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369 pages, Kindle Edition
First published March 5, 2013
“—and now, my beloved guests, if you would put your hands together for our sweet sugarplums, our cancan belles, our Freakshow dancers, the Scarionettes!” Kitty finished our introduction with a flourish, her heels hitting the floor with gunshot precision as she walked off the main stage half a step ahead of the opening curtain. Floodlights splashed down from the rafters, revealing eleven dancers in corsets and short ruffled skirts, all frozen in perfect clockwork doll poses as we waited for the music to begin.



“It’s a hazard of the job. When you decide to be the immovable object standing in front of the unstoppable force, you’d better pray that you’re right about being immovable, and they’re wrong about being unstoppable.”

“You wouldn’t tell them where to find me, would you?”
Dominic sighed. “I don’t know. If I knew . . . there are a great many things that I don’t know, right now. It’s not a pleasant sensation.”
“I’m sorry.” I stepped toward him, offering my hands. After a moment’s hesitation, he took them. “If you need me, call. I’ll try to come.”
“If I call you, run. There’s no guarantee I’ll be doing it for the right reasons— or of my own free will.” He leaned forward to rest his forehead against mine. “Either I’ll have betrayed you, or they’ll have compelled me. It’s not worth the risk.”
Since Dominic’s been sleeping with me, the mice have been trying various labels on him, looking for the one that fits. My personal favorite was the week they spent calling him “the God of Absolutely Never Smiling, No, Not Ever.” They did it because they felt it was accurate. I enjoyed it because it annoyed the crap out of him.
“There was a moment of silence before Istas said, “I was unaware the telepathic girl possessed a temper. This is pleasing. Temperamental people are more likely to participate in carnage.”
“Sweetie, what have we talked about?” asked Ryan.
Now it was Istas’ turn to sigh. “Humans are discomforted by excessive discussion of their squishy interiors.”
“Which means . . . ?”
“No referencing carnage more than once in a single conversation.”


“…I collected all the knives I’d thrown at the various dart boards—it was a surprisingly high number, given how little time I’d had, but I guess stress makes me stabby…” (Verity Price)
“The family has coexisted with Aeslin mice for generations, which brings us to the one possible flaw in this plan,” said Uncle Mike. “We don’t know for sure that this Margaret woman doesn’t have a colony of her own.”
“If we encounter heretics while on the search for our brave Priestess, we will smite them down with the Fury of a Thousand Angry Rolling Pins!” squeaked the High Priest of the mice.



The trouble with the Covenant of St. George is that it encourages loyalty through ignorance, zealotry, and fear. I wonder sometimes . . . what would they have accomplished if they’d tried doing it all with love?
“I guess I’m still holding hope for him picking the right side.”
“Right side for him, or right for you?”
Have a moral and ethical code that means you’d feel bad killing people for you enjoyment, and have set of instincts and hereditary skills that means you’re not really built to do anything else. It’ll be fun!
It’s not fun.