Kelley Armstrong (born 14 December 1968) is a Canadian writer, primarily of fantasy novels since 2001.
Jeremy had a plan for getting Clay back and I wasn't allowed to know anything about it or allowed to help him carry it out. As one might expect, I accepted this news with grace and understanding. "That is the stupidest idea I've ever heard!" I snarled for the dozenth time that hour. "I won't just sit here and do nothing.
At school, our classroom had a small rodent zoo consisting of two rabbits, three hamsters, a litter of baby gerbils and a guinea pig. At first, I’d thought the teacher was raising snack food, which impressed me, being the first sign of intelligence she’d shown. Soon, though, I’d figured out the animals’ true purpose and left them alone, though I would never understand the appeal of petting and coddling perfectly good food.
And the bad guys love to pick on the defenseless necromancer. This time, though, I swear I won’t get kidnapped or possessed. ~Jaime Vegas
We drove to the airport. On the way, Clay gave him "the lecture," including all the do's and don'ts of meeting the Alpha, which was only slightly more complicated than an audience with the queen. Don't sit until you're invited to. Don't talk unless he asks you a question. Don't eat before he does. Don't make direct eye contact. Jeremy demanded none of this, but that wasn't the point.
And stop doing that,” he said. “Backing away, giving me that look. ” Like you’re scaring me? Maybe you are. ” He stepped back so fast he wobbled and caught himself, and the look on his face—It vanished in a second, the scowl returning. I’d never hurt you, Chloe. You should know—” He stopped. Paused. Then wheeled and started walking away. “Next time? Handle it yourself. I’m done taking care of you.
Your mother sets you up blind dates? With guys like that?" The corners of his mouth twitched. "She doesn't like you very much, does she?
Wish all my corpses would do that.
Some women just aren’t cut out to be mothers, and unfortunately it had taken Susanna three kids to realize she was one of them.
I let out a laugh that sounded more like the yip of a startled poodle. "Superp-powers? I wish. My powers aren't winning me a slot on the Cartoon Network anytime soon. . . except as a comic relief. Ghost Whisperer Junior. Or Ghost Screamer, more like it. Tune in, every week, as Chloe Saunders runs screaming from yet another ghost looking for her help. " Okay, superpower might be pushing it.
Sometimes humans hit on a moment of profundity more complete than their dim minds could comprehend, and they took that nugget of truth and dumped it in the refuse for the bards and the poets to find, and mangle into yodeling paeans of love.
I let her through. She checked Derek's pulse and his breathing, saying both seemed okay, then leaned down to his face. "Nothing weird on his breath. Smells. . . like toothpaste. " Derek's eyes opened, and the first thing he saw was Tori's face inches from his. He jumped and let out an oath. Simon cracked up. I madly motioned for him to be quiet. "Are you okay?" I asked Derek. "He is now," Simon said. "After Tori jump-started his heart.
You'll wrest a burning sword from an angel, but you're afraid of bats?" "I'm not afraid of them. I just don't like them. They're. . . furry. Flying things shouldn't be furry. It's not right. And if I ever meet the Creator, I'm taking that one up with him. " "That I'd like to see. Your one and possible only chance to get the answer to every question in the universe, and you ask, 'Why are bats furry?'" "I will. You just wait.
He balled up my discarded sweatshirt and put it against his shoulder. “Go on,” he said. “I don’t bite. ” “And from what I hear, that’s a good thing. ” He gave a rumbling chuckle. “Yeah, it is. ” I leaned against his shoulder.
Are you the welcoming committee? Or has Jeremy finally chained you up to the front gate where you belong?" "I missed you too.
Who cared whether you could change motor oil when you could snap a rottweiler’s neck in 2. 8 seconds? Now there was a practical skill.
I remember hearing myself start to whimper, a five-year-old, crouched by the side of the road, staring into my father's eyes, whimpering because it was so dark and there was no one coming to help, whimpering because my mother was back in the crushed car, not moving, and my father was lying here in the dirt, not answering me, not holding me, not comforting me, not helping my mother get out of the car, and there was blood, so much blood, and broken glass everywhere, and it was so dark and so cold and no one was coming to help.
Hunting humans for sport? Eating them?" the bitterness in his voice cut through me. "Yeah, I caught that part. " "That doesn't have anything to do with you? He lifted his eyes, gaze shuttered. "No?" "Not unless being a werewolf transforms you into a wolf AND a redneck moron.
Got your text,” he said when I climbed out. “How much did it hurt?” “Not at all,” I said. “Apparently, I can’t get a tattoo because I’m a witch. ” “I could have told them-” He stopped. “Oh, you said witch. ” “Ha-ha.
Still sitting, he reached out and pulled me toward him. We stayed there, looking at each other, his hand still wrapped in my shirt hem, my heart hammering so hard I was sure he could hear it. when I inched closer, not wanting to intrude, he tugged me in front of him and I stumbled, half falling onto his lap. I tried to scramble up, cheeks burning, but he pulled me down onto his knee, one army going around my waist, tentative, as if to say Is this okay? It was, even if my blood pounded in my ears so hard I couldn't think.
It's because when we sneeze, our soul flies out our nose and if no one says 'bless you,' the devil can snatch it.