“It’s because I’m so good-looking, isn’t it?”

“I’m so tired of pretending like my life isn’t perfect and bitchin’ and just winning every second, I’m not perfect, and bitching and just delivering the goods at every fucking turn. Because look what I’m dealing with, man — I’m dealing with fools and trolls. I’m dealing with soft targets.”

“If I look confused it’s because I’m thinking.”

“(Actually now I’m remembering that the goodbye chow isn’t spelled that way. It’s ciao or something weird like that. It’s Italian, right? But I’m not an Italian gypsy, I’m a hungry gypsy. So spelling it chow makes total sense.)”

“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.”

“It’s fairly standard. Also, I’m fourteen. Also, yourbeard’s stupid.”“Isn’t this fun?” Skulduggery said brightly. “The three of usgetting along so well.”