It’s okay. You aren’t my type. What’s your type? Someone who gets into less trouble.
To know Pritkin was to want to kill him, but so far I’d resisted temptation.
This was Dante’s. Crazy was what we had for breakfast when we ran out of Corn Flakes.
I leaned back in my chair, stretching luxuriantly, delibrately letting my jacket fall open. Predictably, his eyes moved down my body-some things outlast even the change. I grinned and he looked away, a rueful smile twitching at his lips. I finished breakfast in peace.
I was tops at the Scarlet O’Hara school of emotional distancing. I always thought about the uncomfortable stuff tomorrow, and, as everyone knows, tomorrow never comes.
I barely heard him, I was too busy watching Pritkin, who had slumped over with his head on the sofa arm, shoulders shaking helplessly, and what looked suspiciously like tears leaking out from under his closed eyes. “Not that bad,” he muttered, and then he was off again.
Pritkin muttered something that sounded fairly vicious. “My clothes are warded! Even if I wished to accede to your demand, it would not work on them.” “Then strip.” “I beg your pardon?” He sounded almost polite suddenly, as if he believed he couldn’t possibly have heard right.
Mircea leaned over to refill my wineglass, and a section of his bare chest showed under the robe, along with a hint of dusky nipple. It’s a good thing I’m too stuffed to move, I thought hazily. I would so have jumped that.
I looked up, but had to crane my head back, leaving the features above me wrong-side up. The clear green eyes were the same, and, unfortunately, so was the spiky blond hair. It didn’t look any better from this angle, I decided.
Louis-Cesare. It’s good to finally have you in hand.
Nobody said anything that time. Or maybe I just wasn’t listening. After all, someone had to keep an eye on the fridge.
I thought there was a good chance the fridge was possessed. It was subtle about it, but I had its number. I knew its ways. Oh yes.
The Lord Protector and his hair got off the elevator.
They were short and squat and had too many limbs, and he had no idea what either of them were. But they looked suspicious.
They were too cold and there was no lime, but today was obviously about hardships.
Why has Emrys not killed you? Why has everyone not killed you?” “They’ve tried.” “Not hard enough!
Then he suddenly looked back at me. “I see you.” You always did, I thought, watching sparks dance in his eyes.
There are a thousand ways to die,” he told me quietly. “There are so few really to live. I would gladly risk the former for the latter, and it is my choice, is it not? To risk whatever I must, my heart, my body, my soul, in order to be with you. Is that not what love is? – Louis-Cesare.
That didn’t reassure me much; Alphonse’s idea of good manners consisted of remembering to bury all the bodies.
The mage stood on the peak of the roof, leather coat whipping out dramatically behind him, not that he really needed the help. His eyes were emerald fire, and his hand clutched something that looked a lot like a wand but wasn’t, because mages didn’t use those things.
I was the kind of gal who thought the nightgown drawer was where old T-shirts went to die and.