No, really, Ronnie, it’s good to share information when you know someone else is dating the lunarly challenged.
I am the Executioner. Murder someone in my town, and I’m the one that you get to see. Once.
Sometimes love makes you selfish. Sometimes it makes you stupid. Sometimes it reminds you why you love your gun.
To just let go, and not pick everything to death. To just let go and enjoy what you had. To just let go and not make everybody around you miserable with your own internal dialogue. To just let go and be happy. So simple. So difficult. So terrifying.
I didn’t want to pick at Micah and me until we unraveled. I wanted to leave it alone and enjoy it. I just didn’t know how to do that.
No. But then the American Government – whatever branch – has never really grasped the concept of tribal identity.
Love mattered, in the end. A house without love would always fall, maybe not today or tomorrow, but in the end without love nothing could endure.
Ma petite is not a subtle woman. Unless you say it, she will not understand it.
When I was younger, I’d wanted someone to promise me that things would work out and nothing bad would ever happen again. But I understood now that that was a child’s wish. No one could promise that. No one. The grown-ups could try, but they couldn’t promise, not and mean it.
How could you love someone and not want them to be happy?
I didn’t want to understand. Bert had been thrilled that the police wanted to put me on retainer. He told me I would gain valuable experience working with the police. All I had gained so far was a wider variety of nightmares.
Without hope, love dies and parts of you wither.
If it works out, it’s the best thing in the world. If it doesn’t work out, it’s like having your heart torn out and chopped up into little pieces while you watch. It leaves a big hollow space that never really heals.
If you keep a gun in your purse, you get killed, because no woman can find anything in her purse in under twelve minutes. It’s a rule.
A person likes to think of himself in a certain way, and when something happens that makes that no longer possible, you mourn the old self. The person you thought you were.
That’s what you get for telling the truth. Someone calls you a liar. Most people will accept a likely lie to an unlikely truth. In fact, they prefer it.
They be crazier than we are.
I wanted to wipe the grin off his face with a fist. I resisted the urge. Who says I have no self-control?
Most women complain that there are no single, straight men left. I’d just like to meet one who’s human.
I, Anita Blake, scourge of the undead-the human with more vampire kills than any other vampire executioner in the country-was dating a vampire. It was poetically ironic.