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People die, Rachel, Ceri said, her cheeks flushing. Not if I can help it, I snapped. And not of a broken heart. If you could, I'd be dead already.

Kim Harrison

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Kim Harrison
Age: 58
Born: 1966
Born: January 1
Author
Novelist
Writer
Midwest
Wyoming
Dawn Cook
Heart
Snapped
People
Cheeks
Broken
Already
Dead
Dies
Help
Flushing
Helping
Rachel

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...It's easier to find a way to make money at something you love than to learn to love a job that you can make money at.
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Tears could not be equal, if I wept diamonds from the skies. Jenks (Black Magic Sanction)
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But I knew Nick. He was too ugly to die.
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You cannot thrash the person who makes you coffee. It's a rule somewhere.
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Inside Junior's it was peaceful. I can change that, I thought dryly.
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I sat for a moment, figuring things out, then decided to stay there. If I was on the floor, I couldn't fall down.
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You need a new hobby, Rachel. Something other than nasty little men with visions of world domination.
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A devious spark lit through Al, making me smile. One way. It costs too much, he said. “There’s no inflation in the ever-after, Al.” Call it a recession then. One way.
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Why aren't you afraid of me? I've seen my death, and you're not it.
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Somehow I found him. Somehow I found Al's sarcastic thoughts, bitter and old. Tired, angry, bored. Alone.
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The car picked up speed, and the sound seemed to lull me.I could relax, I thought as I felt the tingling of circulation in my limbs. I was in Trent’s car, wrapped in a blanket, and held in his arms. He wouldn’t let anything hurt me. He wasn’t singing, though,I mused.Shouldn’t he be singing?
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I can think of a lot of things to do, he said, and none of them involve standing up. - Al
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A witch, a vampire, and a pixy walk into a bar, I thought as I led the way into the Squirrel’s End. It was early, and the sun had yet to set when the door swung shut behind Jenks, sealing us in the warm air smelling faintly of smoke. Immediately Nick yanked it open to come in behind us. And there’s the punch line.
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CINCINNATI MORGUE, AN EQUAL-OPPORTUNITY SERVICE SINCE 1966.
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You are the devil to talk to, Rachel, he said curtly. Will you shut up and listen?
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It’s a cat. Boy, you couldn’t slip anything past me tonight.
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And while seeing Trent in his tighty-whities would make my decade, I’d found out long ago that I couldn’t stay mad at a man wearing nothing but underwear. They looked so charmingly vulnerable.
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I am black,” she said, and a shudder rippled through me. “I am foul with a thousand years of demon curses. Don’t cross me or I will bring you and your house down. Rachel is the only clean thing I have, and you won’t sully her to further your high ideas.
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Good God,” I whispered, sitting on the van’s cot and looking at my legs, horrified. They were hairy—not wolf hairy, but an I-couldn’t-find-my-razor-the-last-six-months hairy. Utterly grossed out, I took a peek at my armpit, jerking away. Oh, that’s just…nasty.
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My God, he whispered. What have I done to her? He thought, humbled. The spell was broken, but it wasn't sealed, and her soul was bare to him, the scars of her tragic past and her triumphs over pain and her aching need to find her place. He just wanted to hold her to him and tell her it would be okay, that she had survived and was beautiful.
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