Don’t give me that look like you’re already tired of my ranting. You started this by calling me a wuss for liking romantic comedies. Sorry I’m sensitive and in-tune with my feelings.
Any who, by now you’re probably wondering how long I’ve been moping on Xander’s couch since the end of the first book. A full day is the answer. I know it ended with me a little amped about hunting and killing some Nephil. But let me tell you something right here and right now—surges of excitement have a brief shelf life when you’re depressed. Believe me you when I say that I wanted nothing more than to peel myself from that cloud-like couch and start kicking doors and taking names, but that also sounded like a lot. And I didn’t really have a lot in me. Please, don’t take the wrong way. It’s just that I barely had the energy to throat laugh through the movie, let alone keep my eyes open short stretches at a time.
Late Wednesday night or early Thursday morning—however your nerdy brain calculates after midnight—Xander and I had found and killed Elizabeth Medea “The Priestess” Bathory. Lizzie for short. Yeah, I think her name was super obnoxious, too. If she hadn’t kidnapped and murdered of my daughter, I would have found justification in ending her life just for having that stupid-ass name.
After taking Thursday—now yesterday—off from work, Xander had to rejoin his pack of butt-sniffing hounds. That’s code for detectives, because they sniff out stinky stuff to solve crimes.
Listen. I’m not even close to a hundred percent right now—emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritually, sexually, nutritionally—and part of my healing process is telling jokes. I don’t have the headspace to create thought-out, well-constructed witticisms, though. This imperfect me is who you get right now, like it or not.
And I ’m not even sorry about it.
Back to the exposition now.
Xander took yesterday off. Today—Friday for those who can’t follow the sequence of days in a week—he returned to saving the world one prayer at a time. He had asked me to head into the old nine-to-five with him… no, he had all but pleaded for me to go with him.
“Joey,” he had said, “I don’t think it’s the best idea for you to be alone right now. Not after Mel. I think structure will keep you… sane. Besides, you can use our resources to start looking into different leads regarding Hecate’s location.”
I had adamantly refused his advances. The thought of spending a day with him during my time of mourning would do everything but keep me sane. Besides, I had more pressing matters to attend to… like finishing my fourth beer before ten in the morning.
Hey! No judgement from you. I’m grieving the death of my daughter. What would you do in my place? Go to work with Xander and listen to him hum Amazing Grace all day while finger-banging his hemorrhoids and insisting to pray over your agonized soul? Or would wander aimlessly down the streets of Sacramento in the sunny, brisk temperatures of late November in blind hope to find a lead pointing you to Hecate? Or would sit on the couch and watch your favorite romcom while drinking a six-pack of cheap lager and eating movie theatre popcorn?
That’s what I thought.
My back ached from Medea’s attack and my recent lack of movement did nothing to help stretch the tight muscles. And let me clear any confusion from the air—not tight from in-shape and fit, but tight from injury and lack of movement. I adjusted my position on the couch, forgetting about the popcorn bowl resting on my chest. The buttered kernels toppled and spilled onto Xander’s pristine hardwood floor.
“Shit,” I muttered.
There went my breakfast. I would have to make more, but that meant getting off of my life raft. Was food worth it? I leaned my torso over the couch and reached for the ice chest directly below me. Opening it, I counted two more beers. Liquid calories. I didn’t need any more popcorn. It wasn’t worth the effort.
And before you put your judgmental goggles back on, Xander only had scotch in his cupboard. Should I have made a cocktail for breakfast? Psh. I’m not an alcoholic. Despite Xander forbidding me from leaving his condo until he returned home, I had had to cross the street to buy beer that morning, risking law enforcement or a Nephil or their Acolytes or Cursed to notice me. So, not quite an alcoholic, but also not the sober person at a party for one.
I lifted the half-empty can to my lips, finishing it in two gulps, and then crushed it and tossed across the room. It landed near the three other dead soldiers—all who had sacrificed their life’s blood to help me forget for a few hours.
Reaching into the cooler, I retrieved and then cracked my fifth feel-good juice. “Thank you for your service,” I said to it. “Your work is appreciated by many, and your name will live on forever.”
At the mention of the word work, I dropped my feet to the floor and sat upright, sending a jolt of pain through my lower back. I grimaced and frantically scoured the couch for the remote control, finding it wedged between two cushions. I rewound the film about thirty seconds, before pausing it and making sure Kate Beckinsale’s beautiful face remained frozen on the screen.
Since my personal cell phone was stowed away in an evidence locker at the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department, I had
