By Blood We Live (The Last Werewolf / Bloodlines Trilogy #3)

All vampires smoke. Smoking’s high on the list of Things You Take Up To Pass The Time.

But wulf did what it does: Simply insisted. Simply burned through. Simply defied. The same shrugging, grinning continuance. The nature of life. The nature of the beast.

Comedy, of course, lives for serious moments.

Full moon rises. You change. You need what you need, so you do what you do. The kill – like the show – must go on.

He says: ‘Because we don’t know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that’s so deeply a part of your being that you can’t even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.

He was a blessing in my life. My life was full of blessings. And one curse: That no amount of blessings was ever enough.

He was always teasing me about not reading books, but one day he said: Reading a book is a dangerous thing, Justine. A book can make you find room in yourself for something you never thought you’d understand. Or worse, something you never wanted to understand.

He was quiet, cooperative. He'd made his decision. He knew his soul would have to deal with the consequences, but for now, God had lost. It was a relief to him. It always is, to find the edge of yourself. To know the exact limit of your strength. It's a relief because not knowing it is an exhausting full-time job.

Hot tip: If you’re a human having a fling with a werewolf, break it off. Now.

How was the light today?”
“Big. Hot. Yellow-white. The sky’s blue was like a drumbeat. I watched the black tree shadows revolve. When the sun went down it was like someone’s hand was pulling it, very gently. It was soft-edged and orange. The land went purple, then dark blue and grey, then black. Then you opened your eyes.

I'd heard a Catholic nun on TV once saying that bearing suffering was the route to grace. I remembered Fluff saying: If there's a God he's addicted to faith. Because without evil there's no need for faith. I can't get excited about a God who's divinity depends on a drug habit.

If you had a lot of money and you were miserable, you’d be miserable poor.

It’s Big Brother with werewolves. Live coverage for a month, leading up to a group kill on full moon.

It’s the inner life that fucks up relationships.

It’s why people in sexual extremis say Oh, God. It’s not a cry to the Divine, it’s a recognition of their own divinity.

It’s why we close the eyes, too. The dead shouldn’t have to look on the lewd aliveness of the living.

It was a terrible refreshment, his plain way, the simple words, the absence of strategy. It made you realize how much of your life you spent not being like that. It made you realize what a waste not being like that was.

I will come back to you. And you will come back to me. Wait for me.

No such thing as destiny. But Fluff had come after me, not her -- and it had brought the two of them together anyway. It was impossible to write it off as a series of accidents. Both ideas impossible to believe and impossible to dismiss. Which is what he's told me Christ knows how many times before, about the signs, the connections, the correspondence between things, the goddamned beguilement. You have to both believe it and know it can't be true, he'd said. You have to learn how to be the wry servant of two masters. I'd been so annoyed, I'd said: Yeah. I've never know what the fuck 'wry' actually means.

Nothing is the whole story. The self’s curse – and the writer’s.

Reading a book is a dangerous thing, Justine. A book can make you find room in yourself for something you never thought you'd understand. Or worse, something you never wanted to understand.

The Curse has a thing for contrast: frivolity one minute, homicide the next.

The lies you tell yourself. The necessary lies.

The moment you think is unbearable forces you to disappoint yourself by bearing it. There's resigned laughter available, for the hilarity of your own durability.

There are things you think you won’t be able to do, that need the actual to become possible. There are things that only become thinkable once you’re already doing them.

There were so many things I liked. That was the awful thing about being alive: there were so many things one liked. The awful thing about life was that there were so many thingsm full stop.

The truth doesn’t care what anyone wants. The truth is innocent. You can’t blame the truth.

... vampire ruler Hin Kahur implemented howler aversion therapy.

We stayed like that, him watching me crying, for as long as we could stand it. Then he took a couple of paces away. The room needed a window for him to go to and look out of. I could feel the grammar of the moment demanding it.

Why do people who read Shakespeare still spend hours watching shitty TV or staring out of the window or arguing about whose dinner party to go to?