* * * * *
It didn't take long for the subject of Jesse Cannon to reach the rented Honda either. We were somewhere in Eastern Pennsylvania when the questions started, which is like saying we were somewhere on a plate of plain yogurt. Driving across that particular part of the country is unforgivably boring, even when the horizon is full of demons and gods and who-knows-what else. And Jesse Cannon was like the only tabloid in an emergency room lobby with no television: he was simply the closest sane distraction.
I can't say that I didn't see it coming. Still, I was wholly unprepared for the ferocity of the onslaught. Seriously—these three were more relentless than a pack of twelve-year-old girls.
"What is he like in real life?"
"Where is he from?"
"Is he really that tall?"
"Did he actually get that heiress pregnant?"
"Can he really do that thing with his hips or is that digitally animated?"
(You’ll see. St. Petersburg. Yes. Definitely not. And yes, yes he can.)
"How did you end up working for him?" Jackson inevitably asked, and I told him the same thing I tell everyone else:
"I made him a drink he couldn't refuse."
Vessel, Book I: The Advent Page 32
