Sorry, We've Got Ghosts.

I Know,i Can Smell It, Too.

Somewhere In The Center Of My Soul, A Rusty Chain Began To Unwind. It Freed Itself, Link By Link, From Where It Had Rested, Unobserved, Waiting For Him. My Hands, Which Had Been Balled Up And Pressed Against His Chest, Unfurled With It. The Chain Continued To Drop, To An Unfathomable Depth Where There Was Nothing But Darkness And Matthew. At Last It Snapped To Its Full Length, Anchoring Me To A Vampire. Despite The Manuscript, Despite The Fact That My Hands Contained Enough Voltage To Run A Microwave, And Despite The Photograph, As Long As I Was Connected To Him, I Was Safe.

If The Butterfly Wings Its Way To The Sweet Light That Attracts It, It's Only Because It Doesn't Know That The Fire Can Consume It.

Within Days They'd Formed An Unholy Alliance With A Foppish Young French Vampire In The Garden District Who Had Implausibly Golden Hair And A Streak Of Ruthlessness As Wide As The Mississippi

Are You Smelling Me?” After Yesterday I Suspected That My Body Was Giving Him All Kinds Of Information I Didn't Want Him To Have. “don't Tempt Me,” He Murmured.