There are words to describe her, my dear, but one does not repeat them in polite company.

Lord Maccon looked up. “Grovel, you say?” Lyall did not glance away from the latest vampire report he was perusing. “Grovel, my lord.

She would have colored gracefully with embarrassment had she not possessed the complexion of one of those “heathen Italians,” as her mother said, who never colored, gracefully or otherwise. (Convincing her mother that Christianity had, to all intents and purposes, originated with the Italians, thus making them the exact opposite of heathen, was a waste of time and breath.)

I miss him, my lady.” “Well, he is now living adjacent. You can hardly miss him all that much.” “True. But we are no longer compatible—I am a werewolf; he is a vampire.” “So?” “So we cannot dance the same dance we used to.” Biffy was so sweet when he tried to be circumspect. Alexia shook her head at him. “Biffy, and I mean this in the kindest way possible: then you should change the music.” “Very good, my lady.

Madame Lefoux shrugged. "I do not know about that, my lady. I mean to say, one's life is one thing; one's technology is an entirely different matter.

The vampire's eyes were open, and he was staring at her intently. It was as though he were trying to speak to her with simply the power of a glare. Alexia did not speak glare-ish.

Very well, Lord Maccon. If we are going to play this particular hand, would you be interested in becoming my...” “Mistress?