We could go back," he said. In the dome light of the car, his face looked hard as stone. "We could go back to your house. I can stay with you always. We can know each other's bodies in every way, night after night. I could love you." His nostrils flared, and he looked suddenly proud. "I could work. You would not be poor. I would help you." "Sounds like a marriage," I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. But my voice was too shaky. "Yes," he said.

There’s no way you can kill someone and get to the other side of the experience unchanged.

But in my book, it was basically bad taste to stare at someone's assets, no matter how much on display they were.

As I watched Bill, waiting with apparent calm for death to come to him, I had a flash of him as I'd known him: the first vampire I'd ever met, the first man I'd ever gone to bed with, the first suitor I'd ever loved. Everything that followed had tainted those memories, but for one moment I saw him clearly, and I loved him again.

You take I-55 south, and you'll run into I-20. Or you could take..." I was about to be overloaded with information. "Oh that sounds just perfect. Let me do just that, or I'll lose track." Sure, glad I could help." Oh, you surely did." We beamed at each other, just two nice women. I had to fight an impulse to say "I have a tortured vampire in my trunk," out of sheer giddiness.

I’d never seen anything like it. First a trial, then a few murders, then dancing. Life goes on. Or, in this case, death continues.

You catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar.