“But there was something about Nola that negated my bullshit ability.”

“So if my ability to meditate was what was going to save the world, or at least save Portland, then I was pretty sure we should all think about moving to Seattle.”

“She had that motherly no-bullshit way of using her hands as a second communication device and I always fell for it.”

“Don't know about my knives, but my gun's made of pain.”

“Shamus shrugged. “It’s all about energy exchange. It could always go the other way, me feeding a plant instead of drawing the life out of it.” “Do that often?” Shamus looked at me over his shoulder. “No.” “Why not? Have something against plants?” “No, but I haven’t met a vegetable good enough to sacrifice a year of my life for.”

“Listen,” I said, cool as a 911 operator talking someone down from a ledge, “you’re dead. I’m sorry about that, but I am not going to let you possess me. So follow the light, or go to the other side, or hang around your own house and haunt your accounting ledgers or something. You do not get to stay in my head.”

“He'd been working for my father and following me around for I didn't know how long. He probably knew a lot of things about me. Probably even knew what kind of underwear I wore. Which begged the question. Was he a boxer or brief kind of guy?”