“Stop…stop, that’s the next generation of fans… How dare you pass judgment on those 12-year-old girls who like vampires! They need to be encouraged because in six years they’ll be 18-year-old girls who like vampires and are into all sorts of goth-permissive and whatnot. Don’t Poo-poo it. There’s a plan, and it’s working.”

“I always knew there were vampires, dude,” he’d said. “Because, you know how there’s people you know who, like, always look the same, even when they’re, like, a hundred years old? Like David Bowie? That’s because they’re vampires.”

“I sort of wish that was what happened though, Ginny, because that would mean the girl is all right. Fourteen-year-old girls have run off before."Ginny eyed the sheriff severely. "Not fourteen-year-old girls who had grandmas like Evelyn Larkin.”

“Only someone who doesn’t understand art tells an artist their art somehow failed. How the fuck can art fail? Art can’t be graded, because it’s going to mean something different to everyone. You can’t apply a mathematical absolute to art because there is no one formula for self-expression.”

“They weren’t a centuries old hunter and a seventeen year old girl, sitting here at the edge of the world. They were just two people, Bonnie and Damon.”

“You're a vampire." I laughed."Half," he came back, as if there was a huge difference. "My father wasn't a vampire. He was a Lamarliere. I'm not some three-hundred-year-old pervert who kisses teenage girls, okay? I'm the same age as you. Born just like you.”

“Stop it, girl. There’s no way he’s five-years-old. Or one hundred. He’s probably like every other CEO on the planet: Late twenties, handsome in that geeky sort of way, and just as awkward as you. I breathe a sigh of relief, because I know I’m probably right.”