The human reached inside Wrath’s jacket and started pulling out weapons. Three throwing stars, a switchblade, a handgun, a length of chain. “Jesus Christ,” the cop muttered as he dropped the steel links on the ground with the rest of the load. “You got some ID? Or wasn’t there enough room in here for a wallet, considering you’re carrying about thirty pounds of concealed weapons?

He tasted each one of them. The raw power and majesty of Wrath. The vast strength of Rhage. The burning, protective loyalty of Phury. The cold savagery of Zsadist. The sharp cunning of Vishous.

This place is just too frickin precious," the cop said, eyeing a guy dressed in a hot pink leisure suit with makeup to match. "Give me rednecks and home-grown beer any day of the week over this X-culture bullshit.

The stories just keep showing up in my head - and I really hope they keep it up! I write what I'm told, and as long as I do that, I don't have any problems with writer's block or anything. The issues come only when I try to force the story or the people in it to do things they don't want to. As a control freak, it's funny that I've learned to be so comfortable with being out of control in what is arguably one of the most important areas of my life!

The mind...the mind was the most powerful force for and against someone.

I'm not hurt. I'm pissed off and sexually frustrated.

But come on, like she hadn't seen every aisle in his grocery store already?