The Duke was swift. He came to the place in two strides and with a single swing of his sword separated the goat-boy’s hand from his wrist. The creature let out a sickening, shrill wail.
Tammy — who’d watched all this in a state of horrified disbelief (how could this cruel monster be the same childish thing she’d had sucking on her moments ago?) — now covered her ears against the noise of both victims, man and boy. Though she’d muted the scene she couldn’t take her eyes off it: the hunter, dropping to his knees with the child’s hand still fixed in his face like some foul parasite; the goat-boy in his crate, stanching his stump with his other hand; the Duke, wiping the blood off his blade-
There was a short moment of calm as the goat-boy’s sobs became subdued and the wounded man, having pulled the hooked finger out of his flesh, covered his wound with a cloth, to slow the flow of blood.
The calm lasted no more than twenty seconds. It was broken by a grinding sound in the earth, as though a machine made of stone and iron was on the move down there.
“What fresh hell is this?” Jerry murmured.
Tammy’s eyes were on the crate, and its contents. The goat-boy had given up all his complaints, and was peering between the bars with his mouth open and slack. He knew exactly what was about to happen.
“Earthquake?” Eppstadt said.
“No,” Tammy replied, reading the look on the goat-boy’s face. “Lilith.”