It’d been a good day. And now that he’d gotten off, all he wanted was a cigarette, a drink or three, and his bed. Sadly, his fairy godmother was about thirty-three years too late, and nobody had given him a genie in a bottle yet, no matter what that song said. Rubbing things the right way, while pleasant, did not stop his phone from ringing the second he stepped through his apartment door.

“Oh, for the love of Christ’s hairy nipples,” he muttered, tugging his gloves off with his teeth while he fumbled for his phone. Flipping it open, he barked, “Walker,” glowering at the whiny Siamese cat that had wound herself around his legs, crying at him pitifully. Course, that glower didn’t stop him from scooping the damn thing up, sighing as she headbutted his chin with a desperately loud purr.

Stupid cat.

--Blood Howl, Chapter One