Haloumi hurled himself past Dann-Glarr’s swashbuckling bulk and cartwheeled over the stationery and horse feed as an icy illumarama of strobe light pounded the corridor walls like a rainbow imprisoned in a demon’s skull.
His knowledge of angels was patchy at best, and even on a good day he could scarcely get his head round the concept of the hole in the halo, let alone any of the fancy stuff. But this was nothing like a good day — and judging from the angry cherubic shrieks erupting behind him, clearly not a good angel either. As for the ricochet of Nazi bullets: it didn’t help.
He bolted some way down the corridor — then stopped. For all his haste, he’d run into nothing but trouble since the mysterious phone call earlier in the evening that had kickstarted the current commotion, and with angels, dragons, trolls and Nazis thumping around all over the place, he figured hiding would be better than hot-footing it headlong into another perilous scenario — at least, until Dann-Glarr had sorted everything out. If he was going to.
Room 602 lay just around the corner. It contained an Egyptian sarcophagus he’d tarted up for a Christmas TV special, and hidden under the duck down lining was a secret compartment containing some solar-powered torches, a week’s supply of chocolate and a Swiss army knife. As hiding places went, it seemed perfect. For now.