For nights upon nights he lives like this, jolted awake in that wonderfully warm moment when sleep finally comes to claim him. He pretends not to be at all bothered. He is a man plagued by the nigh on constant whisperings of the dead, after all. What's one more spirit yelling in his ear? But inside, each time that blare of horns and irritatingly joyous whooping begins, he wants to draw a sigil into the air to rip that damned woman through it. He wants to draw blood from his wrists and tear her ethereal old ass to spiritual shreds.
But he can't. It's Maya's grandmother.
On the sixth night, when he's just about to fall asleep, and her wretched howling rises again, he flies from the bed. Covers tossed, he rises in his briefs in a flurry to come to a rest in the center of his darkened bedroom. The man is a canvas of the occult and the arcane. Nearly every inch of him, excluding his face, most of his neck, and the soles of his feet, are covered in the decades-accumulated tattoos that speak to his true professions.
"Pizda matii!" He cries out. His hands lift in a combination of frustration and defeat. "What do you want from me, woman?!"