Shadowfires

Now, sprawled comfortably in his motel bed, Anson Sharp enjoyed the sleep of the amoral, which is far deeper and more restful than the sleep of the just, the righteous, and the innocent.

...love was the closest thing to immortality that men would ever know and that the only--and best--answer to death is loving. Loving.

Night has patterns that can be read less by the living than by the dead. —The Book of Counted Sorrows

Benny Shadway, the man Eric had thought was Rachael’s lover, said there were basically four types of people: past-, present-, future-, and omni-focused.

The drugs don’t destroy brain cells so much as they . . . eat away at their souls, leave them empty and purposeless.

Its appearance was so numbingly horrific that she, unlike Whitney, was unable to scream; she tried, but her voice failed her. The darkness and rain mercifully concealed many details of the mutant form, but she had an impression of a massive and misshapen head, jaws that resembled a cross between those of a wolf and a crocodile, and an abundance of deadly teeth. Shirtless and shoeless, clad only in jeans, it was a few inches taller than Eric had been, and its spine curved up into hunched and deformed shoulders. There was an immense expanse of breastbone that looked as if it might be covered with horns or spines of some sort, and with rounded knobby excrescences. Long and strangely jointed arms hung almost to its knees. The hands were surely just like the hands of demons who, in the fiery depths of hell, cracked open human souls and ate the meat of them.