“So you’re kind of on a stakeout but without hiding in a nondescript car around the corner?” asked Clara. “Something like that.” His voice was low and deep and soft but not gentle. “You know, cigarettes are really bad for you.” “I’m a grim. I’ve got a long life.” “Doesn’t matter. Supers can still get sick, which can take years off your life. Instead of living three hundred years—well, how long do grims live anyway?”
