I grew up writing about the paranormal, and I blame too many Saturday mornings watching Scooby Doo.

I have to. I've been fighting it all night. I'm going to lose. My battle is as futile as a woman feeling the first pangs of labor and deciding it's an inconvenient time to give birth. Nature wins out. It always does.

Tell me when you want to pick it up again." "Tell me when Satan starts a snowball fight." "I'll do that. Lunch?

If it gets too bad, go. I’ll understand.” I won’t.

I remember hearing myself start to whimper, a five-year-old, crouched by the side of the road, staring into my father's eyes, whimpering because it was so dark and there was no one coming to help, whimpering because my mother was back in the crushed car, not moving, and my father was lying here in the dirt, not answering me, not holding me, not comforting me, not helping my mother get out of the car, and there was blood, so much blood, and broken glass everywhere, and it was so dark and so cold and no one was coming to help.

Derek lunged. He hit me in the shoulder and knocked me to the floor, landing on top of me. His body jerked, like he'd been hit with the spell, and I let out a yelp, struggling to get up, but he held me down, whispering "I'm okay, it's okay" until the words penetrated.

He looked at me. " I do know how to deal with demons, Savannah." "I know. Sorry." "So I get a hug?" "No, but I won't smack you, and we'll call it even.