Storm Cursed (Mercy Thompson, #11)

by Patricia Briggs

He gave her a look. “I am going to ignore—just for a minute—how much my geek side is loving that apparently there is a goblin king in the world. And that he is—again apparently—here in the Tri-Cities. Even knowing that David Bowie is gone, I am giddy about this.” He said all that in a very dry, professional tone.

“Zombie miniature goats. Roaming the countryside. Doing what zombie goats do . . . whatever that is. I think there might be a song in that. Or a movie that is only supposed to be good if you are high on something psychedelic.

Yep. Mary Jo was competent. Too bad for her, because this was not how to get off my emergency call list.

But I’ve learned that there are always terrible things, and sometimes it is very important to grasp what joy and beauty you can, whenever you can.

I remembered that Anderson had said something about people who were deliberately stupid, burying deeper thoughts beneath a steel barricade so they wouldn’t have to look at them.

“That which doesn’t destroy us . . .” “Leaves us scratching our heads and saying, ‘What’s next?’”

The crazy-like-a-tornado-in-the-land-of-Oz vampire wasn’t anyone I wanted thinking about me at all. Let alone looking forward to having me as an opponent.

“Ethically,” I said, “defense is easier to defend than, say, assassinations or attacking people because they irritate you.”