Amber’s snort pried him from his daydreaming. “We’re the ones to tell the hero he’s on his last adventure. We don’t go on stupid quests ourselves. It’s hard enough being there at the right moment for the person to hear our scream.”
“I can’t imagine what that feels like—hearing the banshee’s scream, knowing what it means and still carrying on.” Jon sighed. “I guess that’s why I’m not a hero.”
“You’re too intelligent to be one.” Emilia grinned. “Being a hero requires having no imagination whatsoever. Otherwise, they wouldn’t do their heroing stuff and instead hide under the covers. Because, contrary to the saying that only overcoming your fear makes you a true hero, I think it’s better to not have any fears in the first place. Corum is a good example for that. Even though some of his adversaries are downright frightening, the author never dwells on him being afraid. He’s too busy killing things—just like Beowulf, come to think of it.”
“Yes, he’s a good example, his mind set firmly on the task, no matter how much bloodshed it requires.” Jon took another cookie. “And the bloodshed is always described in great detail, as if the amount of blood and gore makes the deed even more heroic.”
“You have a point here. Archaic heroes have little to offer in regard to personal growth—if we discount them becoming more battle-hardened with every adventure. Take Hercules… The only thing not directly linked to his strength that he ever did was choosing between the two women who represented the two paths his life could take. He actively chose to be a hero, just like Corum actively chose to follow the call of that Celtic tribe after he had survived so many tasks. Moorcock has him do it out of boredom, which would fit nicely with Emilia’s theory. Somebody without imagination has a hard time doing nothing.” Declan stretched his long legs. The others nodded their consent to this analysis. When it appeared that nobody had anything to add, Sammy summed up their discussion.
“So, we agree that heroes are sexually attractive, even to an asexual species, because brute strength still has a certain appeal in our sophisticated society. They’re not the sharpest knives in the drawer, otherwise they wouldn’t be able to mindlessly pursue dangerous situations that normal people would never attempt. And they have to die in some way or another because a happily ever after is not what we deign to let them have. Anything else?” Sammy looked around. The discussions in the group tended to get off track more often than not and he was proud how well they had managed to stay on the topic for the evening, even though the book had just been the catalyst for a broader subject.
Declan yawned. “No. Not from me. Though we could try and find some essays about the concept of the hero and include them in another discussion.”
The others nodded eagerly. Sammy loved those moments, when they decided to delve deeper into a topic, to discuss it in earnest, almost as if they were attending a class in college.
“I’m going to find some essays. Perhaps we can start our next meeting by defining the different types of heroes? How does that sound?”
“Perfect, dear. Maribell and I will see what we can find on witch heroes, though I think there aren’t that many.” Mavis started gathering the empty cups.
Jon got up to help her. “Could you make apple pie next time?” he asked shyly.
Maribell, who had been sitting next to him, patted his leg. “Of course, dear. As long as you promise not to forget to eat your brains.”
Sammy turned around quickly to hide his chuckle. It wasn’t funny, really, but listening to Maribell scolding Jon about his eating habits like a concerned grandmother would do with her grandchild felt so normal—provided he ignored the content. Jon was the first zombie Sammy had met, and apparently, they could eat like normal people, but they needed some brain tissue now and then, just like vampires needed blood. When he was sitting in front of his computer, Jon tended to forget about eating and a zombie in need of brain was not a sight for people with a weak stomach.
“I won’t. I promise!” Jon sounded like an eager puppy. “I have a reminder programmed into my computer and a standing order with Larry, the butcher on Main Street. Oh, and Sammy is my backup should the alarm not work.”
“Very good. Apple pie it is.” Maribell looked at the cups Mavis had gathered on a tray. She furrowed her forehead in concentration and, in the blink of an eye, the cups were all clean.
“I love that trick!” Declan chuckled. “You really don’t want to come over to my place and do the housework? I pay well!”
Mavis tsked at her fellow witch. “No, we don’t. Strictly speaking, it’s cheating, and we only do it here because we don’t want to leave Sammy with all the dirty dishes on top of everything else. He works too much.”
Sammy held his hands up. “It’s fine, Mavis. I love my work, and since my apartment is right above the shop, I don’t have a long way home.”
“Still, I’m worried about you, dear. When was the last time you had a nice boy over for some sexual release?”
And that right there was the problem with being friends with paranormal people. They tended to be very outspoken about bodily needs. Sammy’s ears heated up. Being questioned about his love life—or the lack of it—by a woman who could have been his grandmother was disturbing enough. Seeing the adventurous gleam in her eyes and knowing that she had probably more action between the sheets than him was just sad. The pity in the eyes of the others wasn’t helping either.
“You know I’m picky. I can’t just bring myself to invite some random guy over Grindr solely for the purpose of having sex, not to mention that I’d have to drive over to Helena to meet because most people don’t even know where Beaconville is.”
“We could always drive you. Stay close, to make sure the guy behaves.” Declan shrugged.
“Wonderful. Now I feel like a prostitute with his pimps. No, I want my man to woo me properly. You know, dates before sex.”
Declan snorted. “You’re hopelessly romantic.”
“Leave him be. It’s okay for him to wait until he meets his Mr. Darcy.” Emilia winked at Sammy, alluding to the best book ever. “And he has two healthy hands and the Internet. The relief part should be covered.”
Sammy buried his beet-red face in his hands. If having friends meant suffering through comments like this, he wondered if staying a loner would have been so bad.
“Can we please talk about something else? The weather maybe? And, just for the record, I don’t watch porn. I don’t want to get strange ideas.”
“Oh man, I’m not sure if this is sad or cute. Maribell is right. You need a boyfriend. Just work is no fun.” Amber slipped into her black coat. It was April and the temperatures still dropped during the night.
“Easier said than done. I’m working on it, okay?” Sammy sank into Maribell’s hug. She smelled of chocolate, a flowery perfume and, very faintly, of a strange herb he had come to associate with her. After Sammy had hugged all the females, Declan gave him a firm handshake and reassured him once more that he and Troy would be more than willing to help him out should he decide to go for Grindr, which he was determined not to do.
Jon waved at them all before he disappeared through the back door that led down to the cellar. He wasn’t big on touching, because the body warmth of others always reminded him that he was no longer alive. Sammy found it sad and would have loved to help Jon, but the zombie seemed to have found some balance in his life that Sammy didn’t want to upset.