“Gee, I wasn't as up on my Native American traditions as the chick who used to call herself Faun fucking Windsong even though she was fifteen sixteenths as lily-white as me. Imagine that.”

“The perfect quote sprang to mind, but I resisted saying it under my breath, since Jonathan would hear. I couldn’t even mouth the words, since for all I knew, he’d hear my lips moving. So I conjured up a vision of the Tin Man and let him say it for me in my head. “Now I know I’ve got a heart. I can feel it breaking.”

“What the fuck happened to you? [...] You look like you lost a fight with a lamprey. Hickey, hickey...bruise, bruise, bruise...bite. I thought that thing on your neck the other day was just a fluke. I guess not--looks like you get off on picking up a few souvenirs when you...get off. ~Crash”

“Renfield, my ass. What I had on my hands was a Van Helsing.”

“When people die,” I said, “and you’ll be able to verify this for yourself—most of ’em move on. A few of ’em stick around. But the ones who stick around are usually messed-up. Murders and suicides, or people with unfinished business. As for accidents and illness—at the very worst, they leave a little residue. A repeater. A psychic impression of the final moments, like a moving snapshot. I think the spirits of those repeaters, they’re fine. They go wherever it is people…go. When they die.”

“We stick together from now on.” He spoke quietly, but he stared me right in the eye as he said it. Be still, my beating heart.”

“You've been really hard on my clothes lately", I said. I pushed him away just enough to slip out of my T-shirt and drop it on the floor before he turned it into a stretched-out rag."I've been really hard...and your clothes are in my way.”