Survivors Can't Always Choose Their Methods.

"can't Sleep With A Dead Man In My Closet." "you Killed Someone?" Asked Ben With Interest.

So In The Sweltering Heat Of A July Night, I Sang A Christmas Carol To A Room Full Of Fae, Who Had Been Driven Out Of Their Homelands By Christians And Their Cold-iron Swords.

The Warmth Of His Body Shouldn’t Have Felt Good. He Was Angry And Every Muscle Was Tense. It Was Like Being Leaned On By A Very Heavy, Warm Brick. A Sexy Brick.

“hey, Adam,” I Said. “i Thought You'd Want To Know That Warren And Darryl Made It Out Of The Vampire Den Alive.” I Sucked In My Breath. “you Didn't Actually Agree To Their Meeting On Marsilia's Grounds?” He Laughed. “no, It Just Sounded Better Than Saying They Made It Out Of Denny's Alive. It Might Not Be Romantic, But It's Open All Night And Set In The Middle Of A Brightly Lit Parking Lot With No Dark Places For Skulking Parties To Ambush From.”

He Loved Her Beyond All Reason And Didn't Expect Her To Love Him Back. He Was Just Waiting For Her To Wise Up.