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363 pages, Paperback
First published January 19, 2010
“Something was happening, something strange and creepy and terrifying, and the scariest part of all was that it wore a familiar, ordinary face.”
"Yeah,Mom,Ethan’s turned into a monster and my best friend thinks he’s a faery.How was your day?"
"Ladies and Felines,welcome to Tir Na Nog.Land of endless winter and shitloads of snow"
“Yeah, Mom, Ethan’s turned into a monster and my best friend thinks he’s a faery. How was your day?”
“I guess the sacrifice of my dignity is the only thing that will save us now. The things I endure for love. The Fates laugh at my torment.”
“Combat doesn't have to be with swords... Emotions can be deadly weapons, and knowing your enemy's breaking point can be key to winning a battle.”
"I am a cat," purred Grimalkin.
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"I don't even recognize myself." An image frashed through my head and I giggled with slight hysteria. " I won't turn into a pumpkin when midnight comes, will I? "
"If you annoy the wrong people, you might."
"It's an elf," hissed another, giving me a toothy leer. "An elf what lost its ears, maybe."
"No, a goat-girl," cried yet a third. "Good eatin', them."
"She ain't no goat, cretin! Lookit, she ain't got no 'ooves!"
"Time to switch to decaf, princess. If you're going to shriek at every bogey that jumps out and says 'boo', you'll be exhausted before we reach the edge of the woods."
"Stop it!" I hissed glaring at both in turn. "Stop it right now! Put your weapons up, both of you! Ash, you're in no condition to fight, and, Puck, shame on you, agreeing to duel him when he's obviously hurt. Sit down and shut up."
" Charming," Puck commented, gazing around in distaste. "I love the barren, dead feel they're going for. Who's the gardener, I wonder? I'd love to get some tips."
The morning before my birthday, I woke up, showered, and rummaged through my dresser for something to wear. Normally, I'd just grab whatever clannish thing is on the floor, but today was special. Today was the day Scott Waldron would finally notice me.
I wish I weren't so poor. I know pig farming isn't the most glamorous of jobs, but you'd think Mom could afford to buy me at least one pair of nice jeans. Oh well, I guess Scott will have to be wowed with my natural grace and charm, if I don't make an idiot of myself in front of him.
Opening the cabinet doors, I scoured the boxes of cereal for the one I liked, wondering if Mom remembered to pick it up. Of course she hadn't. Nothing but fiber squares and disgusting marshmallow cereals for Ethan. Was it so hard to remember Cheerios?
"Yeah," I muttered, turning and lobbing the bagel into the trash can. It hit the wall with a thump and dropped inside, leaving a greasy smear on the paint. I smirked and decided to leave it.
I'm not like "inflate-a-boob-" Angie, Ms. Perfect Cheerleader, who'd flip out if she saw a caged gerbil or a speck of dirt on her Hollister jeans. I've pitched hay and killed rats and driven pigs through knee-deep mud. Wild animals don't scare me.