I’d have been dead a long time ago if not for my friends, one of whom had just jumped off the cliff after me. I’d have been a lot more appreciative if he hadn’t pushed me first.” ~Cassandra Palmer
The most temptation I’d experienced had been with Tomas, the Senate’s spy who had been feeding off me without permission, and Mircea, who was probably plotting some nefarious scheme. I have no taste in men.
It’s about time! It’s supposed to be a ritual, not a marathon.
If I’d had enough breath, I would have screamed, both at the sensation and at the sheer pettiness of the bastard who wouldn’t allow me even a tiny chance of escape.
I’m tired, I’m hungry and I have a head in a bag,” I warned him. “Do not fuck with me.
It never ceases to amaze me how many people think I kill for fun.”“Don’t y
When good Americans die, they go to Paris,’ the ghost said, after taking a drag on a small cigarette.But you’re not dead. I suppose the question must be, are you good?
Louis-Cesare slowly pulled himself into a half-standing position against the side of the winery.’What? Did you think one little mage was going to do me in?’ He swallowed hard. ‘Hell, that was just a warm-up.
He wasn’t that good looking, he had the social skills of a wet cat and the patience of a caffeinated hummingbird
This isn’t sex.”I blinked. “Oh. Then what is it?””An emergency!”I started to argue and then thought twice about it. Considering what Mircea would do to Pritkin if he ever found out about this…Yeah. Emergency sounded good.
A gentleman would have announced himself!” I told him, pressing against the side of the tub. “And a scoundrel would have joined you.”– Kit Marlowe to the witch Gillian (shortly before joining her in the tub!)
I wasn’t entirely sure, but a polite John Pritkin might be a sign of the apocalypse.
When good Americans die, they go to Paris,’ the ghost said, after taking a drag on a small cigarette.
Fresh blood at midnight isn’t red. It’s a purplish black that easily blends into the shadows.