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The bat came back and dive-bombed them, all how-you-like-me-now-douchebag.
He had never expected to feel anything close to that confusion and terror as an adult. But life had a way of special delivering packages that ticked to your emotional address, and there was no refusing the service, no way to not sign and accept them.
“Grief is a cold stream you acclimate to.”
“You, sir, are a bag of dicks.” Lassiter, the fallen angel, broke the silence with that little ditty.
It struck John how random fate was with both its blessings and its curses.
Brothers everywhere: Vishous in front of the door, looking like a brick wall except with daggers in both hands. Rhage racing in with a bagel shoved in his mouth and a pair of guns out.
Still, he forced himself to think of what Mary always said about emotions. You weren’t responsible for them and you couldn’t control them, but you were in charge of your response to them.
Once more with feeling, Murhder thought as they resumed their trek for a second time.
It wasn’t like the ghost of a deceased Brother had taken up residence inside of him—and manifested that star-shaped scar on his pectoral. That just was nuts.
The peace that followed was as profound as the passion had been.
She wasn’t going to ask, however. Even if they had a year, a decade, a century, none of that felt long enough. For passion like they had just found? Only forever would do.
Just two vampires, looking for the undead, ready to enjoy some good old-fashioned bloodshed. Besties.
Youth wasted on the young. Life on the living.
The fallen angel had given him the best advice. He’d said that there was no right or wrong way to honor the dead. The living could pay their respects in any way they chose. The important thing was that the deceased was sent unto the afterlife on a wave of love. Because it helped the departed souls find peace in their new place.
John could not stop smiling. He was one of them for reals. And wasn’t that awesome?
