I, Anita Blake, scourge of the undead-the human with more vampire kills than any other vampire executioner in the country-was dating a vampire. It was poetically ironic.

He gave a small nod, and I smiled back, and that was it. He understood that I'd understood that he'd understood. It took us one sentence, two looks, and a nod - with another woman it would have been at least five minutes of out-loud talking. Lucky for me I spoke fluent guy.

He laughed, and it raised goose-bumps on my arms. "Oh,ma petite ,ma petite , you are precious." Just what I wanted to hear. "So how are you getting here?" "My private jet." Of course, he had a private jet. "When can you be here?" "I will be there as soon as I can, my impatient flower." "I prefer ma petite to flower.

He'd kill you all right. No sweat. But for the wrong reasons. Amateur's reasons. Of course, you'll be just as dead.

It makes me nervous when you keep answering all my questions with 'I don't know.' " "Me, too," I said.

I am the Executioner. Murder someone in my town, and I’m the one that you get to see. Once.

Twenty-three stories up and all I could see out the windows was grey smog. They could call it the City of the Angels if they wanted to, but if there were angels out there, they had to be flying blind.