The Dark-Hunters (878 page)

Widget Bones’s Diary

A Dark-Hunter Parody

Thursday 1 January.

201 lbs. (all muscle); third-degree burns, 2 (good start); blood units, 12 (Acheron’ll have my ass); Daimons slain, 1 (died laughing, must work on slaying technique); jokes about being man named Widget, 1000 (mostly Talon).

7:00
P.M.
Crawl out of bed. Pull back curtains.

7:01
P.M.
Grah!! Sun not down. Bloody hand crispy. New Year off to bad start. Going back to bed and starting over.

11:45
P.M.
“
Widget!
Get your ass out of bed and get to work!”

Hate Acheron. So bossy, just because he’s the boss. Roll out of bed for second time and look for clothes, though is shame to cover body like this. Will make up for it by posing seductively whenever females nearby.

12:30
A.M.
Stupid police think I’m soliciting on Bourbon Street. Why? Why? Attempt to explain that multitude of concealed medieval weaponry is required uniform for Dark-Hunters.

12:32
A.M.
Police think am kinky, bondage-dominance slave, or similar.

12:35
A.M.
Am wearing leg irons.
Leg irons.
Is insane for police to waste money on capturing me when are dangerous monsters out there to catch instead.

12:37
A.M.
Is also insane that am madly powerful creature of the night, yet cannot break out of cell. Note to self: Renew gym membership.

1:15
A.M.
Leg irons actually rather sexy. Perhaps being kinky bondage-dominance slave has possibilities.

1:25
A.M.
Apparently cellmate agrees. Wish would cross legs or something. Don’t need to see that sort of thing. V. disgusting.

4
A.M.
Fucking Talon. Keeps me waiting all fucking night before arriving with bail. Do not appreciate his howls of laughter.

4:30
A.M.
Finally am back on streets fighting evil as am supposed to be. Actually am chatting up hot bird in Sanctuary, but keeping eye on crowd as do so. Talon not impressed bail was so high (although am v. proud of it personally). Do not know why as is pointlessly rich so doesn’t matter anyway.

5:15
A.M.
Ooh, new all-night tanning salon on Decatur. Wonder if would look good with tan?

5:17
A.M.
Yes, v. good idea. Tan would set off rugged good looks, would become babe magnet.

5:25
A.M.
Like salon immensely. Clerk not pretty but with v. good rack—real? Wonder if tanning bed would provoke daylight-exposure type reaction, screams and flames or similar? Doubtful.

5:27
A.M.
Yes. Yes, it does. Fire extinguisher needs fragrance additive, as is v. harsh with chemicals. Doubt my cologne survived. Wonder if cologne added to combustibility of skin?

6:45
A.M.
Hate this job. Am calling Acheron and Talon to report tanning beds v. safe and pleasant.

Saturday 3 January.

209 lbs. (surely swelling will go down soon); sprained ankles, 2; hair gel used, 1 lb.; Daimons slain, 5 (not by me but heard about slayings, must count for something); jokes about clothing, 10,000 (must kill Talon).

11
P.M.
Must get out of bed. Must get out of bed. Oh, gods, must get out of bed.

11:05
P.M.
Stupid bloody woman with her stupid bloody heels and her stupid bloody perfect aim! How could ugly cow be so sensitive that must kick family jewels into next year simply because commented on extraordinary size of ginormous ass? Swelling unbelievable.

11:07
P.M.
Desperation setting in. Why hasn’t combination bed-toilet been invented? Would buy one.

11:08
P.M.
Just invented it. Note to self, make more absorbent.

1:25
A.M.
Message from Valerius’s Squire: “Your presence is requested in the Garden District to assist with the slaying of five evil Daimons. 1:30 sharp. Dress: casual.”

1:27
A.M.
Shit! Am still in pajamas.

1:28
A.M.
Maybe could go in pajamas? Sort of sexy disheveled look?

1:30
A.M.
No, pajamas have ducks on them. Better find leather trousers.

1:31
A.M.
Leather trousers too tight to accommodate swelling. Screams of agony still echoing. Have black sweats somewhere. Black v. frightening, serious color, no matter what fabric.

1:34
A.M.
Fuck! Can only find powder blue. Must have been stoned, drunk, and unconscious when purchased fucking
powder blue
sweats. Wonder if bad-ass trenchcoat long enough to disguise unfortunate color.

1:35
A.M.
And anyway, why get Squire to send messages? Can’t Mr. I’m Bloody Important ’Cos I Ran an Army Two Thousand Fucking Years Ago write his own texts?

1:40
A.M.
Unless is dyslexic. Crap. Feel guilty now.

1:50
A.M.
Fuck, really late now, and hair still doing mad peaked horns thing.

1:55
A.M.
Fuckety fuck. How is it possible to be three hundred years old and yet still not have mastered hair gel? Is ridiculous. Am immortal being. Hair gel stupid invention.

2:07
A.M.
Hair finally under control. Where are shoes?

2:10
A.M.
Cannot slay Daimons without shoes. Have killed too many by looking ridiculous. Am dangerous, violent killer. Cannot have fiends laughing at me.

2:16
A.M.
Where the fuck are my fucking boots? Can only find red stilettos (prank gift from Talon) and refuse to wear them.

2:28
A.M.
Stilettos only shoes in house. Shit shit shit!

2:41
A.M.
If Talon hears of this, will never live it down.

3
A.M.
Finally
ready to go. Hope slaying hasn’t started without me, as need to improve totals.

3:20
A.M.
Hard to hurry in stilettos. Who invented stupid ankle-killing shoe anyway? Will just lean against lamppost for moment.

