Mine, ... Mine is what she is.

So in the sweltering heat of a July night, I sang a Christmas carol to a room full of fae, who had been driven out of their homelands by Christians and their cold-iron swords.

Most of the pack would rather have Darryl mad at them than Auriele.

A cowboy, a lawyer, and a mechanic watched Queen of the Damned,” I murmured. Warren—who had once, a long time ago, been a cowboy—snickered and wiggled his bare feet. “It could be the beginning of either a bad joke or a horror story.” “No,” said Kyle, the lawyer, whose head was propped up on my thigh. “If you want a horror story, you have to start out with a werewolf, his gorgeous lover, and a walker.

Love thy enemies, it says in the scriptures. My foster mother always added, "At the very least, you will be polite to them.

He sighed. " I don't think an apology will do, Mercy. Because an apology implies that you wouldn't do it again. And, under the circumstances, you wouldn't do anything differently, would you?" "No.

When is the last time you were a tourist?” she asked archly. He just looked at her. Charles, she had to agree, was not tourist material. “Right,” Anna told him. “Buck up. You might even enjoy it.” “You might as well have ‘hapless victim’ tattooed across your forehead,” he muttered.