Anita can speak for herself," Richard said. Jean-Claude's attention flicked back to me. "That is certainly true. But I came to see how the two of you enjoyed the play." "And pigs fly," I said. "You don't believe me?" "Not hardly," I said.

Love sucks. Sometimes it feels good. Sometimes it's just another way to bleed.

One of my rules is never explain. A writer is a lot like a magician, if you explain how the trick works then a lot of the magic turns mundane.

I could have just said I'm good at my job, but I didn't. Didn't want the police thinking I was holding out information when I wasn't. "I've got one advantage over a normal homicide detective, I expect it to be a monster. No one ever calls me in if it's just a stabbing, or a hit-and-run. I don't spend a lot of time trying to come up with nice, normal explanations. It means I get to ignore a lot of theories.

I didn't want to understand. Bert had been thrilled that the police wanted to put me on retainer. He told me I would gain valuable experience working with the police. All I had gained so far was a wider variety of nightmares.

I know who and what I am. I am the Executioner, and I don't date vampires. I kill them.

Maybe they know what I know, that the true way to a man's heart is six inches of metal between his ribs. Sometimes four inches will do the job, but to be really sure, I like to have six.