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The door swung open and Kate walked in. Her jeans and T-shirt were splattered with blood and she was carrying a severed vampire head. The T-shirt has a smiley face on it.

Ilona Andrews

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Ilona Andrews
Faces
Vampire
Severed
Shirts
Smiley
Door
Swung
Doors
Kate
Blood
Carrying
Head
Shirt
Open
Jeans
Face
Walked

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Your ability to remain alive never ceases to amaze me.
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Im's offspring stare at stars and make clocks that calculate useless happenings like the angle of a hawk's claws as it strikes its prey. They demonstrate their contraptions and everyone marvels. My children get drunk, confuse a herd of cows with an enemy regiment, and slaughter the lot, screaming like lunatics until the entire army panics.
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I want to punish them. I want that punishment to be so hard, so vicious that the next who takes their place wets himself at the mere thought of trying to fight me.
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I'm secure enough in myself to wear panties with bows on them. Besides, they are comfy and soft. I bet. He almost purred. I gulped.
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What do you do to your hair? Dust, hair gel, and a little gun oil. Ever thought of patenting the recipe? No.
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Runes, runes, runes... Runes. An inverted Algiz rune. The caption next to it said “Chernobog.” The Black God. Right. Of course, it wouldn’t be Chernobog, God of Morning Dew on the Rose Petals, but a woman could always hope.
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She had wailed loudly enough to wake the dead and make them call the cops.
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You know anything about investigative work? Sure. Annoy the people involved until the guilt party tries to make you go away.
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If the lot of you survives, Curran will fray the skin off your backs,' Doolittle said. 'That's what I always love about you, Doctor.' Raphael grinned. 'You're a cup-halfway-full kind of guy. All flowers and sunshine.
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Every time I think you’ve reached the limits of arrogance, you show me new heights. Truly, your egotism is like the Universe—ever expanding.
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Next to me, Saiman smiled. We all want what we can't have, Kate. I want you, you want love, and he wants to break my neck.
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Had he expected me to hump her leg?
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We were screwed and he didn't even kiss us first.
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He gave an impression of coiled power, a contained violence that if released, would explode with terrifying intensity.
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On a scale from one to ten, the Pack was eleven and everything else a one.
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I chuckled to myself and kept walking. The Universe had proven Curran wrong: a person who aggravated him more than me did, in fact, exist.
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The rabbis paled. I’d managed to terrify holy men. Maybe I could beat up a nun for an encore.
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Outside the windows the day was bright: golden sunshine, blue sky, pleasant wind . . . I wanted to punch the happy day in the face, grab it by the hair, and beat it until it told me what the hell it was so happy about.
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You're not going to die? Not right this minute. And of course, saying something like that usually resulted in immediate dying. I braced myself for a stray meteorite falling through the roof to crush my skull.
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Voshak's hair, a pale blond braid, which he bleached, was his trademark. It made him memorable. That's how the slavers operated. They adopted costumes and personas, trying to make themselves larger-than-life and hoping to inspire fear. They counted on that fear. One could fight a man, but nobody could fight a nightmare.
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