IT is the edge of a somber July night in this Butte-Montana.
The sky is overcast. The nearer mountains are gray-melancholy.
And at this point I meet Me face to face.
I am Mary MacLane: of no importance to the wide bright world and dearly and damnably important to Me.
Face to face I look at Me with some hatred, with despair and with great intentness.
I put Me in a crucible of my own making and set it in the flaming trivial Inferno of my mind. And I assay thus:
I am rare—I am in some ways exquisite.
I am pagan within and without.
I am vain and shallow and false.
I am a specialized being, deeply myself.
I am of woman-sex and most things that go with that, with some other pointes.
I am dynamic but devasted, laid waste in spirit.
I’m like a leopard and I’m like a poet and I’m like a religieuse and I’m like an outlaw.
I have a potent weird sense of humor—a saving and a demoralizing grace.
I have brain, cerebration—not powerful but fine and of a remarkable quality.
I am scornful-tempered and I am brave.
I am slender in body and someway fragile and firm-fleshed and sweet.
I am oddly a fool and a strange complex liar and a spiritual vagabond.
I am strong, individual in my falseness: wavering, faint, fanciful in my truth.
I am eternally self-conscious but sincere in it.
I am ultra-modern, very old-fashioned: savagely incongruous.
I am young, but not very young.
I am wistful—I am infamous.
In brief, I am a human being.
I am presciently and analytically egotistic, with some arresting dead-feeling genius.
And were I not so tensely tiredly sane I would say that I am mad.
Solve a murder, save her mother, and stop the apocalypse? No problem. She has a foul-mouthed troll on her side. For Austin homicide detective Leira Berens, happy is running down bad guys and solving crimes. And she’s damn good at it. Which is why when the Light Elf prince is murdered, the king breaks a centuries old treaty and crosses between worlds to seek her help. Wait a min...
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