Lisa Shearin

“So the owner of a monster head wants to meet on a path named Nut,” I said. “That’s appropriate.”

“Mychael said the rock’s not affecting you, and from what I’m seeing I’m inclined to agree.”“I beg to differ.”“Feeling evil?” Justinius asked.“No.”“Having an urge to overthrow governments, kill thousands?”“No and no.”“Take over the world?”“Too much work.”

“Mychael Eiliesor. Guardian paladin, sacred protector, master spellsinger, fashion consultant.”

“I'd heard that if you saw a Reaper, you saw what you expected to see, what you thought the agents of Death would look like. Personally, I wanted to see little, fuzzy pink bunnies, but apparently my subconscious visualized tall, scary, and skeletal. My subconscious and I needed to have a long talk.”

“I just had his hand in a vise,” I protested indignantly. “It wasn’t like I had a dagger in his ribs. ‘Hand in a vise’ is simple assault or, in my case, self-defense. ‘Dagger in the ribs’ is attempted murder. My family did teach me the difference.”

“Whoever said ignorance is bliss must have died a horrible death with a really surprised look on his face.”

“I decide that we could always indulge ourselves later. First, I had a soul-eating stone of power to poke with a stick.”

“You wearing a thigh sheath?”“Now what would be the sense of wearing just one? I have two thighs.”