He wasn't that good looking, he had the social skills of a wet cat and the patience of a caffeinated hummingbird

When good Americans die, they go to Paris,' the ghost said, after taking a drag on a small cigarette. But you’re not dead. I suppose the question must be, are you good?

More worryingly, my baby fangs were out, which usually happened only when I was perilously close to tipping over into Mr. Hyde territory. I quickly drew them back in. It didn’t help much. I still looked like Dracula’s daughter. Which was completely unfair, since he’d only been an uncle.

You love me?" He just looked at me for a moment. And then he reared back his head and laughed, a rich, mellow sound, unreserved and unashamed. " No, not at all. I regularly battle gods for women I dislike!

I left it with a warmer,” he said drily. Because war mages ate their fried chicken frozen to the ground and they liked it.

..."I ran out of stock around midnight and dropped by a place, got some Chinese." I hoped he meant takeout.

Mr. Complete Lack of Sympathy