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

Fools fight; winners think.

Dorina?" Louis Cesare's voice was loud in my ear. The one I had squeezed against the phone, which was squeezed against my sore shoulder, becuase I was using both hands to keep Ray's point in his pants. "The fey, damm it!" I told him. "They're for the fey!" "Which one?" Louis Cesare asked, his voice going velvety soft. "All of them- No Ray! Ray, cut it out!" "All of them?

It's about time! It's supposed to be a ritual, not a marathon.

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.

What?” I said defensively, clutching the mink and my dignity. Since I was barefoot, mostly naked and completely hungover, I was pretty sure I grasped only one of them.

Mr. Complete Lack of Sympathy