It's like a cockroach working up a plan to defeat the shoe on its way down to crush it.

I was woefully ignorant in the social graces. I was being raised, after all, by Pellinore Warthrop.

You're mortal, and only a mortal can afford to be romantic. When we conquered death, we murdered love.

And then Evan Walker kisses me.

A moment comes in war when the last line must be crossed. The line that separates what you hold dear from what total war demands. If he couldn't cross that line, the battle was over, and he was lost. His heart, the war. Her face, the battlefield. With a cry only he could hear, the hunter turned. And ran.

There was, like, this black hole where the world used to be, and we were both falling toward it. What could we hold on to?

And if humanity is the last war, then I am the battlefield.