Well, this is unexpected.

Verity is reasonably certain she's dead. Really dead, dead-for-a-demon dead, not just dead-for-a-human dead, which she's been for centuries. And while she can't say she's ever given much thought to where you wound up when you were dead-for-a-demon dead, if someone had asked, she probably would have guessed, well, ( Read more... )

Crossroads are funny things ( Read more... )

As coded messages go, Verity will admit, reluctantly, that it's pretty elegant.

No note, no password, nothing someone can read over a shoulder or inadvertantly overhear. Just a key to a room, left for her with the bar.

A key to this room, in point of fact ( Read more... )

She wants to see you.

Five words, that's all it takes, drop everything and go, because she wants to see you ( Read more... )

When you walk down a city street just after noon in what are clearly last night's clothes, you draw certain types of looks. Some of are of deep disapproval, especially when the looker realizes you're not big on the shame part of the phrase walk of shame. And others are of approval, with grins and winks and catcalls ( Read more... )

When two roads diverge, in a yellow wood or else where, you can take the one less traveled by, the high road or the low road, whatever path you choose, and it may make all the difference, and you may get to Scotland first, or wherever it is you're trying to get ( Read more... )

Lost is one of those words that is ever so very often a matter of perspective. A person can know exactly where he is (or think he does) and it will never occur to him that someone else might be lamenting the fact that he is lost. Things that are lost to one party are won to another (and sometimes won is just lost tarted up like a Pyrrhic whore, ( Read more... )

Verity has a look when she’s topside, right? Black dress, dark hair ( Read more... )