Half of my remaining vervain gave me time to dress and escape. But as I walked into the TV station that afternoon, Chuck found me, and I spent the next half hour with a ghost prancing naked between the interviewer and me. Though I kept my cool, I knew my distraction would show—eyes a little too round, gaze darting a little too often, laugh a little too shrill. That wouldn't do. Part of my appeal is that, yes, I can be spacey, but in a ditzy C-list celebrity way, not one that screams "I just got my day pass."
Afterward, sitting in the cab, listening to Chuck do a standup routine of sexist jokes, I envisioned him harassing me through my Friday show and into my weekend.
I can take abuse, but there are two things no one interferes with: work and Jeremy. The warning shots hadn't scared this guy away. Time to haul out the howitzer.
Normally, my "big gun" comes in the form of a sword-wielding, ass-kicking spirit bodyguard. Eve is a half-demon and a part-time angel, proving even the afterlife has moved to nondiscriminatory hiring practices. But when Eve is on a celestial stint, she's incommunicado. So I had to do this myself. That meant the heavy-duty banishing ritual, one that required a lot of time, effort and ingredients. The last was the sticking point. Vervain wasn't the only herb I was low on. So I placed a call to my West Coast supplier.
Paige is a witch who lives in Portland and has everything a spellcaster or necromancer could need. She doesn't sell the stuff. She's just better organized than me ... or anyone else I know.
It was still late afternoon, and Paige never went home early, so I called the office.
"Cortez-Winterbourne Demon Hunters," a voice sang. "Get 'em slayed before you get flayed."