Quotes from Lilith Saintcrow

It was the same old crap-someone thinking they can push you around because you're young, because you're helpless. You had to just sit there and take it because you were under a certain number, because you weren't a real person yet; you could be picked up and dropped like a toy, left behind or thrown away-

I just . . . knew, the way you know how to breathe or to pull your hand back from a hot stove.

His smell—the scent of a demon, cinnamon incense, amber musk—wrapped around me, filled my lungs. I felt like I could breathe again, without every breath being tainted by the stench of dying cells. The smell of him seemed to coat my abused insides with peace, and flow down into the middle of my body to spread through my veins. I filled my lungs again. While I could, before what was undoubtedly a hallucination vanished.

He laughed. The laugh could strip the skin off an elephant in seconds.

I wondered what I'd end up looking like once I bloomed. I couldn't even guess. If I had to be stuck in my own skinny, gawky, coltish body forever… well. It probably wouldn't be so bad. I wouldn't mind a little more in the chest, though. But wild horses wouldn't drag that out of me. Ever.

Next to her, even the prettiest djamphir boys looked gawky.

He'd pulled back a little, just with his lower half, and I was afraid the scorch in my cheeks would set fire to the rest of me, because I an idea why. Wow. Oh wow.

Okay. I'll deal with Benjamin. You're safe, okay? Nothing's gonna happen." His mouth pulled tight against itself. And now I was having some sort of heart attack. Because when he looked at me like that, my chest started to feel like it was turned inside out. "Promise." And that—the promise, the way he said it with utter certainty—was enough to make me tear up again.

White and scrubbed, antique brass fixtures and a skylight letting in a flood of sunshine. Wow. You could get a tan standing around in the shower, for Christ's sake.

Sometimes you can pick who buys you, and for how much. That's what power really is.

God, was I going to have another day of painful thoughts jumping me every time I relaxed? The obvious solution—to just not relax—was kind of sucking.

Some of the djamphir are so pretty it almost hurts to look at them. And it was hard to look without feeling rumpled and messy in comparison.

It was stealing her breath, imbecile. Go get a towel." -Christophe, Strange Angels by Lili St. Crow

Why do you eat your own heart? Because, O King, it is bitter, and because it is my heart.

Blue eyes glittered. A shock of golden hair - gone. The dust in the air swirled, coalesced into a thorn-twisted Shaman tattoo.

I try not to sleep. It disturbs the circles I'm growing under my eyes.

there was fashion and there was idiocy, and while she was vain enough to love the former, she was not willing to indulge the latter.

He stared at her face as if he wanted to peel it off and take it home with him. What a gruesome thought, Rowan.

I had to settle for two of the most inadequate words in the English language, words to pale to express what I needed to say. "Thank you.

When a Were moves in like that it means they're offering support. Cat and canine weres are very touch-feely and bird Were have a whole elaborate protocol for brush ad flutter. Snake Weres like to get right up into your aura and breather in your face, all but rubbing noses like Eskimos. And let's not even talk about Werespiders. I shivered.

Maybe handling her memory every day for five years had made it fade, like the mortal thing it was.

Funny, how things became very simple once a man's course was decided. It was the aimlessness of choice that made mischief, among both sidhe and mortals.

Unwinter did not wind his Horn or glance back. He did not lift an armored hand to summon his knights. He did not command them to follow. And yet. The whisper became a rustle, the rustle deepened to a throbbing, the throbbing swelled into a roar. The highborn fullbloods of Unwinter, pale and wasted, sallied forth clasped in their own black armor, riding by two and three on the nightmare mounts enticed from the Dreaming Sea's foaming edge.

A hand closed around her arm, warm and hard, and it could possibly have been comforting if she had possessed the faintest idea whose appendage it was.