When you were the son of evil, there was little you couldn't do, own, or kill, and yet her mortal self was an elusive trophy he could touch, but not put on his shelf. This made her rare. This made her precious. This made him...love her.

In the far corner, a tenor began to sing, Zsadist's crystal-clear voice sailing up toward the warrior paintings on the ceiling far, far above them all. At first John didn't know what the song was...although if he'd been asked what his name was, he would have said Santa Claus, or Luther Vandross, or Teddy Roosevelt. Maybe even Joan Collins.

What brings you onto my property?" Rhev said, cradling his mug with both hands trying to absorb its warmth. Got a problem" I can't fix your personality, sorry

Written on the mirror, revealed by the steam, were the words, I love you, Jane.

V jerked back to the present. And for some reason didn't lie. "I'm thinking about my tattoos." "When did you get them?" "Almost three centuries ago." She whistled. "God, you live that long?" "Longer. Assuming I don't get cracked dead in a fight and you fool humans don't blow up the planet, I'll be breathing for another seven hundred years.

She was seriously staring. Which was what you did when you got a gander at a man who is hung like a Louisville Slugger.

Blay was the closest thing to an angel Qhuinn had ever come near.