Harmony glanced to her left, and my gaze followed hers to the living room, where my aunt had died, my cousin had been restored, and I'd whacked a psychotic grim reaper with a cast-iron skillet. Weirdest. Tuesday. Ever.

I could have kissed you months ago, but it wouldn’t have meant anything. I wished for you to see me. And want me. So…did you mean it?” “Yes,” I said, and some unnamed tension inside me eased. “I see you, Tod.

So could we please not mob the three-thousand-plus-year-old reaper like tweens at a boy-band concert?

Marc didn’t want to win by default. He wanted to win for real. Forever.

Stay for me. Stay with me. There will never be anyone else. Not in my bed. Not in my life. And not in my heart.

Great. I'm psychotic and sparkly.

You should be careful, tossing descriptors like that around in a situation like this. My ‘problem’ isn’t little. Unless you’re drawing some pretty wild comparisons. Please tell me you’re not drawing wild comparisons. Or blood-relative comparisons.