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“You are such a moron. ”

Qhuinn, jumped like an Olympian. There, in the tunnel, seated in an outdoor lounger like he was getting a tan, was Blay. He had a book on his lap, a battery-operated lamp on a little table, and a blanket over his legs.

The guy calmly lifted a glass of orange juice up in toast, then took a sip. “Hellllllllo, Lucy.”

“What the fuck? You’re like lying in wait for me or some shit?”

“Yup.”

“What was in your bed?”

“Pillows and my head blankie. I’ve had a nice little chill sesh hanging here. Good book, too.” He flashed the cover of A Season in Purgatory. “I like Dominick Dunne. Good writer. Great glasses.”

pp. 270-271

Hell, he expected a fleet of Dobermans to come trucking around the comer with their chompers showing.

Then again, the dogs were probably still gnawing on the bones of the last guest they’d turned into pulled pork.

p. 282

Hey, John signed.

“Hey.

John stepped back, clearing the way. How are you doing?

“I wish I were a smoker. ” Because then he could put this off for the duration of a cig. No, you don’t. You hate smoking.

“When I face the firing squad, I may rethink that hard line. ”

Shut up.

p. 283

In quick succession Qhuinn, reviewed his answers: No, of course not, the knife was acting of its own volition, I was actually trying to stop it. . . . No, I only meant to give him a shave. . . . No, I didn’t realize that slicing open someone’s jugular was going to lead to death. . . .

p. 284

“John wants you to stay here.”

Qhuinn’s eyes shot to the king. “What?”

“You heard me. ”

“Shit. You can’t approve that. No way can I stay here.”

Black eyebrows crashed down. “Excuse me?”

“Er . . . sorry.” “ Qhuinn clammed up, reminding himself that the Brother was king, which meant he could do whatever the fuck he wanted, including but not limited to renaming the sun and the moon, declaring that people had to salute him with their thumbs up their asses . . . and taking roadkill like Qhuinn under his roof if he were so inclined.

King was spelled c-a-r-t-e b-l-a-n-c-h-e in the vampire world.

p. 286

As Qhuinn, looked at his friend, he was not about to tell the guy that he was going to jail and then being released into the custody of Lash’s parents to be tortured for the rest of his days. “Ah, not too bad.”

You lie.

“Do not. ”

You’re the color of fog.

“Well, hello, I had surgery, like, yesterday.”

Oh, please. What’s happening?

“To tell you the truth, I have no clue—”

p. 288

“You have what I call a ‘male brow.’ Which is a frown brought on when you’re thinking about your male and you either want to boot him in the ass or wrap your arms around him and hold on ’til he can’t breathe. ”

p. 292

But Tudor mansions on manicured grounds didn’t look right with their grand front doors wide open to the night. It was like a debutante flashing her bra thanks to a wardrobe malfunction.

p. 302

“Thank you,” Qhuinn said as V smoothed on more of that ointment, the fresh ink vivid against his golden skin. “Thank you very much.”

“You haven’t seen it yet. For all you know, I could have inked ‘jackass’ back here.”

“Nah. I never doubt you,” Qhuinn, said, grinning up at the Brother.

Vishous smiled a little, his hard face with its tattoos showing approval. “Yeah, well, you aren’t a flincher. Flinchers get fucked. The steady ones get the goods.”

p. 314

Qhuinn, pulled a light jacket from his bag and seemed to gather himself as he put it on. When he turned back around, his characteristic smart-ass smile was back in place. “Your wish is my command, prince of mine.”

Don’t call me that.

John headed for the exit, and he texted Blay, hoping the guy would show eventually. Maybe if he was bugged enough he’d relent?

“So what should I call you?” Qhuinn, said as he leaped ahead to open the door with a flourish. “Would you prefer ‘my liege’?”

Give it a rest, would you.

“How about good ol’-fashioned ‘master’?” When John just glared over his shoulder, Qhuinn, shrugged. “Fine. I’ll go with fathead, then. But that’s your damage, I