by J. R. Ward
“You’re flippin’ huge, J.M. For real. Like . . . ginormous.”
That is not a word. John shoved his backpack in like he usually did and realized none of the clothes he was crushing would fit him anymore.
“The hell it isn’t. Back me up, Blay.”
Blay nodded as he pulled on his ji. “Yeah, you fill out? You’re going to be, like, Brother-sized.”
“Gigundous.”
Okay, also not a word, asshole.
“Fine, really, really, really big. How’s that?”
p. 301
Qhuinn smiled, baring his fangs. “Has anyone ever shown you the difference between good touch and bad touch? ’Cause I’d love to demonstrate. We could start right now.” p. 303
“I came to see if you were dead.”
Jane had to smile. “Jesus, Manello, don’t be such a romantic.” “You look like shit.”
“And now with the compliments. Stop. You’re making me blush.”
p. 360
V blinked a couple of times, horrified at what he was about to say. “God, you’re going for sainthood, you know that? You’ve always been there for me. Always. Even when I . . .”
“Even when you what?”
“You know.”
“What?”
“Fuck. Even when I was in love with you. Or some shit.”
Butch clasped his hands to his chest. “Was? Was? I can’t believe you’ve lost interest.” He threw one arm over his eyes, all Sarah Bernhardt. “My dreams of our future are shattered—”
“Shut it, cop.”
Butch looked out from under his arm. “Are you kidding me? The reality show I had planned was fantastic. Was going to pitch it to VH1. Two Bites Are Better Than One. We were going to make millions.”
“Oh, for the love.”
pp. 369-370
“You know I’m right.”
“Fuck you, Dr. Phil.”
“Good, I’m glad we agree.” Butch frowned. “Hey, maybe I could have a talk show, since you aren’t going to be my June Cleaver anymore. I could call it The O’Neal Hour. Sounds important, doesn’t it?”
“First of all, you were going to be June Cleaver—”
“Screw that. No way I’d bottom for you.”
“Whatever. And second, I don’t think there’s much of a market for your particular brand of psychology.”
“So not true.”
“Butch, you and I just beat the crap out of each other.”
“You started it. And actually, it would be perfect for Spike TV. UFC meets Oprah. God, I’m brilliant.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” p. 370
“Ten minutes,” Butch whispered into Marissa’s ear. “Can I have ten minutes with you before you go? Please, baby . . .”
V rolled his eyes and was relieved to be annoyed at the lovey-dovey routine. At least all the testosterone in him hadn’t dried up.
“Baby . . . please?”
V took a pull on his mug. “Marissa, throw the sap bastard a bone, would you? The simpering wears on my nerves.”
“Well, we can’t have that, can we? ”Marissa packed up her papers with a laugh and shot Butch a look. “Ten minutes. And you’d better make them count.”
Butch was up out of that chair like the thing was on fire. “Don’t I always?” “Mmm . . . yes.”
As the two locked lips, V snorted. “Have fun, kiddies. Somewhere else.” p. 445
Lover Enshrined
Shoulda. Woulda. Coulda.
Cute rhyme. The reality was that one of the Ring-wraiths from The Lord of the Rings drove him to red smoke sure as if the bastard hog-tied him and threw him in the back of a car.
Actually, mate, you’d be the front bumper.
Exactly.
p. 5
. . . The thing had woken him up as usual, an alarm clock as reliable and stiff off the ground as Big Fucking Ben.
p. 19
The Brother Rhage’s voice boomed. “That bunch of self-serving, prejudicial, light-in-the-loafer—”
“Watch the loafer references,” the Brother Butch cut in. “I have some on.”
“—parasitic, shortsighted motherfuckers—”
“Tell us how you really feel,” someone else said.
“—can take their fakakta ball and blow it out their asses.”
The king’s laugh was low. “Good thing you’re not a diplomat, Hollywood.”
“Oh, you gotta let me send a message. Better yet, let’s have my beast go as an emissary. I’ll have him rip up the place. Serve those bastards right for how they’ve treated Marissa.”
“You know,” Butch announced, “I’ve always thought you had half a brain. In spite of what everyone else has said.”
p. 36
Not more than five blocks to the east, in his private office at ZeroSum, Rehvenge, aka the Reverend, cursed. He hated the incontinent ones. Hated them.
The human man dangling in front of his desk had just pissed in his pants, the stain showing up as a dark blue circle at the crotch of his distressed Z Brands.
Looked like someone had nailed him in the hey-nanny-nannies with a wet sponge.
p. 49-50
“You got hair like a girl,” Mr. D said.
“And you smell like bubble bath. At least I can get a trim.”
p. 60
The king’s voice resonated through the wall she leaned against. “Not having fun tonight, Z? You look like someone’s shit on your front lawn.”
p. 73
You’re a freak. But I really can’t accept these—
“Were you raised in a barn? Don’t be ruuuuuuuuuuuuude, my boy. They’re a gift.”
Blay shook his head. “Take them, John. You’re just going to lose this argument, and it will save us from the theatrics.”
“Theatrics?” Qhuinn leaped up and assumed a Roman oratory pose. “Whither thou knowest thy ass from thy elbow, young scribe?”
