A review of Laurell K. Hamilton’s ‘Blue Moon’ chapter nineteen


Verne claims the basket is a present and –

Look, I’m cutting straight to it. There’s some bullshit from Colin and Verne, and Anita tells everyone to fuck off, but it’s dull. The present is a head. It’s Mira’s head in a basket.

“You said you wanted Mira’s head in a basket. That if we gave you that, it would make it right between our two clans.”

Werewolves don’t go in for metaphors then. They must make terrible writers.

You’d think after all this time, I would stop forgetting that they weren’t human. But I had. I’d been pissed, and I’d spoken as if I was talking to another human being, but I hadn’t been. I’d been speaking to werewolves, and I’d forgotten that.

Eurgh.

Look, werewolves are humans, okay? They just become a wolf for a certain amount of time of the month. After all, I don’t stop being a human being just because I ovulate. This is because werewolves don’t have the privilege of living outside of society. They live and interact with everyone else. They cannot behave as if they are not humans because they live in a human society. Werewolves can’t react to everything single little thing like ‘eugh, I just wish my boss would die!’ as reacting to these things as being entirely literal is a very stupid thing and is the first way to get yourself outed as being a werewolf.

Now, in the context of the situation, I can understand why Verne thought Anita might literally want Mira dead. However, it is always best to confirm the intent and meanings when people use casual and commonplace phrases.

I hears someone whispering, and it was me. I was whispering, “This is my fault. This is my fault.”

It is your fault. It is also Richard’s fault for casually using up all the women in the wolf pack until he finds one he likes.

Anita vomits and screams at the werewolves for being fucking stupid. Richard explains it condescendingly.

I wish there was a stronger, more interesting chapter for me to leave you with, as I depart for a weekend with no internet. Blame the crappy author, not the dull blogger.

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