Venomous Conscience

He dropped to the ground again, to his knees. “It’s that damned Voodoo! That wicked ol’ power! I sensssed it! And I reckon you-you reminded me of that wicked ol’ woman... ssshe ssssought to defoul the sssmall... ”

“Nahr, I don’t really. I’s jes quotin’ Haley Joel Osment ... Jayzus, whatever happened to him, right?”

The hybrid threw up his hands in a truce sign. “A god I could fathom of ye, mate -- I’ve danced with devils,” he paused, as though that would make everything clear for all. “But a prince? Nar! I would’t ‘ave called that. There’s no weepy entourage! Not even a well-fed paparazzi in sight!” Lorne shrugged. Then it occurred to him; if he could make good with this puny, so-called, god, he might crawl from his social belly, and up his status a bit. Just a bit. Perhaps.