Fool Moon

"You," I said. "It was you who attacked me in the department store. I hit you, and you took my rod away from me."
"She glared at me. "Yes," she said.
"You're a werewolf."
"And you," she said "are a wizard. And we have no more time."

(She) was dead because I had refused to share my knowledge with her, because I hadn't given her my help. I had been so secure in my knowledge and wisdom; withholding such secrets from her had been the action of a concerned and reasoned adult speaking to an overeager child. I couldn't believe my own arrogance, the utter confidence with which I had condemned her to death.

The room was a prison he had created for himself, something to contain the fury of the beast inside of him.

A large, wheel-section of flesh beneath her chin was missing, and with it Kim's larynx and trachea. Bloody red meat was showing, the ragged ends of arteries and torn sections of muscle, and pale white bones gleamed at the bottom of the wound. Long rakes down her body had opened her like a Ziploc bag, leaving her covered in scarlet.

"... But you don't get where I have in life by being reckless."
"Just by being soulless, right?"

There was power to be had in hatred, too, in anger and in lust, in selfishness and in pride. And I knew that there was some dark corner of me that would enjoy using magic for killing - and then long for more. That was black magic, and it was easy to use. Easy and fun. Like Legos.

There's more magic in a baby's first giggle than in any firestorm a wizard can conjure up, and don't let anyone tell you any different.
Magic comes from what is inside you. It is a part of you. You can't weave together a spell that you don't believe in.

My troubles were multiplying.
Hexenwolves. Werewolves. Lycanthropes. Loup-garou.
What will they think of next?

I took out a few wizardly implements: my blasting rod, the replacement for my shield bracelet, and one other thing that no wizard should be without. A Smith and Wesson.38 Chief's Special.