By Colleen Foley
I’d forced Seth’s hand on the demon
question. I’d thought the idea asinine, but the way things had been
going, I needed him to say it. The kid was weird. Asked a direct
question, he’d prevaricate if he felt the need, but he’d never initiate a
lie.
Jimmy’s kitchen was pungent with the scent of whiskey and
herbs, both magical and protective. The head of the Peter Rabbit cookie
jar I’d blasted to heaven still sat on the counter, a guilty reminder
of how far off the reservation I’d been.
“So, I’m a road map. How you gonna… read me?”
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