My foster mother always laughed and said it was his reputation for knowing everything that allowed for him to appear infallible: all he had to do was walk through the room and see who looked guiltiest when they saw him. Maybe she was right, but I tried looking innocent the next time, and it didn't work.

Obstreperous, ‘huh,” said Tad. “I see you’ve been using that Big Word of the Day calendar I got you last Christmas.” “That is irrefragable,” I told him solemnly.

Are we going to Portland?" I asked. "Or Multnomah Falls?" He smiled at me. "Go to sleep." I waited three seconds. "Are we there yet?" His smile widened, and the last of the usual tension melted from his face. For a smile like that, I'd...do anything.

What would a racist call werewolves? Wargs? She kind of liked that one, but suspected that racist bastards didn't read Tolkien.

I was going to fight vampires, and my name wasn't Buffy--I was so screwed.

I hope this means you'll quit asking me to kill you. It gives me indigestion.

"Can't sleep with a dead man in my closet." "You killed someone?" asked Ben with interest.