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"What do you mean? Leslie's voice was cool, as if she questioned witches who were flat on their backs being threatened by werewolves every day."
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"What do you mean Ronan's a magical entity? Is he a demon? Because this all makes sense if so."

"The word diva to me means doing something supernatural with something natural."

"So crosses don't do anything against your kind?" Sean asked."No," Arland said. "There is no mystical force repelling us.""Then why?""We're forbidden to kill a creature in a moment of prayer or invocation of their deity. Well, we can, technically, but you have to do penance and purify yourself and nobody wants to spend weeks praying and bathing themselves in the sacred cave springs. The water's only a fraction warmer than ice. When one of you holds up a cross, it's difficult to determine whether you're praying, invoking, or just waving it around. So the sane strategy is to back away."

"I write for ghosts, the ghosts I can't see but I know stick around. Some I know are good. Others I know are bad. The first bring me nostalgic comfort while the latter instill unease."

"Has made an honest woman of the supernatural."

"You are not what you seem - you're a Sylph - you leave and the air retains your image - you haunt me..."

"The whispers you hear in your ear that you fear in the air everywhere,they are ghosts.The moans and the groans in the lowest of tones no one owns or condones, they are ghosts.You might deem them gremlins or water or wind,while others say shadows or rodents or sin.But oh! I say no! 'Tis not so, child, for lo!The chills that you feel in a thrill that proves goose bumps are frightfully real,they are ghosts!"

"Do not fear the ghosts in this house; theyare the least of your worries.Personally I find the noises they make reassuring,The creaks and footsteps in the night,their little tricks of hiding things,or moving them, I findendearing, not upsettling. It makes the placefeel so much more like a home.Inhabited."
Explore more quotes by Patricia Briggs

"C'est moi, c'est moi,'tis I,' I told him. It seemed appropriately melodramatic, though I didn't know if he'd catch the reference. I shouldn't have worried. Unexpectedly, he laughed. "Trust you to quote Lancelot rather than Guinevere."

"So in the sweltering heat of a July night, I sang a Christmas carol to a room full of fae, who had been driven out of their homelands by Christians and their cold-iron swords."

"Reluctantly, I pulled out my necklace and showed it to them.Samuel frowned. The little figure was stylized; I suppose he couldn't tell what it was at first."A dog?" asked Zee, staring at my necklace."A lamb," I said defensively, tucking it safely back under my shirt. "Because one of Christ's names is 'The Lamb of God.'"Samuel's shoulders shook slightly. "I can see it now, Mercy holding a roomful of vampire at bay with her glowing sheep."I gave his shoulder a hard push, aware of the heat climbing to my cheeks, but it didn't help. He sang in a soft taunting voice, "Mercy had a little lamb..."

"Then Walter died as he lived, he told his mate. A hero, a soldier, and a survivor who chose to protect what was precious to him. I don't think, if you could ask him, that he would have any regrets."
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