Free Lady of Misrule (Marla Mason Book 8) by T.A. Pratt

the opportunity to perform a little shotgun experiment.
    A woman sat up in the sand, probably naked but so covered in dust and earth that it was hard to tell. She turned her head and spat brown muck onto the cavern floor. “This has to be the worst possible way to wake up.” She blinked at him and wiped dust from her eyes. Crapsey had arranged the lanterns to make himself a backlit shadow before her. Super dramatic.
    “Rondeau, is that you?” she said. “Where’s Pelham? Any report on that monster that escaped from the chamber below? If that thing is still on the loose, at least we know what we’re doing today. I should take a shower first, so I hope the RV’s tank is full –”
    “Rondeau and Pelham aren’t here.” Crapsey pumped the gun, loading a cartridge into the chamber with that wonderful “ka-chunk” sound so beloved of action movie directors. “Last I saw them, they were tied up in the back of a van, but that was days ago. They’re all tucked away, now, probably crying and wondering when you’re going to save them.”
    “Oh, I so do not have time for this bullshit.” Marla stood up, shaking off dirt as she did, though she still looked like the avatar of some particularly earthy deity, her hair sending down showers of dust with every step she took toward him.
    Crapsey pointed the barrels of the gun at her. “You can keep walking, and I’ll blow a hole in your middle, and you can listen to what I have to say while you lay there knitting your guts back together, assuming you can really do that. Or you can stop where you are and listen to me without getting major abdominal damage. Personally, I’m not bothered either way – in fact, I’d kinda prefer the bit where I get to shoot you, but I’ve been instructed to play nice until you force me to do otherwise. So which is it, option one, or option two?”
    “I’ll go with option C. I’m going to walk over there and get a drink.” She pointed to a dusty cooler against one wall of the cavern. “Because you don’t know what a dry mouth is until you’ve woken up from your own grave. Then I’m going to put on one of those black robes hanging on the hooks over there, left by my former cultists, because you’re lecherous and I’m not in the mood to give you a free show.”
    “You’ve literally got sand in your vagina. You are the opposite of alluring.”
    “Yeah, you say that, but didn’t I hear you fucked Nicolette? If so, your standards are as low as they can be without recourse to bestiality. Anyway, shoot me if you must, but I’ll make you eat a bucket of scorpions if you do. That’s not an empty threat, either. I’m feeling very literal today.”
    Crapsey couldn’t help but feel he sacrificed some of the initiative by acquiescing, but he let her put on a robe and then guzzle a bottle of water while sitting on the cooler. She poured water on her face, but that just made the dirt streak and darken, giving her a very war-paint sort of visage. Her gaze was calm. She’d clearly faced things a lot scarier than Crapsey and come out of it okay. He knew she had; once or twice, he’d been in the vicinity when she did the facing.
    She stretched, rolling her head around on her shoulders. Sleeping for a month probably put quite a crick in the neck. “Who talked you into being an idiot this time, Crapsey? I know you don’t have the initiative to kidnap my friends and point a gun at me on your own. You’ve tagged along after some high-quality monsters in the past – the Mason, Elsie Jarrow – but I’m drawing a blank trying to figure out your current employer. There aren’t many big scary people with a grudge against me left.” She swished more water into her mouth, then spat it out. The water was still brownish. Marla met his eyes again. “There aren’t many left because they’re dead. Which you know . And yet, here you are, throwing in your lot with someone trying to oppose me again . Call it the triumph of enthusiasm over experience,