You might have noticed that not all comments appear on the site immediately. For some reason, WordPress keeps stuffing about 15% of the comments into the pending queue, holding them for moderation. In an effort to combat this silliness, since it’s taking forever to get everyone out of pending, I’ve changed some settings. Now the WordPress will perform a check to see if the comment’s author have been previously approved and hopefully not stuff them into pending. This means that your first comment should be held for moderation but all the rest won’t be. If this works properly, we can do a small Wildfire giveaway.
It would help me a great deal if you guys made a bunch of comments on this post, hopefully repeated comments from people normally held in moderation.
Here is a tiny bribe.
Outside the car, Atlanta crawled by. Magic drenched the city. Ever since I claimed it, the invisible currents gained definition. If I concentrated, I could sense them ebbing and flowing, like the waters of a sea.
Curran took his gaze off the road to glance in the rearview mirror for a second. “You okay there, buddy?”
“He just likes the sound of the new word,” I told him.
“He needs a venison leg bone to gnaw on,” Curran said. “They were my favorite.”
Kill me somebody. “Can it be a cooked leg bone?”
“He is a shapeshifter,” Curran said. “We don’t have to worry about bacteria and diseases.”
“I would feel better if it was cooked.”
Curran studied me for a moment, reached over, and squeezed my hand. “What’s bothering you about this? Did you want him to stay human?”
“No. I love him whoever he is. I spent thirteen months worrying that he will stop breathing at night, or get sick, or hurt himself somehow, and raw deer femurs don’t go along with that.”
“Cooked bones splinter. He will hurt himself.”
“Then maybe we can skip the bones altogether.”
Curran turned onto Jeremiah Street. “I let him eat a mouse in the forest yesterday.”
“He caught it himself. I’m not going to take his kill away from him.”
Curran leaned forward. “Is that who I think it is?”
I peered through the windshield. A tall broad-shouldered man sat on the steps in front of our office. He wore a white T-shirt, faded blue jeans, and heavy work boots. A worn Atlanta Braves cap sat on his short brown hair.
“It’s just Teddy Jo.”
Curran gave Teddy Jo a dark look. I reached over and squeezed his hand. “What’s bothering you about this? Is it because he’s Thanatos, the angel of death?”
He bared his teeth at me.
I stuck my tongue out.
The cart in front of us stopped, blocking the street.
“It’s because whenever he shows up, he drags you off and then you come back beat up.”
“I always come back beat up. I don’t see what Teddy Jo has to do with it.”