By Colleen Foley
“Son of a bitch,” I growled for the eighth time, choking the wheel, dim-sighted with frustration. “The suburbs?”
Seth nodded again. He’d huddled close to the car door - probably so I couldn’t punch him - and tried not to smirk as he told me.
“I’ve
been looking forward to killing monsters, bathed in the beautiful,
antiquated stink of swamp and kudzu, to watching funeral parades and
visiting a real brothel. I’ve been day dreaming about blood-soaked
revenge and gumbo at Johnny’s. I’ve been humming The Vampire Song for fuck’s sake!"
“Hate it for ya, Nate. Voodoo-slinging assclown is toast.”
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