Here," Myrnin said, his voice still gentle and low. "Amelie said you had to work. No one said you had to work alone." He picked up the next part and slotted it in, took the screwdriver from Claire's numbed fingers, and fastened it with a couple of deft, fast movements. "I'll be your hands." She wanted to cry, because it was so sweet, but it wouldn't do any good.

There is a certain freedom in giving up all hope. One is no longer bound by the cords of dread or fear; you simply move toward the inevitable without thinking on the consequences.

No, Michael was all good. Killed, dismembered, buried, reborn…yeah, just another day in the life.

You can't go around... licking things that come out of a water treatment plant. That's just... unsanitary.

Saint Claire, the patron saint of the kick-me sign.

Shane - "Tell you what: you can be Glammera the vampire hunter. I'll stick with being manly and heavily armed.

And before you ask, no, you're not driving, Myrnin. I remember the last time." "That accident was not my fault." "You were the only one on the road, and the mailbox actually didn't leap out in front of you. No arguments. You sit in the back, too.