Anyone who offers up their heart on a silver platter deserves what they get.
And the single last thing in my head: that I like him better than I've ever liked anyone and that of all the things he's ever done to me, making me like him so much is by far the worst.
And Barron is probably right—we should give this up. Not for the reason he’s saying but for the one that’s implied. The one about it not being okay to lurk around outside buildings, spying on girls yo...
After all, I’m already a murderer. No one really expects a murderer to stop killing.
You're as cowardly as a g------ weasel. You know that? A . That's what you are.You don't know me, I say, spitting blood onto the dirt. I can't help it. I start to laugh. And you obviously don't know m...
You want me to say something? Okay. Sometimes I think I am what you made me. And sometimes I don’t know who I am at all. And either way I’m not happy.
You really dug your own grave, he mutters. And I’m going to bury you in it. Say that louder, I tell him, under my breath. I dare you.
You okay? Anton asks, looking at me like he's trying to figure out if I'm drunk. His plans depend on me. I look as blank as possible and hope that it freaks him out. No point in my being the only mise...
You can't be jealous of me. You don't have to live at the sufferance of the same person who murdered your parents. You don't have to stay angry because if you don't, there's a bottomless well of fear...
When Tana was six, vampires were Muppets, endlessly counting, or cartoon villains in black cloaks with red polyester lining.
What she did know was that normal was a lot more tempting when it was out of reach.
What could I become if I stopped worrying about death, about pain, about anything? If I stopped trying to belong? Instead of being afraid, I could become something to fear.
Well fine, then. I could send you out to win my favor. Possibly on a quest involving bringing a large mug of coffee and a doughnut. Or the wholesale slaughter of all my enemies. I haven't decided whic...
To Ben, love was the flame in which he wanted to be reborn. He wanted to be remade by it.
They were just buying time in scrapes and tatters.
They loved him because he was a prince and a faerie and magical and you were supposed to love princes and faeries and magical people.
There is a pleasure in being with them. Taking what we wish, indulging in every terrible thought. There’s safety in being awful.
The row of dolls watched her impassively from the bookshelf, their tea party propriety almost certainly offended.
Stories like that were will-o'-the-wisps, glowing in the deepest, darkest parts of forests, leading travelers farther and farther from safety, out toward an ever-moving mark.
She’s an old lady, Barron says. And she’s been locked up for years. Let her have some fun. She needs to blow off steam. Seduce old dudes. Lose money at canasta.