Barrons knows virtually everything about me. I wouldn’t be surprised if somewhere he has a little file that encompasses my entire life to date, with neatly mounted, acerbically captioned photos—see Mac sunbathe, see Mac paint her nails, see Mac almost die.

He'd surely been spawned by some cataclysmic event of nature, not born.

My philosophy is pretty simple – any day nobody’s trying to kill me is a good day in my book.

I've tried to move [the sidhe-seers] during times of peace and quiet and had the luck of a broken mirror nailed beneath an upside-down horseshoe with a ladder nearby that a black cat just walked under.

What are you?” I said irritably. “In the Serengeti, Ms. Lane, I would be the cheetah. I’m stronger, smarter, faster, and hungrier than everything else out there. And I don’t apologize to the gazelle when I take it down.

It seemed Barrons had finally gotten his cake and eaten it too.

Yes, I have loved, Ms. Lane, and although it's none of your business, I have lost. Many things.