Stolen

I was very strict on that point. No devouring classmates." Jeremy rolled his eyes. "Other parents warn their kids not to talk to strangers. I had to warn mine not to eat them.

Murder? You mean he's dead?" "No. He's resting comfortably," I said. "People always sleep best with their heads at a ninety-degree angle. He looks comfortable, doesn't he?" (Paige & Elena)

When I glanced at the chair, it started to shake. I’d like to think it was scared of me, but I rarely invoked that response in living things, let alone inanimate objects.

Another werewolf thing. Like most animals, we spent a large part of our lives engaged in the three Fs of basic survival. Feeding, fighting and... reproduction.

He liked women with little butts and big tits? Someone had played with one too many barbie dolls as a kid.

Using supernatural beings to build the perfect weapon? Intriguing idea." "Not really," I said. "They did it on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. A sub-par season. I slept through half the episodes.

Making me choose? Darling, we live with the guy. We share a house, bank accounts, even vacations. We're never alone and I've never heard you utter one word of complaint. You have never asked me to choose, and you have no idea how grateful I am for that, because if I ever had to pick, it would be you, no matter what that meant for the Pack.

Who cared whether you could change motor oil when you could snap a rottweiler’s neck in 2.8 seconds? Now there was a practical skill.

A guitar twanged from the far-off radio. Country music. Damn. They'd resorted to torture already.

My past was a private obstacle, not a public excuse.

What's next? If there are vampires in there, they probably drink artificial blood plasma substitute.

Common courtesy dictates that we never drain the lifeblood of anyone to whom we've been formally introduced.

The rottweiler stood his ground and waited for me to take the next step in the dance of ritualized intimidation. Instead, I leaped at him. Screw ritual. Now was not the time to stand on ceremony.

I was...a journalist...though my typical beat was freelancing articles on Canadian politics, which never included any mention of demonic phenomena, though it might explain the rise of the neoconservatives.

I never tell that story. I hate it. Hate, hate, hate it. I refuse to let my past explain my present. I grew up, I grew up stronger, I overcame it. End of story. From the time I was old enough to realize that my problems were not my fault, I'd decided not to shift the blame to all of those foster families, but to get rid of it. Throw it out. Move on. I could imagine no fate worse than becoming someone who tells the story of her dysfunctional childhood to every stranger on the bus. If I did well in life, I wanted people to say I did well, not that I did well "all things considered." My past was a private obstacle, not a public excuse.

Still, I shouldered part of the blame, maybe because it gave me some sense of control in an uncontrollable situation.

Now I was standing in a forest grove with a witch, a half-demon, a vampire, and a shaman, planning to put an end to a nefarious plot to usurp our powers and alter the path of humankind. Talk about your conspiracy theories.

Other parents warn their kids not to talk to strangers. I had to warn mine not to eat them.