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.

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.

The wolf sniffed beneath the door to be sure this was a human cottage. The scent was undeniable. No pigs, except in bacon form. The wolf thought bacon form was a very sensible way for pigs to behave.

Giannine--What are they going to do: smack me on the head with a pamplet?

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

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