3:55
A.M.
Dammitdammitdammit! Running in stilettos to escape vice cop.
Why
do they always assume I’m soliciting???

7:22
A.M.
Just checked in box. Seventeen e-mails from Talon, all re: fashion faux pas of red stilettos and powder blue sweats. Also recommendation of motels with hourly rates. Bastard.

Sunday 4 January.

211 lbs. (swelling is evil device of Satan); kicks to manhood, 2 (women are evil devices of Satan); same-day shipping for black sweats, $35 (bargain); time spent plotting Talon’s bloody demise, 23 hrs. 45 mins. (better).

9:23
P.M.
Don’t want to get out of bed. Swelling v. painful. Wonder if covered by insurance?

9:27
P.M.
Is anything covered by insurance? Do I even have insurance? Must ask Ash.

9:45
P.M.
Called Ash re: insurance. Was v. rude of him to laugh so loudly. Wouldn’t be laughing if his bollocks were the size of cabbages.

9:52
P.M.
Ooh, online shopping!

9:55
P.M.
Express delivery available. Black sweats in minutes.
Click click click.

10:20
P.M.
Express delivery excellent invention.

10:23
P.M.
What the hell?!? Positive did
not
order capris with lacy flower-trimmed cuffs!

10:28
P.M.
V. comfy despite unfortunate style issues. Will wear with bad-ass trenchcoat. Positive flowers won’t be noticed.

10:42
P.M.
Daimons dropping like flies when walk by. Finding this method of slaying v. effective and low-impact on joints unlike swordplay or similar. Perhaps should learn to love self for self and stop trying to change for others (Talon, Ash) as advised in
Don’t Let Their Derisive Laughter Get You Down.

10:55
P.M.
Yes, feeling better already. Am v. mature and secure individual unaffected by others’ childish taunts.

10:56
P.M.
Oh gods, there’s Talon! Must hide, must hide! Can’t be seen in flowered capris!

10:58
P.M.
V. smelly in Dumpster. Mystery why vagrants inhabit them so often.

11
P.M.
Drunk, rubbish-covered vagrant teasing me. Oh gods, I want to die.

11:05
P.M.
Told vagrant am immortal vampire slayer and had better fuck off with teasing. Was not funny enough for him to wet himself. Am sure was just by-product of disgusting vagrantness, not loss of bladder control due to flowered capris.

11:06
P.M.
Suggest vagrant invent/purchase combination bed-toilet for incontinence issues.

11:07
P.M.
Vagrant laughed until keeled over dead. Must have been Daimon in disguise. Am fearsome warrior of justice. Will wear flowered capris for slaying of Daimons, then wave sword and tell Ash that am genius in manner of Van Helsing, Buffy, or similar.

11:10
P.M.
Cell phone ringing. Bet it was fucking Talon who set ringer to play “I’m a Little Teapot.”

11:11
P.M.
Phone slimed with ooze of indeterminate origin. Dropped phone in garbage. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Now must track down phone before stupid teapot song ends.

11:13
P.M.
Find phone, check voice mail.

11:14
P.M.
Fired?!?!
Fucking
fired?!?!
Acheron must have made mistake. Am v. frightening, serious Dark-Hunter, not “stain to reputation of Hunters worldwide” nor “laughingstock of Pantheon” nor “disgrace to human race and entire animal kingdom.”

11:15
P.M.
He can’t really repo my house, can he?

1:25
A.M.
V. glad vagrant no longer claiming Dumpster. Home stinky home.

4
A.M.
Found copy of
When Life Gives You Lemons, Throw Them at Someone and Make Them Cry
beneath moldy potato peelings. V. inspiring book. Will look at career change as step forward, not step back.

4:12
A.M.
Chapter titled “Down in the Dumps?” eerily fitting.

4:25
A.M.
“What strengths were underappreciated in your last job? In what areas do you excel? Search your soul and you will find your true calling.” V. deep.

5:40
A.M.
Soul-searching useless. Forgot I sold that.

Saturday 10 January.

Weight—???; jokes about name, 0 (excellent); flowered capris, 12 (commonly discarded item, strangely); alligators circling, 4 (improving).

“Lemon” book used for toilet tissue. No idea what time it is. Watch stolen by large angry drunk, was rendered helpless by his nonexistent sense of humor. Find landfill v. charming once sense of smell damaged beyond repair—adventure, treasures, variety. Am in promising relationship with blind deaf-mute homeless ex-exotic dancer named Polly Wolly. Situation looking up. Polly knows man in patent office, sending bed-toilet proposal tomorrow. Riches and fame certain. Dark-Hunter gig overrated anyway.

Second Chances

A Short Story

“Second Chances” originally appeared in the exclusive Dark-Hunter collectible booklet that was published in 2005 and released alongside Sins of the Night. Only a handful of these booklets came with each floor display of Sins of the Night. Those copies were immediately snatched up and are still coveted by Dark-Hunter fans all over the globe.

A shiver of déjà vu crawled down Ash’s spine as he walked along the eerie, fog-filled hallway he’d hoped to never see again. The nether realm of Tartarus was reserved for those who were being punished in the afterlife for crimes committed in a human lifetime.

The screams of the damned echoed off walls as black as Ash’s own soul. He would give Hades credit—the ancient Greek god definitely knew how to make people suffer.

Moments like this, Ash hated being a god. It was unbearable to know he had the power to stop and change things, and the profound responsibility to let nature take its course. Human free will should never be altered. His own damnation was a constant reminder of exactly why.

Still the reality of it ate at him constantly. How he envied Artemis, Hades, and many of the other gods who could shrug off human suffering as par for the course.