Beautiful. He'd called her beautiful. Nobody had ever called her that before, except her mother, which didn't count. Mothers were required to think you were beautiful.

I want to kiss you one more time before I die.

Consider it a race to see who kills you first, Daylighter-Valentine, the other Downworlders, or the Clave.

The demon bared its greenish fangs. "This is my true form. An ugly surprise for you, I suppose." "I daresay it's an improvement," said Will. "You weren't much to look at before, and at least the horns are dramatic.

If the marriage were valid, she'd be your sister-in-law.

She had thought she was going to save her mother, and now there was going to be nothing for her to do but sit by her mother's bedside, hold her limp hand, and home someone else, somewhere else, would be able to do what she couldn't.

[...] He tasted like snowflakes and wine, like winter and Will and London.