Oliver recoiled. He could not help himself. “That’s impossible,” he said.
Zarine sat back upon her haunches again, or at least appeared to, as she had no lower half to speak of. The tail of mist emanating from where her legs ought to be was even more disconcerting to look at without the rest of the fog around it.
“Why?” she asked. “What’s so impossible about it?”
“Because...” Oliver put his head in his hands for a moment, almost succumbing to a sudden wave of dizziness. It was too much to take in.
Words half-remembered suddenly drifted to him out of the recesses of his memory. "'And lo,'" he recited before he knew what he was doing, “‘the servants of the Apostle, the Demons, were bound to the darkest layer of the Pits, to writhe beneath the weight of darkness, forever banished from the light.’”
“That smacks of gospel,” Zarine said, wrinkling her nose. “I suppose some human prophet or another cooked that up?”