Taryn sighed. “Don’t take her bitchiness personally, Tate. She can’t be nice, she sold her soul to Satan himself long ago. I’m guessing she was granted eternal life in return, because we just can’t get her to die. She has the wrinkles, the scaly skin, the fuzzy gray hair, the rickety bones, the musty old lady smell … but her heart still beats.” Greta scowled. “Oh, you wish me gone, do you?” “Every time I blow out my birthday candles. Now let’s get going, Bride of Beelzebub.” Taryn herded her toward an SUV that was idling at the curb.
