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So maybe it was just as well that my companion was more like Mulder. A coked-out Mulder with a lot of weapons, who knew that the monsters under the bed were real and would gut you.

Karen Chance

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Karen Chance
Age: 24
Born: 2000
Born: January 1
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Orlando
Florida
Companion
Well
Real
Guts
Would
Monsters
Like
Bed
Weapons
Knew
Maybe
Wells

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...I ran out of stock around midnight and dropped by a place, got some Chinese. I hoped he meant takeout.
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I’d never known that anyone could kiss in English, kiss in apologies.
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He’s a war mage. They’re almost impossible to kill.” He scowled. “Even on purpose.
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I was alive, they were not. Go Me. (Touch the Dark)
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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.
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You know, I was gutting this loser the other day, and I thought, It’d be more fun fighting that little dhampir. I wonder if she’s recovered yet. And here you are.” “Lucky me,” I said. Scarface grinned. “You know, I might even let you live. You’re funny.
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You know, I've lived a long time, he told me, massaging my calf more firmly now. And I met a lot of people. But I ain't never met a woman made me want to beat her to death as often as you.
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Fresh blood at midnight isn't red. It's a purplish black that easily blends into the shadows.
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It's about time! It's supposed to be a ritual, not a marathon.
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No they called it the Codex Merlini because it was written by a guy named Ralph.
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I left it with a warmer,” he said drily. Because war mages ate their fried chicken frozen to the ground and they liked it.
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Nobody said anything that time. Or maybe I just wasn’t listening. After all, someone had to keep an eye on the fridge.
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Fools fight winners think.
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I turned over, and those big hands got to work on my back. I stifled a whimper in the pillow, because Marco's idea of a massage bore no resemblance whatsoever to the relaxing spa variety. There was no lavender oil, no soothing music, no hot towels. Just an all-out assault on cramped muscles, until they cowered in surrender and turned to Jell-O.
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This was Dante's. Crazy was what we had for breakfast when we ran out of Corn Flakes
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I’d been declared—over my loud and sustained protests—Pythia, the chief seer of the supernatural world.
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Poireaux vinaigrette aux grains de caviar.” I did a quick translation. “Leeks and fish eggs in vinegar?” He grinned. “It sounds better in French.” Yeah, but did it taste better?
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Pritkin kissed like he did everything else, straightforward, accepting no prisoners and with an intensity that left me breathless. It was hot and hard and desperate, like he was starving for it, and I opened my mouth and took it, because, God.
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