A human hires a hit man to kill his cousin for money, boring. That same hit man botches the job twice, funny. Then �the desperate hit man sends a ghoul after the girl to finish things up, my curiosity's piqued. That same ghoul ends up with his head cut off by a mysterious redhead . . . Ah. Now I'm interested.

Mencheres slid through the water toward her, drawn by the same inexorable compulsion that led moths to dance with flames. He'd had several lifetimes' worth of reason, cold machinations, and, ultimately, emptiness. Perhaps the moths knew what he didn't, that the joy of the flame was worth the price of destruction.

Since you and Crispin are now finished and I have a few hours to kill, how about that shag?” he asked with heavy irony. “Bite me,” I sighed, gathering up the pages. He winked. “Of course. My second-favorite thing to do in bed.

It was ironic; he held her captive, yet she’d captivated him.

You should be afraid. Very afraid. Before, I told you if you wanted to end things between us, I would let you go, but, Leila"--his voice deepened--"I lied.

There's nothing to catch up on. You came, you saw, you scored, you left. End of story.

Am I the only one who has wood over that little vixen?