I like my whiskey like I like my women: stretching a metaphor way too far. A couple of years ago I screwed up so badly that everybody I remotely cared about wound up dead, nearly dead, or just plain betraying me. Some days, I’m sober enough to care. My list of “things I really don’t need right now” starts with a condescending octogenarian werewolf having a go at me for banging a Marchioness. As for where it ends, try the disembodied spirit of my ex-girlfriend stalking me in my dreams, a vindictive wizard-vampire from the first century on a vengeance crusade, being hired by the magical twin of my disanimated best friend and, oh yes, having to find the actual Holy Grail. If I was a better person, I’d take this opportunity to put my life together. I’d find a way to fix everything I broke, save everybody I let down, and maybe pay a certain vampire back for leaving me to die. But I’m not a better person. I’m a hard-drinking half-faery train wreck on legs and if I hated myself less I might even say I liked it that way.