Blay blushed. “Come on—”
Qhuinn threw himself at Blay, grasping onto the guy’s shoulders and hanging his full weight off him. “Hold me. Your insult has left me breathless. I’m agasp.”
Blay grunted and scrambled to keep Qhuinn up off the floor. “That’s agape.”
“Agasp sounds better.”
Blay was trying not to smile, trying not to be delighted, but his eyes were sparkling like sapphires and his cheeks were getting red.
With a silent laugh, John sat on one of the locker room benches, shook out his pair of white socks, and pulled them on under his new old jeans. You sure, Qhuinn? ’Cuz I have a feeling they’re going to fit and you might change your mind.
Qhuinn, abruptly lifted himself off Blay and straightened his clothes with a sharp tug. “And now you offend my honor.” Facing off at John, he flipped into a fencing stance. “Touché.”
Blay laughed. “That’s en garde, you damn fool.”
Qhuinn, shot a look over his shoulder. “Ça va, Brutus?”
“Et tu!”
“That would be tutu, I believe, and you can keep the cross-dressing to yourself, ya perv.” Qhuinn flashed a brilliant smile, all twelve kinds of proud for being such an ass. “Now, put the fuckers on, John, and let’s be done with this. Before we have to put Blay in an iron lung.”
“Try sanitarium!”
“No, thanks, I had a big lunch.”
pp. 121-122
Xhex offered him her arm without looking at him because she knew he was too much of a pride-filled dickhead to lean on her otherwise. And he needed to lean on her. He was weak as shit.
“I hate when you’re right,” he said.
“Which explains why you’re usually so short-tempered.”
p. 163
In spite of the exhaustion that was dragging at him, he shook his head. “Tell me.”
“You don’t—”
“You tell me . . . or I’m going to get up and start doing fucking Pilates.”
“Whatever. You’ve always said that was for pansies.”
“Fine. J
ujitsu. Talk before I pass out, would you?”
p. 228
“Understood. And listen, I’m going to want to help Havers out. It’s too much for him to set up the new clinic and care for patients. Thing is, it’s going to involve some days off-site for me.”
“Vishous okay with that security risk?”
“Not his call, and I’m telling you only out of courtesy.” The female laughed dryly. “Don’t give me that look. I’m already dead. It’s not like the lessers can kill me again.”
“That is so not funny.”
“Gallows humor is part of having a doctor in the house. Deal with it.”
Wrath barked a laugh. “You are such a hard-ass. No wonder V fell for you.”
pp. 237-238
The hidden entrance to the escape tunnel was all the way in the far comer to the right and it was shielded by bookshelves that were on a slide. You simply reached out, pulled the copy of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight forward, and a latch released, causing the partition to retract and reveal—
“You are such a moron. ”
Qhuinn, jumped like an Olympian. There, in the tunnel, seated in an outdoor lounger like he was getting a tan, was Blay. He had a book on his lap, a battery-operated lamp on a little table, and a blanket over his legs.
The guy calmly lifted a glass of orange juice up in toast, then took a sip. “Hellllllllo, Lucy.”
“What the fuck? You’re like lying in wait for me or some shit?”
“Yup.”
“What was in your bed?”
“Pillows and my head blankie. I’ve had a nice little chill sesh hanging here. Good book, too.” He flashed the cover of A Season in Purgatory. “I like Dominick Dunne. Good writer. Great glasses.”
pp. 270-271
Hell, he expected a fleet of Dobermans to come trucking around the comer with their chompers showing.
Then again, the dogs were probably still gnawing on the bones of the last guest they’d turned into pulled pork.
p. 282
Hey, John signed.
“Hey.
John stepped back, clearing the way. How are you doing?
“I wish I were a smoker. ” Because then he could put this off for the duration of a cig. No, you don’t. You hate smoking.
“When I face the firing squad, I may rethink that hard line. ”
Shut up.
p. 283
In quick succession Qhuinn, reviewed his answers: No, of course not, the knife was acting of its own volition, I was actually trying to stop it. . . . No, I only meant to give him a shave. . . . No, I didn’t realize that slicing open someone’s jugular was going to lead to death. . . .
p. 284
“John wants you to stay here.”
Qhuinn’s eyes shot to the king. “What?”
“You heard me. ”
“Shit. You can’t approve that. No way can I stay here.”
Black eyebrows crashed down. “Excuse me?”
“Er . . . sorry.” “ Qhuinn clammed up, reminding himself that the Brother was king, which meant he could do whatever the fuck he wanted, including but not limited to renaming the sun and the moon, declaring that people had to salute him with their thumbs up their asses . . . and taking roadkill like Qhuinn under his roof if he were so inclined.
King was spelled c-a-r-t-e b-l-a-n-c-h-e in the vampire world.
p. 286
As Qhuinn, looked at his friend, he was not about to tell the guy that he was going to jail and then being released into the custody of Lash’s parents to be tortured for the rest of his days. “Ah, not too bad.”
You lie.
“Do not. ”
You’re the color of fog.
“Well, hello, I had surgery, like, yesterday.”
