Where. Is. He?" Alphonse repeated, although it sounded more like "Don't make me eat your face.

I’d been declared—over my loud and sustained protests—Pythia, the chief seer of the supernatural world.

I looked up, but had to crane my head back, leaving the features above me wrong-side up. The clear green eyes were the same, and, unfortunately, so was the spiky blond hair. It didn’t look any better from this angle, I decided.

I turned over, and those big hands got to work on my back. I stifled a whimper in the pillow, because Marco's idea of a massage bore no resemblance whatsoever to the relaxing spa variety. There was no lavender oil, no soothing music, no hot towels. Just an all-out assault on cramped muscles, until they cowered in surrender and turned to Jell-O.

It's okay. You aren't my type. What's your type? Someone who gets into less trouble.

Where. Is. He?" Alphonse repeated, although it sounded more like "Don't make me eat your face.

But you were Mine. My child. And I would not give you up.