Robyn Peterman

The love of my dastardly immortal life is eating everything that isn’t nailed down and tried to behead me over a chocolate croissant. While I take chocolate croissants very seriously, I do believe decapitation is somewhat harsh. My daughters, the Seven Deadly Sins, are driving me to drink. Getting them mated off and the hell out of Hell is at the top on my agenda. The one thing that is keeping me sane—sane being a relative word—is my upcoming special day. After living a millennium and never knowing the date I came to be, I have sussed out the information from my certifiably insane, pole-dancing mother. She’s swears on her empty head that my birthday is April 1st. Soon, April 1st will mean something. I’m no fool. I plan to make my birthday far more famous than my do-gooder nephew’s. That day in December will be forgotten when I get done making my womb eviction day the most important in the history of the Universe. I shall simply go about business as usual. Punishments must be doled out and chaos must be encouraged. A vacation would be lovely, but there is no rest for the weary... or the evil. Luckily I know how to have an outstanding time doing outrageously bad things. Thank Hades, I’m a handsome bastard. Oh, and Happy Birthday to me.

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