I looked from Nina to Vlad; the family resemblance was undeniable now as both of them glared at me, fangs at the ready. I held up a hand, slight panic rushing through me.
“Okay. Nobody eats anyone. I’m going to take ChaCha for a walk and clear my head. Then I’ll get this sorted out and get Mr. Sampson on his way as soon as possible.”
Sampson, still dead to the world but as loud as a freight train, snored his agreement.
I clicked ChaCha’s leash around her tiny neck and stepped into the hallway. I was going to lock the door behind me, but I figured with a werewolf on the couch and a two silence-deprived vampires, our collection of Ikea furniture and Burger King china would be safe from looters.
“Whoa, love.” Will Sherman, standing in his open doorway across the hall, stepped back, the expression on his face one of sheer shock, quickly covered by something that was supposed to resemble—I guessed—nonchalance.
“What happened to you? Been out hunting the nutters and whatnot?”
Though I like to think I’m not one of those women who go all quivery-jelly around good-looking men or who feel the need to slap on pearls and lipstick to impress the hairier sex, I still felt my hand fly up to my bedhead nest of orange fuzz and my cheeks burn a little.
Will shook his head, clucking his tongue. “You look a sight.”
I tried to narrow my eyes, but lack of sleep disallowed their free movement. I wanted to look hard and angry, but that was impossible with my spastic pup, ChaCha, doing her love-starved dance at the end of her leash, throwing her entire eight pounds against Will’s calves, rolling over like the pet-slut she was to show off her rubbable dog belly.
Will grinned, leaned over, and scooped ChaCha into his arms.
“I thought I wasn’t allowed to do any hunting without my Guardian in tow.” It wasn’t meant to be a compliment, but Will took it as such.
“Ah, a Guardian’s work . . .”
I shifted from foot to foot, still stupidly holding ChaCha’s pink, camouflage leash while Will nuzzled ChaCha, who threw her head back in ecstasy, little dog legs kicking at the air.
Will Sherman is my Guardian. And no, I’m not under eighteen—far from it. I’m also not a trust fund baby à la Athina Onassis or Paris Hilton (pre–sex tape/pantiless partying/jail time). I’m simply the Vessel of Souls and Will is, simply, my Guardian.
Yeah, I really thought I could get that one past you.
I didn’t always know—nor was I always, I guess—this otherworldly Vessel for all human souls as they cross from the human plane to the either angelic or other plane. It’s not like the souls are inside me—no, that’s actually more like a steady stomach of chocolate-marshmallow pinwheels and anything that ends with the phrase “on a stick.” And it’s not as though I could burp up the soul of say, Bea Arthur, at any moment. I prefer to think of myself as more of a gateway rather than a gag gift from some ancient congress of angels who thought it would be a real gas to hide the one thing that both the angelic and demonic plane want more than anything—me, the Vessel of Souls—in plain sight. Yeah, plain sight. Me.
So even if I wanted to describe myself as a rare, exotic beauty the likes of which you only see in storybooks or in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition, I couldn’t, as I am supernaturally bound to be this “plain” thing.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself when I stare into the mirror and find that my has-a-mind-of-its-own red hair has decided to curl in its own circus clown fashion, whipping and swooping into my lime Jell-O-green eyes. Plain, yes. Regular? Not so much.
As I was saying, Will Sherman is my Guardian, bound by all things holy and un to throw himself in front of me in desperate, pointy situations, lest I fall into the wrong hands and get gutted, clubbed, or locked in a public restroom with nothing but hand soap as an escape method.
Yeah, he’s not great at his job.
I blinked at Will. “I’m having a hard time sleeping.”
“That explains why you’re up at a decent hour.”
“We’ve got a houseguest and he”—I considered my words, as a simple “snore” didn’t seem to capture the gravity of the situation—“rocks the city as a whole.”
Will cocked an eyebrow and stopped nuzzling ChaCha. She whined.
“He snores. Loudly. I can’t believe you can’t hear it from your place.”
Will grinned and looked over his shoulder, his hazel-flecked eyes going from sparkling and friendly to sensual and fierce.
“You could have always come across the hall. There’s room in my bed.”
I swallowed heavily and my stomach began a raucous flutter.
Any other woman would have swooned to get an offer like this from Will. He is nothing short of gorgeous with his always-mussed gold blond hair, hazel eyes that sparkled with bits of mischievous gold, and a body that was carved from a soccer god.