“Zane glanced toward the stairwell, then back to Nick. "How close are you?" he finally blurted out. "I have no frame of reference, other than the oorah and your tongue down his throat.”

“She leaves him sitting there, glancing back just once before she goes through the stairwell door and observing how the cloud of smoke from his cigar gets pulled in wisps out the dark gaping hole in the glass wall--as though it is his soul, too large for his massive frame and seeping out the pores of his skin and wandering circuitous back into the wilderness where it knows itself true among the violent and the dead.”

“Don't you have class today? (Kyrian)Boy, I'm a backwoods Cajun, I ain't never got no class, cher. (Nick)(He cleared his throat and dropped the thick Cajun accent.)And no, today's registration. I've got to figure out what I'm taking next semester. (Nick)I have a few things I need you to do today. (Kyrian)And that is different from any other day how? (Nick)Sarcasm, thy name is Nick Gautier. (Kyrian)”

“He tightened his arms, not wanting Ty to move away. “It’s more than just fucking around now,” he said. “Isn’t it?” He made sure the tone of his voice emphasized that it wasn’t really a question. Ty was motionless in response. He didn’t even seem to be breathing. The silence stretched on, edging toward tension. Finally, he let out his breath quietly and lowered his head. “No,” he lied blithely, just as he’d done in a hotel in New York City over a year ago. Zane chuckled. A classic Grady response, and definitely the one he preferred to hear. A “yes” just might have given him a heart attack. He held Ty close. “You owe me.” “Owe you?” Ty repeated in a rough, questioning voice as Zane felt his heartbeat begin to speed up. “Mm hmm. How I’ve wanted you,” Zane breathed. “It scares the hell out of me.” “I know,” Ty murmured as he turned in place and nuzzled against Zane’s neck.”

“(He glared at them while it rang and rang and rang. Grimacing at the delay, Nick glanced toward Kody.) “Do necromancers not have voice mail?” – Nick”

“The Cutter leaned toward me, resting his forehead against mine. 'Fool me once,' he whispered, 'shame on you.' He pressed the bridge of his nose against mine, his breath burning the back of my throat. His voice was rough and furious. 'Fool me twice, and I will cut out your fucking throat.”