Storm Cursed (Mercy Thompson, #11)
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Read between June 24 - June 27, 2019
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Campbell laughed. “I didn’t expect to like you.” “Funny what happens when you talk to people,” I said.
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Werewolves have to eat a lot. And “hangry” just doesn’t describe what happens to a werewolf when he is hungry.
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“Outcast. Cast. Out. That means someone kicked you out. If you leave—then you can be something less pathetic and more adventurous-sounding. Like a rogue.”
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Getting chased by a snow elf might not sound impressive. But when a frost giant says he’s a snow elf, there aren’t many, even among the fae, who would argue with him about it.
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“They are not Christians,” she said. “They are not moral people.” She said it as if it were a mantra, something she’d been taught. I’d heard it just the other day in a JLS sound bite on Facebook. As if only Christians were moral. As if all Christians were moral. My old pastor liked to say that church is a hospital for the sick, not a mausoleum for the saints.
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“And that’s why I hate witchcrafters,” said Uncle Mike, his voice a prosaic contrast to the events in the circle. “So much blood in their workings.” He sounded vaguely disapproving. Sherwood raised his head. “And the fae are so gentle.” “No,” Uncle Mike agreed. “Mostly we’re worse—but not as messy.”
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“I get the best spells from Wiki,” he said. “Have you read what it says about werewolves? I keep editing the article, but someone—and I think it’s Bran Cornick—keeps changing it back.”