Dean Winchester cruised down the empty highway in his black 1967 Chevy Impala, the notes of Led Zeppelin blasting from the car radio.
“Can you turn that down a bit?” His brother Sam asked from the passenger seat beside him, a laptop in his lap and a leather-bound book whose pages were yellowed with age propped on the dashboard.Read More »
“You hold it like a pencil, Uncle Spencer, like this!” Henry demonstrated where to put his fingers on the chopsticks to his frustrated godfather beside him.
“That’s exactly the problem, Henry, it’s like eating with two number two pencils. It’s completely counterintuitive!” Spencer said, as one of the chopsticks he was struggling to hold fell back to the table with a clink.Read More »
She liked to watch him drive. For starters, he drove a Classic blue Volvo Amazon P130 from the ‘60s, which was definitely not the car she expected a brilliant, socially awkward 24-year-old FBI Behavioral Analyst to drive. Then there was the way his body relaxed when he sat in the driver’s seat, a level of control and comfort he rarely showed elsewhere. When he drove, he wasn’t the eccentric genius with three PhD’s who struggled with understanding people’s emotions. When he drove, he was just a man with warm brown eyes and an endearing boyish smile.Read More »
Rose Granger-Weasley hopped out of the cable car with ease, a sharp contrast to her companion, who peered out of the door before placing a tentative foot on the steps. Rolling her eyes, she yanked on her companion’s elbow. “You’re holding up the line, Scorpius!”
“How do the muggles travel this way? Apparating would be much easier.”
The chalice lay toppled on the shelf, its contents dripping onto the desecrated crime scene. Crumpled in a heap below was the unsub, the white frothing at his mouth a stark contrast to the crimson pool in which he lay.
Floating in a perfect circle around him were the bones of his latest victim, bobbing in and out of the blood like rotten apples.