You'd tell the world what your best friend wore to sleep if you thought it made a good enough story.

Adam swore harshly. "New werewolves are dangerous, woman. Especially when they are cold and hungry." He looked at Mac, and his voice changed completely, the heat and anger gone, "Mercy, come here." I didn't look down to see what he'd noticed in Mac's face. I took a step, but Mac was wrapped around my left leg. I stopped before I fell. "Uhm. I'm a little stuck for the moment.

Mine" he said. Adam's eyes narrowed. "I don't think so. She is mine." It would of been flattering,I thought,except that at least one of them was talking about dinner and I wasn't certain about the other.

What would a racist call werewolves? Wargs? She kind of liked that one, but suspected that racist bastards didn't read Tolkien.

She crawled on top of him, naked and warm and soft, smelling like a miracle that had saved him from a lifetime of aloneness.

Taking out werewolves, I gather and surmise, is akin to taking out a SEAL team.

Civilization is vastly overrated.