It was two weeks before Christmas. A slow time of year for raising the dead.
Should I eat first or accuse the Master of the City of murder? Choices, choices. -Anita.
Lust has less logic than love, sometimes, but it’s easier to fight.
I talk to myself everyone once in a while. Give myself very good advice. Sometimes I even take it.
My right hand was sort of casually near my gun, without looking like I was reaching for my gun. It wasn’t easy. Reaching for a gun usually looks like reaching for a gun. No one seemed to notice though. Goody for our side.
Nothing cuts deeper than when another person says exactly what you’re afraid to say out loud.
It has been my experience that women tell more intimate details to their friends than men do. Men may brag more, but women will talk the nitty-gritty and share the experience more.
He looked less handsome without the smile and glow in his eyes, but he also seemed more real. Being real will get me into trouble faster than any amount of charm.
Just what I needed – a necromancer with an attitude. Oh, wait, I was a necromancer with an attitude.
Nill illigitamus carborundum.
Love, whether it’s friendship or more, is like a cup. It fills up drop by drop, until one last drop and the cup is full. The liquid hangs there almost above the rim, hangs there on surface tension alone and you know that one more drop and it will spill over.
I hated missing the end of anything. I was always convinced that the bit I’d miss would be the best part.
Human lives are too short to waste in trivialities.
I wanted to say something brilliant. My God, Holmes, how did you know the zombie was hiding in the flower pot? But I couldn’t lie.
When you spend all your time worrying that the devil is right behind you, eventually you start seeing him whether he’s there or not.
Larry had brought me blue jeans, a red polo shirt, jogging socks, my white Nikes, an extra cross from my suitcase, the silver knives, the Firestar complete with inner pants holster, and the Browning and its shoulder holster. He’d forgotten a bra, but hey, except for that it was perfect.
Worry about the things you can control; the rest will either work themselves out, or they’ll kill you. Either way, no more worries.
There are things that can harm a lot more than physically.
You smell of other peoples blood, ma petite. It was no one you know. -Jean Claude and Anita.
Sometimes it would be nice not to have to do my best. Sometimes it would just be nice not to have a crisis to deal with. – Anita Blake.
He didn’t look the least bit tired. A morning person, even after no sleep at all. It was disgusting.