You've reached Fantasia, where the undead live again every night," "For bar hours, press one. To make a party reservation, press two. To talk to alive person or a dead vampire, press three. Or, if you were intending to leave a humorous prank message on our answering machine, know this: we will find you.

Bubba made a sound of disapproval "You're not supposed to be kissing on anybody else, Miss Sookie" he said "Bill said it was okay, but I don't like it.

This letter is written on the skin of one of the water sprites who drowned your parents.' 'Ick!' I cried, and dropped the letter on the kitchen table.

The night swelled with magic; not the beneficent kind of love-magic that sweeps couples away, but the kind of magic that rips and tears, the enchantment that creeps out of the woods and pounces.

If this were the fifties, she’d be checking Sam’s collars for lipstick stains. (Did people do that anymore? Why did women kiss collars, anyway? Besides, Sam almost always wore T-shirts.)

Fiction just makes it all more interesting. Truth is so boring.

And since I’m going to be in the neighborhood, you thought I might do as an escort? To an orgy?