Rachel Vincent is an American author best known for her Shifters series, a present-day urban fantasy series about a female werecat.
His name's Nash. " Aunt Val took a butter knife from the silverware drawer. "What year is he?" I groaned inwardly. "Senior. ". . . here we go. . . Her smile was a little too enthusiastic. "Well that's wonderful!" Of course, what she really meant was "Rise from the shadows, social leper, and walk in the bright light of acceptance!
Near-death experiences release a lot of endorphins, resulting in a natural high," Tod whispered. "And it's totally true that one passion feeds another. " "You know we're way past 'near-death', right?" "My endorphins aren't listening to you.
But all I said, as I dug a five from my pocket to pay for my soda, was, "You have a friend?" Tod scowled. "Well, I wouldn't call him a friend according to the traditional definition, but in the sense that he imposes on me constantly and isn't afraid to point out my flaws, I'd say he qualifies. " "Sounds more like a cousin.
Eastlake High makes Buffy's hellmouth look like a crack in the sidewalk.
Now if you’ll excuse me, Death waits for no man. Except me.
10:38 AM - Third period. Kaylee has no class this period. I have no one to kill. Coincidence, or fate?
I want you, Kaylee, like I’ve never wanted anything. Ever. I want the fire. I want the heat, and the light, and I want the burn.
Apparently the complete works of Shakespeare packed quite a wallop. To think, my mother said I'd never find use for an English degree. Ha! I'd like to see her knock someone silly with an apron and a cookie press.
She wasn't feeling nothing. She was feeling too much. She was blocking it all out. That was a survival skill, and her still-beating heart was proof that it worked.
I was no suffragette, but I was pretty sure the he-can’t-control-himself defense was a big, stinky load of horseshit.
Bold. Risky. Dramatic. I approve.
It's kind of like when a clock battery runs down. The hour and minute hands don't disappear, but they don't keep ticking either. They freeze on the last minute they measured.
I am not cute. I am the dreaded Grim Reaper. People fear me, you know. There's a whole song about it.
Emma and I had both died twice, and for me, that second one actually stuck. Now I was a "resurrected American," better known, in colloquial terms, as life-challenged. Or undead. Or the living dead. But I'm not a zombie. I'm just a little less alive than your average high school junior.
I don't want to wear your dad's clothes. He hates me. " "You'd rather wear mine?" Nash scowled.
I don't have you, and without you, it feels like what I do have doesn't matter.
It's suspiciously quiet in here, and there's a Tod shaped dent in the bean bag. For the sake of both my sanity and my temper, I'm going to pretend I can't tell that you're in his lap, so could you pretend that this is still my house and you are still my daughter, and I'm within my parental rights to kick your boyfriend out after 11:00 p. m. ?
So, we wait until tomorrow night, and when you say the word, I cross over and haul you both out. Right? That's it?" "With any luck, yes. " Luck? We were depending on luck? Nash is so screwed.
If you live in the dark long enough, you start to forget what light looks like.
Wonderful, a death match on my first day behind bars. Some girls have all the luck