From The Importance of being Prudence:

“Pru, just look at him sweetie. That right there is a perfect example of a sexy man. Now get your overworked, under loved ass over there and ask him if you can help him. …
Before I could finish what was quickly becoming a tirade, I was interrupted by the aforementioned, sex oozing man. He even smelled good. No, good was not an adequate word. He smelled brilliant.
…still looking me in the eyes and holding my hand close to his mouth…
I couldn’t recall ever enjoying someone’s breath on my palm…
“My name has been spoken more times than I can recall. Never before has hearing it brought me to my knees. Come to me,” he said, visible shaken.


From The Virtue of Prudence:

I watched as the three men poured warm blood into bone china tea cups. Even with my mind occupied by the loss of Mordecia’s scent and the unanswered question hanging in the air, it always amused me to see Immortals drinking blood from fine china like they were having high tea. I took a cup when it was offered and drank my meal down quickly…

He tore his gaze from the marble floor, and painstaking slowly met my stare, “Merde, cheri, I really don’t know where to start,” he admitted in defeat.

I placed my hand in his and gently squeezed it, “Maybe from the beginning? But before you start, please tell me whatever it is has nothing to do with Mordecia.”

“Not directly,” he replied, sighing and then smiling his best ‘it’s all going to be fine’ smiles. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the smile was not working.

‘Not directly,’ was the next to the last thing I wanted to hear. I would have allowed the perpetually threatening hysterics to take over if not for Phillippe’s ever calming effect. Even in his pained state, he oozed serenity.

“Sit, listen carefully, and please refrain from questioning me until I have told you the whole of the situation,” he began, taking a seat next to me.


From A Study in Scarlytt:

Milk, when consumed in massive quantities, could give a Faerie a slight buzz. Cream was even better, but cream wasn’t easy to come by anymore. On rare occasions when cream was freely offered, Faeries of all kind fought to get through the veil. Cream was the only liquid that could get a Faerie tipsy. A tipsy Faerie was a sight to behold. But then…so was an irritated one…

Fallen Angels were not known for their intelligence. In fact, the only thing they were notorious for was their love of all things paper.

The all-male race…all male, muscular race was never happier than when sitting behind a desk with reams of paperwork in front of them.

The beings were never seen in public without at least one notebook and a pen. They were also ravenous bibliophiles. That being said, they did not seem to gain intellect from their reading. Any Fallen Angel could spell any word in any language. The irony was that they lacked the ability to define said word.


From Beauty Bedamned:

It was Callie Halloway’s eighty-first birthday. She stood in front of the buffet table watching as her family fussed over the food. It was a heartwarming, if not bittersweet scene. In five hours or less, she would go to sleep and wake up someone else, with a new, twenty-five-year-old body. It was her curse. Her hex was in fact the only thing she consistently remembered from life to life. Being enlightened to the fact she was living a cursed life didn’t mean she had a clue as to why.

Whatever she had done resulted in her walking the Earth for over a hundred thousand years. Most lives were cut short by disease or accident. Even with only sketchy memories of other lives, she was sure eighty-one years was the longest she’d been able to sustain one life.

Upon waking that morning, she instinctively knew it would be her last day as Callie.


From Seraphina’s Phyre:

We all lived with our mother until Serosity turned eighteen. On her birthday, we began to accept what we were destined for. I honestly don’t think any of us believed Mother at first. We all knew we had a special relationship with the elements, but hearing you held some power over the whole of everything inside yourself was overwhelming, to say the least.

Mother sat us down and repeated, for close to the millionth time, the story of her journey. Each of us took turns rolling our eyes, sighing deeply, and crossing our arms. She was unswayed by our disbelief and boredom. We were not bored after she informed us we would all be moving to new homes. (Still real skeptical though.)

            Looking back, I remember the suggestion of having our poor mother committed for a psych evaluation being thrown into the conversation at least once. That didn’t go over well. In fact, after we calmed her down and she stopped throwing books at us, we learned what she was ranting and raving about.

When the four of us accidentally touched while we reached out to calm our mother, the room was washed in a clear, blinding white light. When we broke our connection, mostly to cover our eyes, a wave ripped through the room and we all landed on our asses.


From Roy, Vampire:

“J, you aren’t gonna kill me … you’re my best fuckin’ friend. So … knock it off and quit playin’,” I suggested, nervously backing away.
“Playing? Is that what you think I’m doing? This is real shit here. I’m only doing this because I love ya, man. I can’t let an abomination like you live. What would my congregation say?”
My friend was clearly conflicted. But I didn’t give a shit about his followers; never had, never would. So, him bringing them into the conversation was not going to change anything. In fact, after what I had just done for him, I expected a thank you, not, “I’m trying to kill you for your own good.”
But, in all honesty, his reaction wasn’t out of character. However, instead of pointing out his personality flaw, I continued to easily evade the stick-wielding preacher.
The wooden dowel being thrust about willy-nilly was the most problematic issue in the scenario, but I was determined to talk it out. Therefore, my plan was playing cat and mouse with my lifelong friend until he was worn out. J’s enthusiastic outburst wouldn’t last long; they never did. It took quite a bit to get his Right Worthiness pissed, but once he was, he turned Tasmanian devil for a few minutes.


From Date with Death (aka Agnes):

The change being so drastic, it took me a few hundred years before I was calm enough to be approached. They were ugly years that I try not dwell on. Anyway, not long after I accepted the fate I’d been handed, I was informed that for the foreseeable future I would be assigned the enviable job (if I believed the powers of light and dark. And I didn’t) of being the newly appointed Deaths service cat. The job sounded surprisingly simple if I thought what I was hearing was true, and we have already covered that. But it really didn’t look like I had a choice in the matter. That coupled with the fact that as soon as I returned to sanity I’d learned just how boring sitting in a cage with felt toys was. Still, I wasn’t convinced helping Death was going to be enjoyable either. I was seriously pondering submitting a counteroffer of staying in my cage and requesting new toys. I like to think the two beings in charge sensed my reluctance and decided to return my long dormant voice. Whatever their reason, once I realized I had regained the ability to communicate, I was putty in their hands. After I cleaned my paw again.