I wasn't entirely sure, but a polite John Pritkin might be a sign of the apocalypse.

I’d been declared—over my loud and sustained protests—Pythia, the chief seer of the supernatural world.

And why not?” “You know why! This is a bad idea.” “Perhaps I like a challenge.” “Perhaps you’re a glutton for punishment!” “Perhaps I am in love.

I can get others to do what you do. They won’t be as good, but . . . okay. It could work. But it doesn’t matter because no matter how good they are, they can’t replace you. They can’t because I don’t need you only for what you can do. I need you . . . for you.

Mess with my weed again and I’ll be informing Daddy that there was an early casualty on the mission.” I saw him wince at my designation for Mircea and grinned.

Nobody said anything that time. Or maybe I just wasn’t listening. After all, someone had to keep an eye on the fridge.

I’d never known that anyone could kiss in English, kiss in apologies.