(...) I was sure that Adam enjoyed bowling. Throwing a weighty ball at a bunch of helpless pins and watching the resultant mayhem is just the kind of thing that werewolves love.
“Don’t worry,” he said, knowing the other wolf would hear him through the door. “Mercy takes care of herself; I just get to clean up the mess afterward.”
Anyone who offends me deserves to hear exactly how they trespassed—or needs to be lulled into a false sense of security before the sneak attack when they aren't paying attention.
Samuel is not bad-looking in his human form—but his wolf is pure white and fluffy. All he needed was a unicorn’s horn to be the perfect pet for a little girl.
Sylvia was about ten years older than I, and she wore those years well. She was a small woman, delicate and beautiful. They say Napoleon was small, too.
(...) Zee swearing in German. It was modern German because I could understand about one word in four. Modern German was a good sign.
“Why is it that all cars are women?” he asked.
“Because they’re fussy and demanding,” answered Zee.
“Because if they were men, they’d sit around and complain instead of getting the job done,”
“You are a sick, sick man,” I told him.
“Thank you,” Ben replied, looking modest.
He smiled at me. “You were supposed to be the Alpha’s eye
“What?” I asked him. “You don’t think I’d be good eye candy?” I looked down at my overalls and grease-stained hands.
I don’t think I was getting braver, but after all the things that had happened lately, being frightened had lost its novelty.
“Ah can read, as long as they’s lotsa good pictures,” he said, speaking even slower than usual and using a lot more Texas-cowboy grammar.
“That’s my line,” I told Warren. “I resent your stealing it.”
Silence fell, and I remembered that I was supposed to be running this. It reminded me in an odd way of the time I’d had to take over my sister’s Girl Scout troop when my mother had been sick. Fourteen preteen girls, a tableful of werewolves—there were certain monstrous similarities.
I looked at Adam. “The next time you leap into a burning building after me, you’d better make damned sure I’m in there. And wear your shoes, damn it.” I looked at his feet again. “You’re leaking nasty burn ooze on the carpet.”
He smiled. “I love you, too, sweetheart. And thanks to the time you bled all over it, I now know a place that can clean almost anything off the carpet.”
I’d been keeping an eye on Henry throughout the fight. I glanced at him just as he stepped onto the mat.
“Alpha,” he called. “I chal—”
He never got the whole word out—because I drew my foster father’s SIG and shot him in the throat before he could.
(...) Adam looked at me. “Trust you to bring a gun to a fistfight,” he said with every evidence of admiration.
He’d been one to avoid if you could and to treat very, very courteously if you couldn't He’d mellowed a little with age and didn't disembowel anyone who displeased him anymore. Not that I’d seen anyway.
Data pierwszego wydania: 2010
Seria: Mercy Thompson