“Life is never that clean," he assures her. "Neither is magic.”

“Life is never that clean," he assures her. "Neither is magic.”

“And try as we might, small magic never seems to win out over giant meat.”

“It?”“Her. Him. Whatever.”“Angel is neither man nor woman. Men and women came later.”

“The main dry storage room of Sin du Jour is filled with a light unseen on Earth since a time of abject innocence.And that was long ago, indeed.”

“We contract with them.”“And demons –”“Are one of those group.”“Like, from Hell?”“Sometimes. And sometimes from Park Avenue.”

“Didn’t we option this one’s spec?” Producer One asks Producer Two, using his Italian-loafered foot to prod the eviscerated writer in question.There’s a whole pile of them.Dead writers, that is.Most of their hearts have been ripped from their chests. Some of them are missing their brains. Several are still clutching screenplays in their arms.”

“Life is never that clean," he assures her. "Neither is magic.”