Marks forget that whenever something's too good to be true, that's because it's a con.

You are the best kind of killer, Cassel Sharpe, the kind that never has blood on his hands. The kind that never has to sicken at the sight of what he's done, or come to like it too much.

She'd always been a little contemptuous of beauty, as though it was something you had to trade away some other vital thing for.

I wonder about death, I who may never know it. It looks much like ecstacy, the way they open their mouths as they drown, the way their fingers dig into your skin. Their eyes are wide and startled and they trash in your hands as though with an excess of passion.

If curiosity killed the cat, it was satisfaction that brought it back.

This is never going to be over,” I shout. “Someone will always be after me. There’s always consequences. Well, BRING IT. I am done with being afraid, and I am done with you.

But if you didn't believe in monsters, then how were you going to be able to keep safe from them?