What concerns me," she said, "is that he's treading a fine line between fighting evil and becoming it.

Haven sighed. Then shrugged. "He's the best man I know, but he believes himself to be the worst. He sees himself as some...monster." She narrowed her eyes, watching Cole, thinking how best to help him. "I don't know how to change that.

Because he listened to you. When everything in him told him to fight, he listened." Mr. Tzaddik's kind brown eyes met hers. "Loving a warrior is not easy. I pray our Lord Jesus will strengthen you for the journey

What a strange world this was, that I could come here to lose everything about myself, and instead lose everything but me. It was possible that I’d thrown one too many Molotov cocktails over God’s fence. It would be, after all, a divinely ironic punishment to watch me learn to care and then destroy the things I cared about.

1947 was a good year. A lot of the tunes that we've learned, whether from Nat 'King' Cole, Louis Jordan or someone else -- those 1947 tunes come up a lot.

Six hundred years is an awfully long time, Ever. So long it's impossible for either of us to imagine. Though it is more than enough time to rack up a few dirty skeletons for the old metaphorical closet, right?