Eighth Grave After Dark (Charley Davidson, #8)

by Darynda Jones

“I just don’t get it. I’m supernatural. You’re supernatural. Why can’t we have one of those quick pregnancies like Bella and Edward? Gwen from Torchwood. Scully. Deanna Troi. Or even Cordelia when that demon impregnated her. Twenty-four hours later, bam! Demon child.” “Aren’t they all?” Cookie said, garnering herself a glare from her daughter. Ah, to be thirteen again.

“Are you hungover?” I asked her softly, appalled. “How many drinks did you have?” “I don’t know. I lost count at three. Or twelve. I’m just not certain.” “What were you doing?” My astonishment knew no bounds. “Why would you drink that much when you knew we had a wedding the next day?” “I was trying to keep up with Cookie.” “Are you insane?” She swayed back against the door and shushed me again. “Cookie’s like a competitive connoisseur. The last guy who tried to outdrink her ended up in traction for a month.” Cookie came to her own defense. “Only because a man named Jose Cuervo convinced him he could fly. Not my fault.”

“I agree. It’s a good thing I was never a nun in the 1800s.” His grin reappeared in full force. “Somehow I don’t think, even if you’d been born in the 1800s, you would’ve become a nun.” He had a point.

“Exactly. It’s like I’m not me anymore and someone—or something—has taken over my body.” I gasped. “It’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers!” Gemma giggled. “I think it’s called being pregnant.” “Nobody cares about my suffering,” I said as Reyes took both our plates to a table. Gemma and Wyatt followed us. “We care,” Gemma said. “Just not a lot.” She was so sweet.

This was like a nightmare. My father gone and my stepmother deciding to pay attention to me after twenty-seven years. Then it hit me. I stilled. It all made sense now. We weren’t on sacred ground. Reyes had lied to me. We were in hell!

A friend will help you if someone knocks you down. A best friend will pick up a bat and say, “Stay down. I got this.” —TRUE FACT

“So?” I asked, drinking a cup of hot chocolate. Another one. Since I was officially off coffee until Beep was born, hot chocolate had become my friend. We weren’t as close as me and mocha latte, but we were getting there. It took time to build a relationship. Trust had always been an issue for me.

“I don’t ask and you know it. I just listen. It’s not a two-way conversation. I can hear them. I can’t communicate with them.” “Of course you can. You’re a nun. You’re pure and good and wholesome. Like Wheaties. They’ll listen to you. All you have to do is ask.” “Do you ever listen to anything I say?” “I’m sorry, were you speaking?” “You’re funny.” “Thank you!” I said, brightening.