If you meet me, have some sympathy 8

I had mixed feelings about the chasm in the cathedral floor – it smelled comfortingly of home, but it meant I was in trouble already. A gold cross had fallen from one of the altar stands and I kicked it over the edge while no one was looking, hoping it might do some damage down there.

The bloated form that emerged, wreathed in flames, promptly transformed itself into a wiry old man with a pinched face and goatee beard. He called himself Mephisto but so do half the other bosses – it’s a popular name and they’ve no imagination.

They’re strong though, and fast - their fury stoked in the deep furnaces. His hand was around my throat before I could blink.

‘Where is it?’ he hissed.

I said nothing till he let go and then took pleasure in spitting calmly at his feet. There was no one else who could run this mission – they knew it and so did I. It was good to see the rage flare in his eyes, although he’d make me pay for it later.

‘Not long now,’ I lied as nonchalantly as I could.

And now Theresa was their prisoner somewhere – yet another thing to sort out.