So in the sweltering heat of a July night, I sang a Christmas carol to a room full of fae, who had been driven out of their homelands by Christians and their cold-iron swords.

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

Leslie had learned two valuable things about the fae that day. They were powerful and charming -- and they ate children and puppies.

Usually the people I do know are sufficient to spawn any number of nightmares without inventing any.

Mine. He was mine, and not even death would take him from me—not if I could help it.

To make great art, you had to expose your soul, and some things should be left safely in the dark.

Baking is like washing--the results are equally temporary.