Rachel Morgan

It’s my first time inside a car. It seems like a clumsy and time-consuming method of transport to me. I’m glad I have faerie paths to travel by.

I wonder what he’s thinking. He’d probably be horrified if he knew I want to throw myself on top of him and tear his shirt off. I’m kind of horrified myself.

“Yes. And if this is your way of asking if you can rip my shirt open and feel my chest, you’re not exactly being subtle about it.”

After a split second hesitation, I say, “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m asking. Can I start now?”

Well, they set the rules, and I get in trouble with all of them if I break them, so they must all be in charge.”

“No, I know what I mean, and I’m making sure that you also know what I mean.”

Haven’t I always known that this is the way the world works? Life’s a bitch and then you die. I just haven’t got to the dying part yet.

Her heart did some kind of irregular beat thing, which was probably just her body signaling its annoyance at having someone right up in her personal space. She lifted one knee and slowly pushed Archer away with her foot. “You’re such an idiot.”

“You brought down that water tower like a kid knocking over a pile of blocks. Which is to say,” she added, “that you did it with great delight.”

“Totally. I’ve got loads of entertainment here. A pink troll riding a unicycle and juggling fire sprites.”

“My mom would probably say, ‘Please excuse the mess,’ but I honestly think it looks fine.”