Judas opened the fridge door in the small galley kitchen in the office. The light inside was broken again. For some reason – as yet unknown to science – light bulbs did not do well in the presence of spirits and the undead. The Fae lived charmed lives; bayonet or screw fix bulbs lived short ones. The milk, a two-pint bottle rescued from the office behind the front desk only a day ago, was nearly empty.
I’ll have to do a run for some more, he thought.
I’ll have to do a run for some more,He made a cup of coffee using his own personal coffee maker, and coffee beans from his man down in Bermondsey. The merchant purported to be from the village next to the one where Judas had been born long ago. Regardless of his origins, false or otherwise, Judas liked the man and his shop. It smelt of memor
