Herald laughed, then sauntered off and trailed behind the others, curious about our new nephilim not-friend: half human, half angel, all douchebag.
“For what it’s worth,” Carver called out, “I agree. In time, you might make a good father.”
I wasn’t expecting a compliment from Carver, of all people, and certainly not one about my untested and nonexistent parenting skills. I felt my skin redden a little and scratched the back of my head.
“Gee,” I said. “Thanks, Carver.”
“Come,” he said, patting the cushions. “Sit. You must understand, Dustin, this Mason boy, you were in his place once, too.”
I sighed. “I know, I know. It was too familiar, the situation he was laying out. I can relate.”
“Good,” Carver said. “Then one hopes you will get along, eventually.”
“Please. I said I could relate. I didn’t say I could stand him.”
“Some days, I feel like the matron of an orphanage, and none of my boys will listen.” Carver shook his head. “In time, then. Perhaps. For now, you must explain to me. What is this festival of sausages? Is it some sort of contemporary holiday?”
I cringed as I walked over, flopping onto the couch next to him. “Oh my God, Carver, this conversation feels so unnecessary.”
He frowned. “The insistence of modern youth on using such frustratingly vague terminology is what I would consider unnecessary, Mister Graves.”
“Fine. Fine. It’s because we’re all guys here.”
“And?”
“Please don’t make me say this.”
Carver steepled his fingers together. “Mister Graves. On occasion, it is the master that must learn from the student, yes? This would be one of those times. Also, if you do not answer soon, I will be very tempted to dock your pay.”
“Okay, fine. Everyone who actually lives in the Boneyard is a dude. And as dudes, there is a specific part of our anatomy that – well, it resembles a sausage.”
“The phallus?” Carver cringed. “How uncouth. And dreadfully unfunny. Now why on earth would we hold such celebrations? These festivals of sausages?”
“Sausage parties.”
“Yes.”
“It’s – it’s not a party. It’s just a way to express how there are no women in the Boneyard. We’re all men here. That’s the joke.”
“That only confuses me more. This modern jargon of yours wastes both time and breath. Sausage festivals indeed.” He harrumphed. “But speaking of sausages, it has become apparent that our new guest is very fond of them.”
“How do you know that Mason likes sausages?”
Carver raised an eyebrow. “What? No, Dustin. Our other guest. The one called Banjo. If you could be so kind as to fry up one or two of them for him? As a treat.”
“I really don’t think we should be feeding a little dog sausages, Carver. Or any dog, for that matter. Wait. Have you been giving Banjo sausages?”
Carver’s eyes slowly flitted to the left, then to the right. Finally, they settled on me. “No,” he said.
“You’re a terrible liar. No more sausages. But more importantly,” I said, chucking him in the shoulder, “are you actually spending time with Banjo? That’s adorable.”
Carver straightened his posture, brushed off his shoulder with the back of his hand, and cleared his throat. “I was only keeping the creature company. It seems there was no cause for fear after all.”
“Where is he now?”
“Under my desk. He has taken a liking to the space there. I have provided him with a bowl of water, and a second bowl filled with the dehydrated remains of various small animals.”
“So he has kibble?”