My Big Fat Supernatural Honeymoon by P. N. Elrod

Author:P. N. Elrod
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

JACK SLEPT, AFTER DEMOLISHING THE LAST OF THE mmibar’s whiskey, lying lengthwise across the bed. Using his sight was like popping a handful of Valium, or so he’d told Pete. He could sleep forever, completely blank and dreamless.

Pete grumbled him out of his shoes and socks and left him sprawled. She turned out the lights and curled on the sofa under a pink throw. If it were just her, she’d be on the motorway back to London. The hotel was wrong, like being trapped inside the skeleton of a giant desiccated beast. Lines of black power crossed under their feet, and Jack seemed oblivious.

Or maybe he was just used to it. And you would be as well, you poor excuse for a Weir, if you’d learn to block out feed from every stray spurt of magic floating on the wind. She couldn’t very well shake Jack awake and say, “We have to go home. The hotel gives me the creeping spooks for reasons I can’t fully explain.” Jack would laugh himself weak, and then tell her she was being bloody stupid. “Besides, I’m a sodding inspector,” she muttered, “and I’m afraid of harmless hotel ghosts.” “Harmless” here being a subjective term, of course. She groaned at her own pitiful state and pulled the throw up to her chin.

Since the incident in London, sleep was a reluctant and elusive partner, but Pete nevertheless felt her lashes flutter down against her cheeks. The sofa was soft and the throw was warming her and the hush-hush of the sea coaxed her to sleep, just sleep… .

No nightmare forced Pete to wake or perish, just a repetitive, steady boom boom boom, like the beating of a great three-chambered heart.

Jack stirred and turned over on the bed, a shaft of weak fog-filtered sunlight turning his platinum hair white. The beating came again, boom boom boom. “Room service,” a guttural voice spoke.

“Bollocks,” Pete muttered. She was awake, and her neck and spine were on fire from sleeping crumpled against the sofa like a scarecrow. “Coming!” she shouted, tripping over her own shoes on the way.

Donovan the waiter stood outside the suite door, holding a covered silver tray. “Morning, miss.” His slippery grin gave Pete an involuntary twitch between her shoulder blades.

“We didn’t order room service,” she said, keeping her frame fully blocking the doorway.

“Course you didn’t,” said Donovan. “Morning-After Brunch. Compliments of the management.” He craned and caught sight of Jack. “Wore the wee lad out, did you?”

Pete snatched the tray. “Give the management my thanks.” She shut the door in Donovan’s face. “Tosser.”

“Whossat?” Jack muttered, an arm over his eyes to block out the sun. “I smell sausages.”

Pete set the tray down and regarded it. Silly, of course. Nothing but breakfast under the cover, but at the same time, she felt a spurt of pure animal fear when she thought about what could be under the innocuous nickel-plate lid… .

Jack came up and snatched the top off, missing Pete’s sharp in-take of breath. “Toast is soggy,” he muttered, tossing it into the bin.

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