if Saint Bruce doesn't like your poem, he chops your head off.

if Saint Bruce doesn't like your poem, he chops your head off.

People always talk about good, fresh country air, but I kept getting wiffs of something that was neither good nor fresh but definitely country.

She sighed. Loudly. "Physical appearance is not what is important." Yeah right. Tell that to any girl who hasn't bothered to put on a presentable shirt or fix her hair because she's only running into the grocery store to get a quart of milk for her grandmother, and who does she see tending the 7-ITEMS-OR-LESS cash register but the guy of her dreams, except she can't even say hi—much less try to develop a meaningful relationship—since she looks like the poster child for the terminally geeky.

They'd poisoned me, dammit. Probably to trade my dead body to the barbarians for Wulfgar's safe return. Or maybe just for the fun of it.

There, close enough to spit on--if I'd been a barbarian and inclined to spit--was the dragon.

Those Grimm brothers," she said with a sigh, "they'll never amount to anything." And she was right because all they ever became was writers.