“I told you to go to your fucking room!” Jackson snarled at Joshua, lifted an imposing hand, and pointed to the hallway. Her short caramel hair was messy, her toned and muscular back flexing as she motioned to the empty hall. “Don’t fuck with me, you little shit.”
“N-no,” he stammered, his entire body quaking.
“Don’t make me tell you again. Go to your room.”
Marianne—no longer solid but airy—rushed between her son and the enraged woman, as if her ghostly body could somehow shield him from harm. Jackson moved toward Joshua, passing through the spirit like a person would a dense New York winter fog.
This was not good. Not fucking good at all.
I glanced around.
The entire apartment was stripped, with none of the essential necessities to engage in diligent combat. The porcelain lamps would shatter upon one good use, and the television and entertainment center would be impossible to lift. My gaze settled on the old oak coffee table—the dark wood stain matching the somber furniture and gloomy atmosphere.
God certainly had a warped sense of humor.
My only chance was the enormous bible situated on the end. The good Lord Jesus Christ beamed up at me from the center of pristine white leather, flaming heart aglow.
Better make it count.
I didn’t hesitate and rushed for the object. I snagged the thick, heavy book in my hands and brought it around, building momentum as I slugged the good word across the side of Jackson’s face like a sacred baseball bat full of deliverance. Her head snapped around with a rip-roaring slap. She spun around upon impact. The blow sent her staggering to the floor on her unworthy knees.
The sidearm latched in the holster at her waist was just the meal ticket I was looking for. I dove to the ground, snagged the butt of the gun in one hand and unlatched the metal snap closure with the other. The barrel slid free just as Jackson turned and clocked me in the chin with a balled fist. I managed to work the gun from the holster but lost my grip. The Beretta thudded across the carpet to rest at Joshua’s feet.
I rolled onto my back and did a kick up, again thanking my lucky stars my knee had miraculously healed after the visit to the library. Jackson might be stronger and faster, but making a living as a bartender in a dangerous city meant I knew how to defend myself well enough to survive. When she charged, I crouched low to the ground and dodged to the left. The instant she barreled past me, I made a rush for the gun, lunging for the end of the couch. I extended my arm and my fingers brushed the hard edge of steel.
“Not so fast, bitch,” Jackson snarled, snatching my ankle. She pulled my fingers out of reach of the weapon.
One minute my stomach was flush against cushiony synthetic carpet, the next I was soaring through the air. My shoulders and cranium made contact with the solid wall across the room first. I would have groaned if I had any of the breath necessary to do so, but as luck would have it, I had a difficult enough time wheezing.
My legs were weak but steady when I rose to face the incoming were-bitch.
Her irises glowed white, the pupils narrowed to pinpoints. The short brown hair on her head was scattered in multiple directions, and a nasty set of claws were visible from each of her long fingers. Twin fangs that were thicker and longer than any vampire’s I’d ever seen shoved her full lips back, giving her the visage of an acid-trippy saber-toothed cave chick.
“Fuck me,” I groaned, bracing myself.
Bitch might just kick my ass.
The loud crack of gunfire echoed through the room. Jackson jerked when she was struck. The bullet must have lodged somewhere inside her, because it didn’t pass through and continue on a path to me. The shocked look on her face was priceless, but I didn’t have a decent opportunity to enjoy it. She whipped around and faced the boy standing across the way with a gun leveled at her chest.