Faith was standing beneath hot jets of a shower, she shouldn't have been able to use, having an accidental premonition.

Faith’s lids were the width and shade of white rose petals the hard, protruding orbs of her eyeballs bobbing beneath them. Behind meat and bony cranium and slick, elasticated films of membrane the tepid, squaggy pink mass of her brain swelled inflamed. Neural currents, distracted, slammed the breaks along the high-speed roundabout of her subconscious mind.

A god was hanging in the steamy air against her temples. Electrons of these currents, particular to Faith, particular to any witch, battled excitedly to re-route and, instead, align with the funky new feed they were conducting from this new, old, really confused, God.

A technisphere of vibrant strobe lights dazzled in her mind’s eye. One beam at a time they found their crossing point and locked until a complicated geometrical netting pulsed between her ears. A clone of the visual the god was whispering to her. Faith’s brain calmed. Electrons wheezed. If they’d had hands and knees, which as a populus they’d always anticipated a fun next step in an evolution that never came, they’d have been bent double in a recovery position.

The nearest power socket lodged a few inches along the wall on the outer side of the bathroom choked and then spluttered tiny white hot fireworks. Outside De Gaul's double front doors a plastic dial unseen in the rusty oblong box of the main’s power meter snapped to the right shuddering on its axis. A ruby tear drop unfurled from Faith’s ear snail-trailing blood down her earlobe before melting into a clear bead of water and flushing away.

The God sluggishly swirling around her head halted.

Faith’s brain, with about as much effort as it was exuding in suggesting to her small intestine that if it fancied it peristalsis might be a nice effort, was about to channel it. The God, who’d lost some footing, braced itself virginally.

The matrix which had formed in Faith’s mind swallowed her, its infiniteness vast and terrifying. The infinity went digital appearing like a turn of the millenia crudely graphiced video game. A platform of lament sapphire netting revolved, stabilized as a floor of sorts, and spanned out a solid horizon through the streaming lines of numerical codes and quadratic configurations. If Faith had had left enough mindscape to think, she'd have thought she'd entered the Matrix. A divine skeleton of a different place and moment in time. Stripped bare to protagoniste six alit red discs. Sigils. The most ancient of the sixty nine.

The first born of the underived at the same moment as Lucifer and the seraphim. The house's name blazed in the boundary interlocking the two circles. The Marchosias. House Marchosias. The first of the fallen born directly of God before land, star and two thirds of the periodic table. They looked as though they were carved of soapstone. Six. Crouching, their heads bowed, right arms extended to lock their knuckles to the centre point of their sigil. They had slept since near on the dawn of time. Awaiting the war of gods. The dawn of Revelation.

Archetypes of David they were each indistinctly beautiful, ribbed in the burly sinew of warriors. With a sound of sliding open stone doors six eyelids lifted.

Faith gasped the ribs of her chest convexing forward as conscious fear snapped her mind out of it and back on the thoroughfare of brain-bound thought “buggar” watery pink blood spat from her tongue with each syllable. Faith hesitated. In the steam that had collected on the cubicles tempered glass, in friendly, nicely bubble like letters read Look Down. Faith, holding back sodden locks of hair blinked at drain embedded in the porcelain floor.

Faith looked back up at the re-fogging words "Hu?"