He holstered the smoking guns and leant down
to pick up his sword.
Instead, he stumbled to his knees. What is this?
Tony's head began to spin, and he could feel the
bile rising in his throat. A chill raced up his spine. He
fell backward onto his haunches, assailed by an
unearthly illness. The nausea was so overpowering he
could scarcely think straight.
He forced himself to focus, willing himself
steady amidst the hurricane of adrenaline assaulting his
nervous system.
He recalled passing out shortly after defeating
Denvers' animated corpse. And then at the Oz Club,
slogging up the escalator as if wading through molasses.
The air around the hospital was thick with a supernatural
malevolence. The common thread was obvious.
Each case occurred at a nexus between the
normal world and the demon realm. An ordinary human
would never have been able to survive the uncanny
conditions created by the interjection of that cancerous
reality. That was why the sanatorium seemed to hollow.
The closer I get to the demon world, the weaker
I become. Tony hauled himself up by the hilt of his
sword. I'll always be at a disadvantage.