Demon Hunting with a Dixie Deb - Lexi George Page 0,75
the necklace, you lost control.”
“Get Taryn.”
“Sassy, I do not think—”
Sassy gripped the edge of the tub. “Grim, get Taryn—now. Please.”
He rose to his feet and looked down at her with a frown. “Very well, I will fetch her. Do not move. When I return, I will help you dress.”
He dematerialized.
Help her dress, indeed. What was she, two?
Sassy opened the valve on the tub and got to her feet. O-r-r-r maybe not. Her ears roared and her legs shook.
The wet towel plopped into the travertine tub with a dull splash. She lifted her legs over the edge, one at a time, hanging on to the wall as the floor and ceiling did a funhouse whoopsy.
The worst of the dizziness passed. Moving slowly, she dried her body and hair with a clean towel, an effort that left her trembling and queasy. She wiped the steam from the mirror and peered into the glass. Her once-straight hair was a tangled mass of damp blond ringlets. Otherwise, same old Sassy—a little pale, perhaps. And she felt like death on a shingle, but the same.
Thank goodness.
She staggered out of the bathroom and across a heaving floor. Somehow, she made it to Trey’s dresser and pulled a white tee shirt out of a drawer. The simple act of shoving her arms into the garment exhausted her. A little more rummaging yielded a fresh pair of panties. Sassy stepped into the panties and pulled them up, a chill racking her body. Bunny rabbits, she was cold.
The walls of the room expanded and shrank, and the floor dipped and swayed. Sassy gazed with longing at the bed. It seemed miles away. She took a tottering step. The room tilted and she fell into the mist.
She came to on Trey’s bed with the covers tucked around her. Mose sat at the end of the king mattress, his spindly legs crossed at the ankles. In one hand he held a box of Cheez-Its; in the other, a carved wooden goblet.
Yellow crumbs dotted his clothes and the comforter. His head was back and he was singing at the top of his lungs.
Oh, I’m Scottish, you know, and I always wear plaid,
’Cause my balls are so big, and I am so bad,
And my legs only reach from my butt to the ground,
And I fart all the time, ’cause I just like the sound.
Sassy pushed to a sitting position. She felt a hundred years old; make that a hundred and ten. Pain banged around in her skull. Mose’s caterwauling didn’t help.
She leaned against the bank of pillows and closed her eyes. Mother-of-pearl, she felt awful.
“What an interesting song,” Sassy murmured without opening her eyes. “I had no idea you’re Scottish.”
“Not—learned it from a Red Cap.” Mose took a loud slurp from his cup. “Jings, the times we had scattering the sheep.”
He burped and launched into another verse.
Oh, I’m Scottish, you know, and I always wear kilts,
And the lasses all like the way that I’m built.
And I blow my butt trumpet through valley and dale,
And the lasses all say that I sing with my tail.
“Bollocks and flatulence? You have plumbed the depths,” a cool voice said. “Go somewhere and sleep it off. Preferably somewhere far away.”
Sassy opened her eyes and saw Taryn sitting in the armchair by the window. The huntress seemed relaxed, her long legs stretched in front of her. She held a knife in one hand, a thin, wicked-looking blade with a leather-bound handle. The Dalmatian was stretched out at her feet. He sprang to all fours and barked at Sassy.
“Welcome back,” Taryn said. “We have been worried about you.”
“Thanks,” Sassy said. “I see you and Trey have met.”
“When the shrew spoke of a dog named Trey, she failed to mention he was the shade of your brother and her spouse.” Trey growled and the huntress cocked her head and listened. “Former spouse, you say? I beg your pardon.” She gave Sassy a look of amusement. “I take it theirs was not a happy union. He chooses this form to avoid her in death.” She gave the dog a look of empathy. “Having met your lady wife, I can empathize.”
“You can understand him?”
“Of course. You cannot?”
“No.” Even dead, her brother shut her out. The knowledge rankled. “How long was I out?”
Taryn aimed the tip of the knife at Mose. “Long enough for that foolish creature to get pixilated on milk.”
Mose snapped his fingers. “I could turn you into a tadpole like that.”
Taryn arched an auburn brow. “You could try, little man.”