Writing a book is hard. It turns out, writing a second book is twice as hard.

I sat up in bed. My T-shirt was soaking wet. My pillow was wet. My hair was wet. And my room was sticky and humid.

You couldn't take two roads. And once you were on one, there was no going back.

Nothin' wrong with havin' a cat in the house. They can see what most people can't, like the folks in the Otherworld when they cross back over - the good ones and the bad. And they get rid a mice.

I grabbed Aunt Prue's tiny hand, her fingers as small as bare twigs in winter. I closed my eyes and took her other hand, twisting my strong fingers together with her frail ones. I rested my forehead against our hands and closed my eyes. I imagined lifting my head up and seeing her smiling, the tape and tubes gone. I wondered if wishing was the same thing as praying. If hoping for something badly enough could make it happen.

And have her back by midnight. " "Is that some powerful Caster hour?" "No. It's her curfew.

Sometimes everyone does the right thing and there's still a mess left to clean up. Someone has to take responsibility for it.