I feel as though I am shelved. That I have been given the words to the story of my life, but that I have remained largely unread.

The one good thing about the Angels was they always colored within the lines. They had to. Suckers.

I am very comfortable with conflict, be it of the legal or mortal kind. My father was a mediator, a bridge maker. I am a grave maker.

A book unopened alters not the ink on it's pages

Humans are threatened by anything different, and their response is to fight. They're bullies, picking on the weak, cowering from the strong.

Neither said anything while they embraced. Sometimes words didn't go far enough, the vessels of letters and the ladles of grammar incapable of holding the heart's sentiments.

You would have made a fine warrior, you know that?" I am one. Death is my enemy." Yeah, it is, isn't it." God, it made such sense that he'd bonded with her. She was a fighter… like him. "Your scalpel's your dagger." Yup.