The Thief Who Pulled on Trouble's Braids (Amra Thetys, #1)

by Michael McClung

What, you've never been on a three-day drunk? Take a big bite out of the next dead cat you see lying in the gutter; you'll get the idea.

I took in the leaning, ramshackle two-story building in front of us. It was all of wood, and rotting. It hadn’t seen paint in a generation. The termites probably had to hold hands to keep it standing.

You can’t just go walking around with a severed head in Lucernis. But you can, I discovered, walk around with a lumpy head-shaped item, wrapped in linen and dripping blood. I think it’s just that nobody really wants to know you’re walking around with a severed head, and are appreciative of the courtesy of leaving room for doubt.

Oh, and astrologers, like children, should be beaten often on general principles.

I’m the high priest of a dead god. He didn’t cut himself shaving.