(no subject)
The drive to York had gone quicker than it might; the roads had been curiously empty for a weekend, and Crowley had taken great pleasure (leaning back in the wide leather seats, and smiling like a snake) in gunning the Bentley down the highways at a full throttle well over the speed limit. Aziraphael, intent on listing out book dealers to visit - which he knows personally and which only by reputation, which are likely to hold out for September's book fair and which might let him pick through the cream of their stock beforehand - had barely even noticed.
The angel had disappeared from the car with hardly a backwards glance, and Crowley, snorting, had gone to check in. He'd picked the hotel, and it isn't hard to guess why; whenever Aziraphael should return, pick up his key from reception, find his way to the room, the only thing he's like to find waiting for him there is a hotel brochure on the edge of the bed. Written in black biro, by a small photo of the hotel's sleek sauna: three guesses.
The angel had disappeared from the car with hardly a backwards glance, and Crowley, snorting, had gone to check in. He'd picked the hotel, and it isn't hard to guess why; whenever Aziraphael should return, pick up his key from reception, find his way to the room, the only thing he's like to find waiting for him there is a hotel brochure on the edge of the bed. Written in black biro, by a small photo of the hotel's sleek sauna: three guesses.