringlets. More fey than any of their family had expressed and she was still predominantly human. It was an advertisement from God. A nullifying of its hand in her. Not of God's design. A declaration she was an unnatural creature to be recoiled from.

Images of semi-faced, greasy armpited, beer bellied men, fists round their cocks at computer screens flashed in Marc's mind, the satyr in him sobered and his nostrils flared.

Fu-king Lucifer he'd no right.

In the in-between peace of morning and night broken now only by the moist pad of Anne's paws on the pool of flattened plastic-bags he'd set down beneath their working area, Marc's concentration on Faith was broken by the low whistle of an inhale he hadn't known he'd been holding. The black of his eyes, reflecting the silver-blue rectangle of his phone screen, quivered on the peaceful little yellow box, its lid securely having magnetised back in place the power inside fed enough, and the massage table empty.

He wished he could clearly see her face. Wanted to see the features he'd sketched in flesh. To touch her. Very unkempt hair. He thought of Cathy's small, shapely figure, her skin a gleaming cream smeared with grime at her knees and festering in the black and scarlet coagulated occult make-up.

Identical hair. Shared between sisters.

High, accented and sweet, a voice's impression like the soft chimes of a child’s music box putrefied in the acids of hierarchical power whispered. It gave trepidation a sound. It gave that sound humidity, blood encrusted fingernails, dressed it in soiled lace and scented it with Ringer's solution.

Sister

Marc's eyes warmed to liquid "Aye, my love"

Miles away Cathy smiled a scarlet lacquered bow wickedly.

Anne's eyes shot up to Marc's catching the end of his trail of thought. His head dropped to one side, his wide-set, protruding eyes fogged. They snapped back to the room with an elasticated thwack to Marc's own conscious "Come on, 'Ol boy" Marc heaved himself to his feet plucking his Canon camera from its tripod "We've a fair maiden 't collect"