Résultats lu par "D.V. Wolfe" dans Toutes les catégories

Always read the fine print. Especially when you’re making a deal with the devil. Because demons are sneaky bastards. That’s how they got me. Well, and the rest of my hometown. A few hours of what I asked for and then we were all dragged to Hell. Luckily, those jokes about lawyers and Hell are pretty accurate. After a lengthy court case downstairs, I’ve been released on Hell’s very first work-release program with a time limit and a quota. All I have to do is hunt down and kill the things that go bump in the night.

After everything that went down in Nevada, to say that we were reeling was an understatement. Now, I’ve got an additional little liability riding around with me, an Archeri on the loose, some cryptic clues from a dead god, a supernatural CPA to find, Death, Disneyland, kidnappers in polo shirts, angels, and a new conspiracy theory from Stacks and Luke that might just be true. Trust me when I say the working man has nothing on an armed and sleep-deprived working woman.

On a scale from zero to dumpster fire, I tend to hang out at the far, trash-burning end. But lately, things have been going eerily well. So when Festus showed up with a birthday cake and less blood on his suit than usual, I was a little more than skeptical. Add to that a scythe-wielding accountant that is wearing the carpet thin, a demonic soiree in Missouri, a murderous gang of Red Caps in cheese country, a lie-detecting seven-year-old, and a snooty corporate cult, and I can smell the gas fumes on the trash heap at 40 paces.

Alright. I’m done dicking around. If I learned one thing in that warehouse in Ohio, it’s that time is short. Even shorter now, considering all the time I’d lost. With an occluded front promising a swarm of something on the horizon and armed with Rosetta’s leftovers, Noah and I were just about ready for anything. Well, almost. I hadn’t been expecting the swarm to be in Tiff’s hometown or for the buttlickers to crash an eight-year-old’s birthday party.

Still reeling from everything that had happened in Pennsylvania, Noah and I headed back to Rosetta’s for a regrouping session...well, and some fried chicken. Unfortunately, part of this regrouping happened to be with Gabe. But, he said he had a line on Old Dukey himself and besides what killing him would probably do for my total on the Price of Souls is Right, I was really looking forward to a demon-flavored game of Operation and making his nose light up when I removed vital parts of his anatomy.

Messina, Noah, and I headed off to Chicago for a little TLC involving "stumping" some vampires. While in the Windy City, the cannibals blew back into our path, and everything started going downhill from there. A rest-stop massacre, Stacks' penchant for getting his ass in a sling, a drunk witch armed with a tube of cookie dough, firebombing explosions, Tom Waits, a hunter dive bar, demonic kid hitchhikers, throwing bodies in dumpsters, and run-ins with two of my exes.

When demons gather in their masses, it's time to put them on their asses. At least, that's what Noah and I decided after we finished up a whiskey-assisted hunt in Kentucky for one of the most ridiculous supers I've ever seen. And that's saying something considering I've hunted more than one Bonnacon.

Ok. That wasn’t what I was expecting. But, no one from that TV show Punk’d jumped out and told me they were just yanking my crank, so I guess I just have to go with it. Out of the frying pan and back into the hellfire. Figuratively, at the moment, but not for much longer and now I have a new layer of responsibility, just because the universe thought it would be hilarious. So now, I’m a professional babysitter of weapons and officially a “gopher” for the impending doom on the horizon. Not much of a change of pace, but at least it’s a change of scenery.

Hell’s first work release program; killing monsters to save souls. With time running out, can she outrun her demons and save the day? If I had my own version of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, it would be called The Ball sack and the Bandsaw. I know it’s not a perfect comparison, but both me and that French guy know what it means to be locked into our fates. Of course, his was an accident, and mine was caused by my own stupidity and the manipulation of the universe, but still.

I’m sure that there are people in the world that dig riddles and puzzles and all that shit. But when you have less than a month before you check out permanently to take up residence in that big sauna in the pit, riddles aren’t as cute. Of course, I didn’t get the chance to tell this to the winged-monkey that dropped it in my lap before he was gone. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a sign on my forehead I keep missing that just says, “Pile shit here.” It would explain a lot. And now there’s a new heavy-hitter, out to make a big splash for herself.

To say I sometimes run hot under the collar is a gross understatement. After what happened in Triton, I was a pissed off 500-pound gorilla with a pink fanny pack, a sawed-off, and a “can do or screw you” attitude. Now, I’m just looking for a visual aide to demonstrate my rage on and the demon that keeps standing me up is my top choice. On my way to get to him, of course, I stumbled over a demon cult that was in the process of signing people up for Hell.

When there are half-masticated bodies popping up on the radar, any hunter worth their salt will sit up and take notice. So, when they started showing up in Oklahoma, Noah and I beat cheeks back down there to try to recover what we lost. But Fate isn’t exactly a grandma holding out a piece of hard candy. More often, it’s a playground bully dangling loogies over your face. So, after a little flamingo-necktie-assisted arson, a near-luxury car full of demons, some car trouble, and a game of human whack-a-mole, we were once again out of leads.

After St. Louis, I knew it was time to seat the cannibal tribe in the "past tense" section of living. I mean, you just don't kidnap someone's demon accountant. That's just frickin' rude. Of course, now we're doing the chasing, like a couple of shotgun-toting girls hunting down our dates to the Sadie Hawkins' dance.