Finally, a bit of luck. Rat bastard,” I hissed down at Montmartre. “Mangy dog of a scurvy goat.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Isabeau murmured.
“Feels good though. Try it.”
She narrowed her eyes at the top of Montmartre’s perfectly groomed hair. “Balding donkey’s ass. “
“Nice.”
“Sniveling flea-bitten rabid monkey droppings.”
“Clearly, you’re a natural.
