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Quote by Will Scherman

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Will Scherman

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“Now you’re going to get it,” I said, guessing Al was coming when the ones in the back scattered. “You should have been nice.” With a weird cry, the closest surface demon fell back, but it was too late. A flash of red light exploded overhead, smashing the buildings away as if I were at the center of an atomic explosion. The surface demons scattered like brown leaves, the remnants of their clothes and auras fluttering. It was Al, and he burst into existence in a grand mood, an old-fashioned lantern in his hand and a walking cane at his side. “Rachel Mariana Morgan!” he shouted enthusiastically, raising the lantern high, and I painfully rose from my crouch, breaking my bubble with a small thought. “I’ve come to save you, love!”

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Book:Pale Demon
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“You need to be clever to best him. Are you clever, Rachel?” Oh God. She wants to know if I’m clever. I glanced at Al, and he stared at me, then shrugged. Licking my lips, I said, “It’s the shiny pot that puts a hole in the sky.” Al’s mouth dropped open, but Newt thought about it, her expression thoughtful and her fingers finally leaving her knife. “Very true,” she said as she eased back into the cushions. With a soft click of his teeth, Al’s mouth shut. His eyes were cross, and he seemed peeved that I’d found a way to satisfy her without compromising myself at all.”

CleverAbsurdInsanityDemonsNewtAl
Book:Pale Demon
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“He must have stood there for a long time, making a list of all the terrible things he had done—almost killinng me was one of those thingss—and another list of all the good, heroic, brave things he had not done, and then decided that he was tired. Tired, not just of living, but of existing. Tired of being Al.”

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Book:Insurgent
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“The fifth, in a rumpled plaid suit and plastic devil mask, plunked a ukulele. Even without the Satan-head mask, I realized Hawaii was a hell of a long way from Mexico, and I didn’t freeze, didn’t pause, just made a U-turn and cut back through the crowd. The last thing I saw was Ski Mask Guy’s neck twisting in my direction. I flew down the hall and then remembered that I was in the Commodore, and that the name of the Outfit-run hotel probably began with the third letter in the alphabet for a reason. I stepped around a corner and stared at a wall covered in flocked wallpaper. The pattern was end-to-end diamond shapes with small raised C’s in the middle. I pushed one, and then another, and another—I realized Ski Mask Guy would be rounding the corner any second—and pushed another, and one more, and then I thought screw it and took a fire extinguisher from the wall, listened for galumphing footsteps, and stepped out swinging. I nailed him at solar plexus level. He staggered backward groping at air, caught himself, and charged. I went low on the next shot, kneecapping him, and he squealed like a debutante. And then I was gone, down the hallway, pushing through the revolving door briefcase-first and sprinting for the Lincoln, yelling, “Al! Throw me the keys!” “Head’s up, Al!” he said, flipping them through the air. I snagged them, leaped in, and called out, “Thanks, Al!” “My pleasure! Watch your back, Al!” I roared from the curb, waved from the window, and hoped for more Als just like him”

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Book:Cold Fury
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