The Old Language really was beautiful, Blay thought. Staring at the symbols, for one brief, ridiculous moment he imagined his own name across Qhuinn's shoulders, carved into that smooth skin in the manner of the mating ritual. Never going to happen. They were destined to be best friends...which, compared to strangers, was something huge. Compared to lovers? It was the cold side of a locked door.

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.

The smile he gave her was wistful, just a little lift to his mouth. "You are a fighter." ""Yes. Always. And sometimes I'm a whole army.

You've got nothing to worry about. The righteous do not always right, but their souls remain pure. -Lassiter the Angel

Cause nothing said lovin' like a shitload of motion detectors.

Qhuinn looked at each of the hoods again. How ironic, he thought. Nearly two years ago, an Honor Guard of black robes had been sent to him to make sure he knew his family didn't want him. And now, here these males were, come to draw him into a different kind of fold-- that was every bit as strong as that of blood.

She nodded, wondering why couldn't she have been named Mary. Or Sue. Butno , she had to be nine-letter Elizabeth.