So in the sweltering heat of a July night, I sang a Christmas carol to a room full of fae, who had been driven out of their homelands by Christians and their cold-iron swords.

It was like being leaned on by a very heavy, warm brick. A sexy brick.

I was going to fight vampires, and my name wasn't Buffy--I was so screwed.

One of my professors once told me that the last official act of the British monarchy was when Queen Victoria refused to sign a law that made same-sex acts illegal. It would have made me think more highly of her, except the reason she objected was because she didn’t believe women would do anything like that. Parliament rewrote the law so it was specific to men, and she signed it. A tribute to enlightenment, Queen Victoria was not. Neither, as I have observed before, are werewolf packs.

If I couldn't be a good example, I'd just have to be a horrible warning.

Maybe I needed sensitivity training. I once signed up for an anger management class, but the instructor pissed me off.