“So, Zed, isn’t this a killer outfit?”“Certainly a killer, baby.”“Good, because I’ve bought another five just like it.”“You horrible, teasing fairy. If you really have more of those fashion disasters in your bags, I’m gonna hang you on top of the family Christmas tree in December.”

“It’s killing me, baby,” he says, his voice much more calm and quiet. “It’s killing me because I don’t want you to go another day without knowing how I feel about you. And I’m not ready to tell you I’m in love with you, because I’m not. Not yet. But whatever this is I’m feeling—it’s so much more than just like. It’s so much more. And for the past few weeks I’ve been trying to figure it out. I’ve been trying to figure out why there isn’t some other word to describe it. I want to tell you exactly how I feel but there isn’t a single goddamned word in the entire dictionary that can describe this point between liking you and loving you, but I need that word. I need it because I need you to hear me say it.”

“Those are the love killers. They love you and then they kill you. They're from another planet. Supposedly.”

“I swear, Daimons or not, if you don’t behave, Z, I’m going to send you to Antarctica and leave you there to rot. (Acheron)Ooo. I’m terrified. Those killer penguins and hairy seals are really scary. (Zarek)”

“If you know your mom is a great killer, and you think of your mom as a great killer, and you know she would kill for you, not just metaphorically, but really end lives for you, without hesitation, you don't want to make her sad and worried because how can you repay her for all the things she's willing to do? You can't.”

“Anyone in your family not a killer? (Syd)After this I’m beginning to wonder if I don’t have a serial mom. (Steele)I wish. She should have beaten you to death with a turkey leg. (Tina)”