“Last time, stupid.” I think he was trying to make a joke by referencing back to what I’d said earlier, but his timing was way off and the delivery was just awful. All in all, not very funny. When I didn’t laugh, he said, “Get in the cabin.”
“I can’t hear you,” I said, though I had heard him—I still had one ear that wasn’t numb with pain. “Some lunatic shot their gun directly beside my ear. I mean, everyone knows the first rule of gun safety is drink at least twelve beers—it makes you looser, less tense, less likely to make a mistake. But the second rule, and arguably the most important, is to wear protection—ear and otherwise. Now look what you done did, Billy Bob. I can’t hear a lick beyond the thoughts in my head. Actually, am I even saying words out loud right now? Or am I just thinking my thoughts?”
If my assailant wanted me dead, he would have shot me without preamble, or at the very least, made good on his threat to shoot me. Instead, he smacked my forehead with the butt of the gun and shoved me into the cabin. Dizzy and disoriented, I lost my balance and fell onto my back. Agony shot throughout my entire battered body, curling me up like a damn fry. He followed me in, shutting the door behind him.
“Xander, you moron, shoot him,” I said as blood spilled down my cracked forehead. I lay on the floor, wishing I could go a full three hours without hurting my head.
Hopefully CTE was just a myth, like the NFL made it out to be. Xander didn’t say anything, so I glanced back to find that Annie was pointing her shotgun at his chest. I sighed, swearing to never open another door again, for anyone, no matter what. The ringing in my ear didn’t subside, but the fog cleared from my eyes and I detailed some important notes about the man wielding the gun.
One, it—not he or she—had big, gray bat wings. Two, its skin had turned into gray-leather bat skin. Wait. Do bats even have skin? Or do they have fur? Feathers? And what color are they? Gray, brown, black? I actually can’t really recall what a bat looks like beyond Batman. How about this—it looked like a gray bat if bats were gray and had leathery skin and not fur… or feathers. Does that work? Just imagine something like a were-bat. It stood on two legs, and its hands were taloned, and its face looked like an inside-out asshole—but gray and with shark-like teeth and elven ears. Do bats have big ears? You know what? You have to forgive me. I’m not a zoologist, and remember, the bat monster had just fired a round beside my ear and punched my forehead with its gun.
Let me simplify as much as possible.
The bat thing was what Xander and I called a Raven—a starving vampire. Since Ravens aren’t known for their self-control, I suspected this particular Raven was one of Hecate’s Cursed. Her Empousa. Does that make sense? I already explained what Ravens and Empousa are in the first book. Do I need to do it again?
All right. This is for that one guy (or gal) who bought this book and decided not to read the first one. Vampires integrate quite well into human society. They look and act exactly like humans, most of the time—except that they need human blood to remain human. Without the blood, they morph into the monster standing over me. That’s why most vampires are serial killers. Ted Bundy? Vampire. John Wayne Gacy? Fat clown vampire. Usually, these monsters—Ravens—don’t have any cognitive functioning beyond the need to eat. So, when a Raven has the self-control not to devour me on sight—especially when it sees and smells the blood dribbling from my forehead—that means a Nephil controls it. In this case, most likely Hecate.
“Xander,” I said, scuttling toward the table, away from the Raven. “I think that trap we anticipated, I think it’s been sprung. So much for walking in with our eyes wide open, huh?”
I sat on one of Annabel’s rickety chairs across the table from Xander and stared at his ugly mug. Annabel stood behind him, her double-barreled shotgun flush against the back of his neck. It would be a nasty kill shot. Since she stood over him, her gun sloped down a degree. If Xander pissed her off and she fired, the shot would shatter his spine before blowing out his chest and decorating my face with his innards.
I shivered in revulsion just thinking about it.
The Raven stood behind me. It held both its gun and the gun Xander had given me tight against my cheekbones, almost using them as clamps to hold my face still. If it decided to shoot, its two guns were aimed at each other. Ravens were notorious for stupidity, though, so I couldn’t blame the creature. It was trying its hardest, and that’s all anyone could ask for. But the metal grinding against my cheekbones actually hurt. And whenever I tried to slide away from it, the Raven just reaffixed them right back on the crests of my very high, pronounced cheekbones. In a grim way, it reminded me of when Callie had always wanted to pop my pimples, like a sadist. I’ve had many broken bones in my life. I’ve been shot multiple times. Twice, I was tortured pretty severely. On a few occasions, I’ve had to suffer through Xander’s singing. But I would gladly relive any of those experiences over having a zit popped by Callie. She took grotesque pleasure in causing as much pain as humanly possible.
Tired of the stiff chair and the hard metal against my cheeks, I clicked my tongue. Misery loves company, and I didn’t want to be the only miserable one in the cabin. After about
