The Fangover Read Online Free PDF

alcohol poisoning? Or was it a couple of macho superegos who’d gotten into a barroom brawl, probably over a woman they both just met that night.
    The siren wailed again as if to answer. Hell, no. They couldn’t manage that. But this was Bourbon Street—what did Cort expect?
    He tugged the blankets tighter around his ears, but that didn’t help. In fact, it was starting to sound like the incessant wailing was coming from inside his apartment rather than down on the street below.
    Shit, sleep wasn’t going to happen with this racket going on. Letting out a low growl, he shot upright, only to clasp his head as a ripping pain threatened to split his skull.
    “What the fuck.”
    He remained totally still, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with him. Then after several seconds, he carefully parted one eyelid, then the other.
    The colored lights from Bourbon Street glared brightly through the windows, and he winced as another wail ricocheted off the walls of his apartment.
    Shit, he knew what was wrong with him, even though he wasn’t sure how it could be. He hadn’t experienced one of these in nearly two hundred years, but even after all that time, there was no forgetting the blinding pain in his head, the roil of his stomach, and the feeling he’d just eaten flour straight from the bag.
    “Shiiit, I have a hangover.”
    Cort lifted his head from his hands, pretty sure he hadn’t said this realization aloud. He squinted across his room only to discover he wasn’t sleeping in his room, but rather on the living room couch under . . . a woman’s coat?
    He looked in the direction from where he thought the comment had come. A heap near the window moved. As the shadowy figure slowly sat up, Cort made out long, golden hair and almost angelic features.
    Saxon. His band’s keyboard player.
    “Oh, dude, my head.”
    Cort wasn’t always sure about the newest bandmate, but in this instance he had to agree. Shit, his head hurt, too.
    Of course, it made sense the keyboard player might have a headache. Saxon was a relative baby in vampire terms, and he still had some lingering human weaknesses. But Cort’s vampire constitution was far beyond mundane ailments like a hangover.
    Another wail echoed through the room and agonizingly through Cort’s throbbing head.
    Okay, obviously not. This was definitely a hangover. Damn, he needed some blood, but getting up off the couch, lumpy as it was, and heading to the fridge seemed like far too much work.
    “What the hell happened last night?” came another groggy, miserable voice from the worn, oversized chair in the corner.
    Cort saw Wyatt, The Impalers’ bass player, slumped forward in the chair, his hands sinking into the tangle of his long, dark hair. Cort didn’t answer, but he did try to search his aching brain. What the hell had happened?
    “Dude, all I remember is dust in the wind,” Saxon said, collapsing back into a heap.
    “What does that even mean?” Cort asked, not bothering to hide his irritation with Saxon’s cryptic comment. Leave it to Saxon to quote classic rock in some misled attempt to be deep. The mentally challenged should never, never try to be deep. Especially when he felt this damned shitty.
    Saxon lifted his head and frowned, which gave him the appearance of a wounded angel. “It means all I remember was dumping Johnny’s ashes over the side of the riverboat.”
    Johnny’s ashes. Johnny’s ashes. Shit, Johnny Malone was dead. That’s where they’d all been last night, on a riverboat, giving him his final send-off. Saxon was being literal. Damn.
    How could Cort have forgotten Johnny’s wake? The loss of their bandmate had been rough on all of them, from the newest to the oldest member. Cort fell somewhere in the middle.
    “That’s all I remember, too,” Wyatt said, then groaned as another wail filled the room. “What the hell is up with that noise?”
    This time there was no denying that the sound was getting closer. Not to mention,