What Feasts at Night (Sworn Soldier, #2)

by T. Kingfisher

Paris, when we left, had been in full glory. Much is made of springtime there, but for my money, a warm autumn is just as spectacular and you don’t trip over nearly as many poets.

not the sharpest bayonet on the battlefield,

My fingers sank into his hide as if it were no thicker than a moth’s wing, and plunged into something dry and spongy, which crumbled away from my touch.

The smell cleared my sinuses like a fox clears a henhouse.

“Something bad happened to both of us, too. We don’t deserve to fall apart either.”