‘Get up off your ass. That Hunter scumbag is coming and he doesn’t look happy.’ I tried to pry open my peepers, but they felt glued shut, heavy with caked crap. ‘Oh please wake up,’ Marie this time, sounding like a woman pleading for her kidnapped boy to be released. ‘Felix says he doesn’t see Malthus anywhere and you can’t fight Nimrod off on your own. Oh Jesus, please wake him up. Morgan!’ I was wondering why she didn’t just try to possess me again if she wanted me up so badly. But then, maybe pulling the old spook-possession-snafu robs spooks of their ectoplasmic zest. Either way I didn’t want to be around when Nimrod showed. So I raised my hands—which also felt all gummed up with crap—to my peepers and pried open the lids. “Owee.” Marie, shining bright in the dying light of day, was the first thing I saw. Not an altogether unpleasant way to wake up. After blinking a zillion times, I sat up and had a peek around. “What the flip?” noticing the dried, purplish fluid coating my hands.
