Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 29328 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29328 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Ah, immortals. Gotta love them. Even when you want to murder them half the time.
“But I hate phasing,” I grumble under my breath. “It makes them forget everything, and I feel like shit because they just repeat all their bad choices, and I get to witness it. Oh, shit. It’s like Groundhog Day. Or is that Freaky Friday?”
He sighs. “Freaky Friday is where they switch bodies. Groundhog Day is where the day goes on repeat. Why am I even engaging in this conversation right now?” He rolls his creepy blue eyes and wraps his knuckles on the bar top. “Phasing is necessary if you want the human to stay sane. They can only handle so much of the nectar we put in our liquor. Plus, who wants to remember puking on the ground and getting accidentally sucked on by a demon?”
“Nobody,” I answer truthfully. “I think it even makes you sad, and you have no heart.”
“But”—he winks—”thanks to my wife, gorgeous goddess that she is, I do have a soul.”
“So do I. But I didn’t need to wander in the Egyptian desert for thousands of years to find it. Weren’t you on your hands and knees in the sand for years—and years and years?”
He growls, “Low blow.”
“I like blowing.”
“Wow.” He checks his watch. “I’m late for dinner. Lock up when you clean up the drunkenness. You’re coming over, right? Or are you staying late for guys’ night?”
He has a home with a family. I have a grumpy roommate who is still trying to bring himself to understand the modern world. I swear he nearly shat his pants when he saw a microwave. Ancient Gods like Horus need a manual, though he did manage to conquer TikTok.
Home. I wonder what that’s really like. Everyone has their person. Did I mention Timber forced Horus to become my roommate so I could help him? But now that Horus has his person, it’s just me, all alone in a sad, depressing room. That’s why I work late. What’s the point of home if you don’t truly have one? What’s the point of going to an empty room and existing? I’ve worked for Timber for the last eighteen months, helped save his life, and now I just get to hear people’s thoughts, see their futures, and realize I have none.
Wow, shit just got dark.
“Nah, man.” I shake my head. “Might go hunt.”
“So, you’re going to Taco Bell?”
“They give good chalupa.” I shrug because nothing sounds more depressing than sitting on the sidewalk outside Taco Bell and people-watching.
He sighs. Yup, I’ve officially driven Anubis—aka Timber—insane. Feels kind of right, though.
“Please.” He grits his teeth. “Phase the passed-out human, go do the job I pay you for, and for the love of the Creator, stop wearing shirts that show off your chest and biceps. It’s why we get sued.”
“I like my shirts!” I yell.
“So do they.” He basically points at every single human and demon in the club. Is it my fault I look good in a nice muscle tee? No, but still, he’s the boss and kind of a demon king with a godlike past. So, what he says goes. Last time he got pissed, he burned down his office. I mean, I think it had to do with the sex he was currently having. But still, there was trauma.
I sigh and pick the dude up from the floor. Then, very carefully so as not to be noticed by all the drunk people, I wave a hand over his face. His eyes flash blue before returning to brown. “What just happened?”
“You’re really drunk.” I pat him on the back. “But I grabbed you a car. Name’s Penny, drives a black Ford Focus, and should be here in the next few minutes.” I nod to security. They escort him out, and then I return to the rag I’ve been using to wipe down the bar top.
I swipe and then look to the right, making sure security actually escorted him out.
It’s a busy night full of humans dancing with demons they assume are just really good-looking people and have no ill intent, and the drinks are flowing so hard I’ve already sent home at least a dozen patrons because they couldn’t put one foot in front of the other. Timber blames the Ambrosia we put in the liquor. I blame the stupidity on the humans and their inability to know when enough is enough.
The door to the bar opens as security walks back in. Following them in is a girl, stumbling so hard I’m afraid she’ll chip a tooth on the hard concrete floor.
Her hair’s blue, which is pretty normal for any bar or place downtown. I don’t even really notice it, only that it’s sticking to her face with something red, and her cheeks are swollen. I squint. It almost looks like she’s been beaten. She stumbles toward the bar in her short denim cutoffs, combat boots, and black tank top, then slams her hand onto the bar next to the rag and whimpers.