“Holy fuck,” I said, rubbing my eyes, not wanting to hear another sermon from the choir boy. “The bartender’s name was Elizabeth. But with your nose so high in the air, it’s probably pretty difficult to look down on us sinful folk. You probably didn’t notice her arms were filled with sigil tattoos, either.”
“What?” Xander asked, stiffening. “You’re serious?”
“As serious as you are dedicated to reading the Bible every morning and night.” I crossed myself, as if to prove how serious I was. I burped up some bile, then swallowed it and grimaced. “Teletubby was super rude to her, so I thought if I stood up to him, she would be more inclined to trust me, to accept my request for a walk after her shift.”
After a second, Xander grinned, patting me on the back. “You sneaky devil. That’s why you settled and sat here, isn’t it? Instead of storming off like you usually do?”
“You figured it all out, Sherlock.”
He chuckled. “Well, mind if I wait with you?”
“As long as you don’t ask me to hold your hands and pray, I’m fine with that.”
“The power of prayer goes beyond the Father. For someone such as you, with little faith, it can serve as a healthy, mindful way to meditate. To lay out your blessings and your sufferings. To—”
“Nope,” I said, shaking my head. “Go away.” I shoved him, and he leaned over, chuckling. He wrapped an arm over my shoulder. The embrace warmed me, warded me from the darkness.
Then my phone rang.
9
Fishing my cell from my front pocket, I checked the caller ID. Blocked. Xander nodded after I showed him the screen.
“Answer it,” he said.
I tapped speakerphone, so Xander could listen in. “Hello,” I answered. My throat felt tight and dry. My tongue had swelled in my mouth.
“Joseph Hunter?” a male voice asked.
“Yeah?” I glanced at Xander, who stared at my phone’s screen, as if the caller’s face might appear.
“This is Sacramento Sheriff—”
“Excuse me,” another man called from behind me. “Joseph.”
My heart sat in my stomach like an acidic lump. I turned around and saw the portly gentleman from the bar as he stomping toward me, three of his friends in tow. The deputy’s voice had fallen into static on the phone.
“Joseph, are you there?” the deputy asked.
“Yeah,” I said, not taking my eyes from the pissed off patron and his buddies. They formed a wall around me and Xander, brooding over us like trees in a dark forest.
“I’m a detective,” he said, still on speaker phone, “with the Sacramento Sheriff’s Department.”
“We’re at the Snake Head Lounge,” the stocky man standing over me said loud enough for the deputy to hear, though his words were slurred and exhausted from booze.
I lifted a finger and pressed it to my lips, shushing him. Then I shrugged, mouthing, What the fuck?
“You might want to get over here, Joseph isn’t doing too well.” The man smirked at me, and his buddies snickered.
“Joseph,” the investigator said for everyone to hear, “are you okay?”
Xander, finally making himself useful, snatched the phone from my hand and hung up on the deputy. “He’ll call back,” he said. “I’ll take the call. But do something with these guys.”
I provided Xander with my full, admiring attention. “You mean it?” I asked in my most pitiful voice. “You really mean it? I can have this? You’re allowing it?”
Before Xander could entertain me with an answer, a steel-toed boot connected with my ribcage, cracking bone. All my breath exited my body in a giant exhale, and I crumpled onto the sidewalk, rolling off the curb.
My ringtone sounded again, and through misty eyes—no, I wasn’t crying because it hurt, it’s just that sometimes, when I’m in a lot of pain, my eyes sting and water—I saw Xander hold a finger up to the gang. “Give me a second,” he said. “I need to take this.” He stood and slipped through their ranks, and they stepped aside for him. Must be that God thing—deciding to abandon his friend during a public fight.
I moaned, clutching at my ribs. “I think I need to renegotiate my pact,” I said, wishing Hephaestus’s magic could perform little tricks like allowing me to skirt through a line of enemies ready to kill me.
“What?” asked the bull-headed ringleader.
“I said,” I paused, trying to think of something to say. I couldn’t. “Fuck it. I think you broke my funny bone, which is strange, because I always thought it was in my arm.”
While Xander took the call and I had writhed on the ground—feigning pain, of course—I accessed my dwindling magic to partly heal myself. I had never spent much time practicing restoration magic. As a hunter, I never really needed it. Also, utilizing it required a shit-ton of energy—something I preferred to spend on attacking enemies—that often resulted in the death of an untrained restorer. Besides, during my time in the military, a practiced healer was always around to care for the wounded.
I knew enough to snap a bone back in place to continue fighting until I could seek real care. So, that’s what I did before springing off the ground—springing might be the wrong word. I didn’t really leap into the air like
