Our gazes locked, so much passing between us. In those moments, I wasn't in a tent with him, on the run from those who regarded us as villains. There was no murderer to catch, no Strigoi trauma to overcome. There was just him and me and the feelings that had burned between us for so long.

Everything's about my personal entertainment. The world is my stage. Keep it up- you're becoming a star performer in the show.

He anxiously touched his hair. "I think my hair gel's frozen.

Poor Martin. Geek or no, committing his soul to eternal damnation was a helluva price to pay for six minutes.

He tilted his head to the side, still watching me in that same, disconcerting way. “Some things are true, drunk or sober. You should know that. You deal in facts all the time.” “Yeah, but this isn’t—” I couldn’t argue with him looking at me like that. “I have to go. Wait… you didn’t take the cross.” I held it out to him. He shook his head. “Keep it. I think I’ve got something else to help center my life.

What’s going on?” he demanded. “The usual, old man,” I replied cheerily. “Danger, insane plans... you know, the stuff that runs in our family.

Then, his struggles stopped. His eyes stared at me, stunned, and his lips parted, almost into a smile, albeit a grisly and pained one. "That’s what I was supposed to say..." he gasped out. Those were his last words.