Oh, please. What’s happening?
“To tell you the truth, I have no clue—”
p. 288
“You have what I call a ‘male brow.’ Which is a frown brought on when you’re thinking about your male and you either want to boot him in the ass or wrap your arms around him and hold on ’til he can’t breathe. ”
p. 292
But Tudor mansions on manicured grounds didn’t look right with their grand front doors wide open to the night. It was like a debutante flashing her bra thanks to a wardrobe malfunction.
p. 302
“Thank you,” Qhuinn said as V smoothed on more of that ointment, the fresh ink vivid against his golden skin. “Thank you very much.”
“You haven’t seen it yet. For all you know, I could have inked ‘jackass’ back here.”
“Nah. I never doubt you,” Qhuinn, said, grinning up at the Brother.
Vishous smiled a little, his hard face with its tattoos showing approval. “Yeah, well, you aren’t a flincher. Flinchers get fucked. The steady ones get the goods.”
p. 314
Qhuinn, pulled a light jacket from his bag and seemed to gather himself as he put it on. When he turned back around, his characteristic smart-ass smile was back in place. “Your wish is my command, prince of mine.”
Don’t call me that.
John headed for the exit, and he texted Blay, hoping the guy would show eventually. Maybe if he was bugged enough he’d relent?
“So what should I call you?” Qhuinn, said as he leaped ahead to open the door with a flourish. “Would you prefer ‘my liege’?”
Give it a rest, would you.
“How about good ol’-fashioned ‘master’?” When John just glared over his shoulder, Qhuinn, shrugged. “Fine. I’ll go with fathead, then. But that’s your damage, I gave you options.”
pp. 315-316
“You want me to open your door,” Qhuinn said dryly as he cut the engine.
John looked over. If I say yes, would you do it?
“ No. ”
Then by all means, open my door.
“Damn you. ” Qhuinn got out of the driver’s seat. “Ruining my fun. ”
John shut his door and shook his head. I’m just glad you’re so manipulate-able.
“That’s not a word.”
Since when have you been in bed with Daniel Webster? Hello? ‘Gigunda’?
Qhuinn glanced to the house. He could just hear Blay’s voice filling in, That would be Merriam-Webster. “Whatever.”
pp.351-352
“Long time no see, ” the angel said.
“Not long enough. ”
“Always with the hospitality.”
“Listen, GE.” Rehv blinked hard. “Mind if you dim your disco ball?”
The glow drifted away until Lassiter appeared normal. Well, normal for someone with a serious-ass piercing fetish and aspirations for being some country’s gold currency standard.
Trez shut the door and stood behind it, a wall of you-fuck-with-my-boy-and-angel-or-not-ima-show-your-ass-a-beatdown.
“What brings you onto my property?” Rehv said, cradling his mug with both hands and trying to absorb its warmth.
“Got a problem.”
“I can’t fix your personality, sorry.”
Lassiter laughed, the sound ringing through the house like church bells. “No. I like myself just as I am, thank you.”
“Can’t help your delusional nature, either.”
“I need to find an address.”
“Do I look like a phone book?”
“You look like shit, as a matter of fact.”
“And you with the compliments . ” Rehv finished his coffee. “What makes you think I’d help you?”
pp. 426-427
“Son of a bitch,” Wrath breathed as the figure stopped twenty yards away.
The glowing man laughed. “Well, if it isn’t good King Wrath and his band of merry-merry-happy-happy. I swear you boys should do kiddie shows, you’re so fucking cheery.”
“Great,” Rhage muttered, “his sense of humor’s still intact. ”
Vishous exhaled. “Maybe I can try and beat it out of him.”
“Use his own arm to do it, if you can—”
Wrath glared at the two of them, who shot him back a pair of who-us? stares.
The king shook his head and addressed the lit figure. “Been a while. Thank God. How the hell are you?”
Before the man could answer, V cursed. “If I have to hear all that Keanu Reeves, Matrix, ‘I am Neo’ kind of shit, my head’s going to explore. ”
“Don’t you mean Neon?” Butch shot back. “’Cause he reminds me of the Citgo sign. ”
p. 486
After a moment, Wrath turned to John. “This is Lassiter, the fallen angel. One of the last times he was here on earth, there was a plague in central Europe—”
“Okay, that was so not my fault—”
“—which wiped out two-thirds of the human population.”
“I’d like to remind you that you don’t like humans.”
“They smell bad when they’re dead. ”
“All you mortal types do. ”
p. 488
“Fuck. Me,” Vishous breathed.
“I will so pass on that,” Lassiter muttered.
p. 488
The stairwell fire alarm went off, its shrill cry the kind of thing that made you want to be deaf.
Phury laughed and rolled to the side, tucking her into his chest. “Five . . . four . . . three . . . two—”
“Soooooooooorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrryyy!” Layla called out from the foot of the stairs.
“What was it this time, Chosen?” he hollered back.
“Scrambled eggs,” she yelled up.
Phury shook his head and said softly to Cormia, “See, I’d have figured it was the toast. ”
“Can’t be that. She broke the toaster yesterday.”