#askdemonmeg

Victor stumbled after the black Stafford bull terrier who had obviously caught on an interesting scent and was dragging its owner along the path through the park and on the grass. Victor tried his best to lead his companion back the way he wanted to go -which was home- but Genghis had obviously other plans.

askdemonmeg

He'd started drinking earlier than usual--after driving for two days straight only to find out that the 'angel sighting' in the small suburb of Baltimore, Maryland had been little more than a very inventive shifter's idea of a joke, the hunter had not been in the best of moods.  He would head back West in the morning, but killing time alone in a motel room was a recipe for self destructive tendencies for him these days.  He had always been a drinker, but in the months since Marcus' death even Lee had come to realize that it had gotten out of hand...though recognizing that fact certainly wasn't slowing him down, any.  It had become his ritual of sorts--sitting down to a bottle in the evenings, and drinking himself numb enough that he could rationalize simply raising another glass to his lips; instead of wrapping them around the business end of his own gun.  

The bottle had run dry an hour ago, and in his haze of inebriation he'd reached for his mobile phone and fat-fingered in a jumbled message to Charlotte Owens...a cry for help, a confession of guilt, an apology---things he still hadn't found the courage to say to her face.  He'd never hit the 'send' button, though.  Instead, he simply deleted it, and hammered out an innocuous text to the next person on the contact list...he hadn't even bothered to see who it was.  Turns out, it was the damned demon he'd run into a few weeks ago.

The phone in his hand chimed, and Lee glanced down at the newest message...

[text] Don’t rush a demon.

[text] Look behind you.

He groaned, because in his current state it took a great deal of coordination that he didn't necessarily have to spare in order to turn in his chair without falling out of it...though somehow he managed.  The hunter found himself face to face with the demon he had apparently summoned via text message (was that a thing in Hell now?).

"The fuck took you so long?"  He glanced at the two bottles of whiskey in her hands.  "...Ain't tradin' my soul for that, Buttercup...Just so we're clear."