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My stages of waking proceeded thusly: 1. Denial 2. Denial 3. Denial 4. Denial 5. Extreme hostility
I went through the checklist as I got ready. Keys, check. Phone, check. Purse, check. Pants, check. Sanity? Sanity? Yoo-hoo? And we had a runner.
I didn’t find that nerve-wracking at all. I also have beach-front property in Arizona, if you’re interested.
Last time he ran short of bottles, he and Zoya bought a crate and got smashing drunk. I came in on them running laps around the house, her with their marriage certificate and a lighter in hand, him casting random spells trying to stop her. She kept yelling, ‘You can’t return me without the receipt!’”
Reagan, I have an idea.” Reading the dislike on his face well enough, I drawled, “No murder.” “I no longer have an idea.”
Sleeping is nice because you’re not actually dead and you’re not awake, so it’s a win-win situation.” “It’s like being dead without the commitment,” I agreed, playing along. Ciarán’s tail beat a happy rhythm against my shoulder. “Right. An open relationship with death.” “Death with benefits,” I countered, snickering.
