What is this?” he whispered. “Mangoes.” My father always said mangoes with a Quillonian were a sure bet. I hadn’t realized how much of a sure bet. Orro licked the fruit again, looked at it, and suddenly bit into it, shredding the yellow pulp. He’d wolfed down half a mango before he realized I was still there and froze, pieces of mango on his whiskers. “Don’t see me.” — Ilona Andrews
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