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I was tops at the Scarlet O'Hara school of emotional distancing. I always thought about the uncomfortable stuff tomorrow, and, as everyone knows, tomorrow never comes.

Karen Chance

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Karen Chance
Age: 24
Born: 2000
Born: January 1
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Orlando
Florida
Stuff
Hara
Thought
Tops
School
Scarlet
Always
Uncomfortable
Never
Emotional
Tomorrow
Everyone
Comes
Distancing

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He’s a war mage. They’re almost impossible to kill.” He scowled. “Even on purpose.
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Poireaux vinaigrette aux grains de caviar.” I did a quick translation. “Leeks and fish eggs in vinegar?” He grinned. “It sounds better in French.” Yeah, but did it taste better?
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Then why are you getting dressed?” “Maybe I don’t like being the only naked one in the room,” I said sarcastically. And immediately regretted it. “That is easily remedied,” he told me, and pulled off his sweater.
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Take them off!” I told him, grabbing the front of his jeans. “Take everything off!” “I’m trying!” “Try harder!
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What is your problem?” I asked, scooping the freezing mess out of my cleavage. “We got unfinished business,” he reminded me. “My name’s not Bill.” He chuckled. “Yeah, I loved that movie. Shoulda brought a katana, but it seemed like an unfair advantage.
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I’d been declared—over my loud and sustained protests—Pythia, the chief seer of the supernatural world.
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To know Pritkin was to want to kill him, but so far I'd resisted temptation.
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Fools fight winners think.
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There are things we want, and things we may have.... Sanity lies in knowing the difference.
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...I ran out of stock around midnight and dropped by a place, got some Chinese. I hoped he meant takeout.
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Stercus Accidit. [barren happens]
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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.
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You will die a worse death if you do not leave my domain,” a voice thundered down from the third story of the old tenement. “I am a servant of the Sacred Fire, the wielder of the flame of Arnor—” “So I should call you Gandalf?
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Prevarication, how divine! I always did get along better with sinners.
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I left it with a warmer,” he said drily. Because war mages ate their fried chicken frozen to the ground and they liked it.
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The Circle had been less than thrilled by its choice, but we'd finally come to terms. As in, they were no longer trying to play Whac-A-Mole with my head. Only now they seemed to think they had the right to make sure that nobody else did, either. That was a problem, because the vampires felt the same way and the Senate didn't share well.
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So maybe it was just as well that my companion was more like Mulder. A coked-out Mulder with a lot of weapons, who knew that the monsters under the bed were real and would gut you.
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I thought there was a good chance the fridge was possessed. It was subtle about it, but I had its number. I knew its ways. Oh yes.
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Come and take your seat, Lady Dorina.
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The worst part was the silence. Death was supposed to be loud — gunshots, explosions, screams and thunder. Not this eerie quiet that wrapped around me like a shroud.
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