This is storm season. Rassmussen and I handle storms differently. Rassmussen finds a good thunderstorm as an excuse to get out of a bath at worst and as a call to arms for a friendly smackdown among supernatural creatures at best. Apparently, he's a part of some official cross between a fight club and Thunderdome that only meets—you guessed it. During a thunderstorm.
While I'm snug in my bed sleeping off a good storm because there is nothing better than sleeping during a nice downpour, he's out biting off ears, clawing out eyeballs, and breaking arms or wings. I'm sure he suffers from his fair share of injuries, but due to the massively overpowering healing power that comes with mysticism, I seldom see more evidence of his nights out than a hangover and the suggestion of a scar.
This last weekend was different, though. I had the flu, and a low and behold, the cantankerous old fool volunteered without one little bit of cajoling from me to stay home and feed me soup, play the I'm hot, I'm cold game where he has to turn the thermostat up and then down every ten minutes. This was interspersed with cursing on his part and whining on my part for more tissues, less noise, more foot rubs, and less touching.
The storm was crazy close, with the house shaking every time the thunder rolled. The rain and hail beat at the windows like the stoning of sinners during ancient times. The weatherman announced a new tornado warning every five minutes, and I could have sworn I heard an emergency siren, but Rassmussen swore it was all in my head due to a double dose of flu medication taken with a shot of Rassmussen's bathtub vodka. I didn't think too hard about whether the tub was clean during the distilling process.
I must have looked like death because Rassmussen let me borrow Felix for the night. Cuddling the teddy bear was comforting right up until lightning struck the tree outside my bedroom and a limb flew through the window and landed across the foot of my bed. I screamed myself hoarse before the gargoyle shoved the limb back outside and taped plastic over the window.
Only then did he sit on the edge of my bed and roar in my face with tuna and onion breath so strong that it cleared my sinuses and scared me silent. I made a mental note to schedule a dentist appointment for him. I could have sworn I saw a cavity on his left molar.
And then he did the most amazing, once-in-a-lifetime thing as the emergency siren went off for real. He threw a quilt over my head and carried me out of the bedroom and down the hall. When he opened a door and took steps down, I knew where we were going. I squirmed in protest. The basement was off limits. If I went down there, I would never come out, I just knew it.
"Stop it, woman. This is for your own good."
Eventually, he stopped walking and dropped down on squeaking springs, where he held me, the quilt still over my head.
"Stay under the quilt, Francine. There are things down here, you best not see. It'll be okay. I promise." He patted my back.
My head against his chest, I listened to his heartbeat, the storm still raging above us. I must have slept because I awoke on the living room couch with the sun streaming in the window.