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220 pages, Paperback
First published January 7, 2014
A single dollop of raspberry donut filling. That is what prevents Victor Manson's seventy-seventh death by dragon.
Heterochromia lady has crept up to us like a snake in a sea of rainbow-colored glass. Too-severe mod cheeks give her dyed turquoise lips a dollish smile, and the proportions of her body have been stretched and thinned to make her fit the silhouette of a designer store mannequin. Even in a room full of half-remembered dreams, she looks like a walking storybook character.
The draon explodes into a swarm of butterflies. They blow past us, a couple landing on my face and chest. They're black and blue, beautiful, harmless things. The bulk of them scatter into the heavy winds, and poorly hidden bystanders begin to emerge from their cover to watch the spectacle recede. Someone starts to clap, and the muffled fever catches on before igniting into a shower of senseless cheers.
“Dynara,� I murmur.
â€Ô¨±ð²õ?â€�
“Did I just turn a dragon into butterflies?