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Wizards were expected to minimize the use of their abilities in the presence of magic-ignorant mortals. It had not been so long since our kind had been burned at stakes by frightened mobs.
The thing was huge. I mean, just saying that it was nine feet tall wasn’t enough. It was mostly human shaped, but it was built more heavily than any human, covered in layers and layers of ropy muscle that were visible even through a coat of long, dark brown hair or fur that covered its whole body. It had a brow ridge like a mountain crag, with dark, glittering eyes that reflected the red-orange light of the fire.
“You’re . . . ,” I said. “You’re a . . .” “Bigfoot,” he said. “Sasquatch. Yowie. Yeti. Buncha names. Yep.”
“Kid,” I said, smiling, “no one loves broccoli. No one even likes broccoli. All the grown-ups just agree to lie about it so that we can make kids eat it, in vengeance for what our parents did to us.”
A successful murder is like a successful restaurant: Ninety percent of it is about location, location, location.
“Maybe,” he said in a slow, rural drawl, “you could explain to me why I found you in the middle of an orgy.” “Well,” I said, “if you’re going to be in an orgy, the middle is the best spot, isn’t it?”
“Dammit, man. I’m a Faerie Princess, not a forensic analyst.”
“The government isn’t the mob, Harry.” “Aren’t they?” I asked. “Pay them money every year to protect you, and God help you if you don’t.”
But feeling true isn’t the same as being true. In fact, feelings don’t have very much to do with the truth at all.
