It was no different than any other night, except I didn’t have the luxury of stealing away and taking a drive to the nearest bar. Instead, I’d settled for Xander’s stash—a fifth of tequila, which he had kindly bought just for me, probably so I would stop drinking his good scotch. Halfway through the bottle, and about a season into some streaming series, I passed out as the sun rose. Xander came clambering into the living area, droning on about how he spoke with Dakota and that she had to work today and I had to go to the office with him, since I was too negligent to be left alone.
“I promise, I’ll be better today,” I grumbled, nursing exhaustion and a throbbing hangover. I almost craved for an Automaton to kick me in the face again. Speaking of, my entire body ached from the recent beatings. I was more akin to roadkill than anything living. With the pillow covering my face, I patted around the floor and found the tequila. Nothing like some hair of the dog to fix any ailment.
Xander snatched the bottle from my weak grip. “Joseph—”
“Don’t use the J word. It intimidates me. You know that.”
“You’re not healthy right now.” He sighed, gazing at the ceiling. “Mentally or emotionally.”
“Or physically, though I’m still pretty impressive. You can’t deny that.”
I knew he hated playing the role of a punitive parent to his now thirty-year-old best friend. But he’d always been more equipped than me to deal with stress and unpredictability. Even in the military, he’d served as the voice of reason to my shiny-object desires and make-matters-worse problem-solving approach.
“You need something to clear your mind right now—to help you process your emotions. Do you even know how to…” he cringed as he finished the thought, “access your new power?”
My demonic power, I wanted to chime in, but didn’t. There was no reason to further complicate our relationship. “Not exactly,” I said, remembering how well Dakota’s experiment had worked last night.
“What about your guns?”
“What about them?”
Xander shrugged. “I don’t know. You haven’t even looked at them since we recovered them from your house. You can’t be one foot in and one foot out and expect to get anywhere.”
As much as I loved the guy, that right there was the reason I hated him. He was flippant and uncaring, focused more on the solution than the problem—which, don’t get me wrong, is fine. But sometimes I didn’t need the extra humping—I just wanted to be held. That’s a sexual euphemism, to be more present in the moment.
But for him, it was always, Hey, Joey, why don’t you get off your depressed ass and do something? Oh, because you don’t have what’s necessary to do it? Like a meaningful lead to locate Mel or knowledge on how to use your super random new powers? Well, you know what they say, where there’s a will, there’s a way. And did you know that anything is possible with God? Just drop on those virgin knees of yours and shoot up a couple prayers.
Now, imagine all that in the most idiotic voice. Something low and slow and mumbling. That’s exactly how I heard his message in my pounding head.
“Did you hear me?” he asked, waving a hand in front of my face. “Joey?”
“What?”
“Did you hear me? You still know the Nephilim language, right? You can still carve runes into ammunition. Get yourself prepared for when you do learn your new powers.”
I climbed from my prone position to a slouch, resting my chin on my chest as blood rushed from my head and down my body. The room spiraled around me. After a second of recovery, I said, “Listen carefully, okay? I don’t even know if this mystery power is related to the Nephil—or if it’s innate and I’m an untrained Sorcerer about to lose my mind with uncontrolled power. I never accepted another pact, and those fuckers can’t just bond me without my agreement. So, where the shit stain does that leave us? If I carved runes into bullets with the Nephilim language, and my new magic comes from, I don’t know, say an angel… well, those runes I spent hours inscribing are as useless as your dick. On a scarier note, if the power is innate, I could kill myself pouring power into the runes if I don’t know my limits.”
“Okay,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “So let’s make another excuse not to do anything but get drunk. You can—”
“Do fucking nothing,” I said, emphasizing each word with a pointed hand gesture. “Get that through your shiny head. Nothing. Guess the asshole what, Xander. I failed at protecting my wife. I failed at finding out who killed her. I failed at protecting my daughter. And I fucking failed at keeping her alive. I even failed at being an Acolyte—the one thing I was actually decent at. It doesn’t matter how carefully I step—I trip and stumble and eat dogshit. So, what’s the point? Why try if I’m just going to fall? You go ahead. Find my daughter’s missing body. Save her soul from Hecate for me. But if I’m there with you, I’m nothing more than a liability. So, put me on the injury report as out for the game with a concussion.”
Xander gnawed on his lip for a few seconds. “You’re going to work with me today. Bring your useless guns along and clean them, for all I care. Go into the basement and speak with the prisoners and see if they know anything about Gladas, Circe, or Hecate. I don’t really care what you do. Just do something. This… this look you got going for you… it’s pathetic.” He shook his head and went into the kitchen to pour some coffee. “We’re leaving in five minutes. Get dressed.”
