Quotes About Quote

She blinked, and considered and slicked her whiskers against her face in contemplation.

Politeness counts the effort, or so one of my clademothers used to say.

She laughed, a cat's soundless amusement, and nodded thanks.

The dry tone, brittle enough to break an edge and cut yourself on.

Mallory's face went briefly vague, as those of Exalts could do when they consulted their internal worlds.

Machiavelli's outlook had not been so much simplistic as limited by his times.

The Dragon's direct, forward gaze was as intent as any predator's, and meeting it made Vincent very aware that he was small and-mostly-quite soft-fleshed.

Such a wave of distaste that I could feel it through the senso, despite our incompatible neurologies.

Five hundred years of conspiracy had left the Prometheus Club unworried about funding.

He seemed far too small to be the source of the air of wicked malice that surrounded him, but Dust knew better.

Her lips curved off a smile more wolf than fox.

Baines's smirk gave the words layers Kit did not care to think about.

It was possible to throw a little fold of space-time around yourself like a vampire vanishing into his swirl of cloak.

Is this the side thou'rt choosing, then, sweet poet? After all the kindness of the Fae to thee?" "Kindness?" Kit snorted, not caring that Baines could see this lips. "Is that what thou callest it, my Queen?

He's a Faerie. Do you expect him to play straightforward?" Murchaud looked up. "Where are you going now?" Will smiled. "To strike a bargain with a snake.

He shivered no longer, Mehiel's power warming his shoulders like a feathered cloak.

Cat eyed wampyr, and often a brief battle of wills the wampyr stood, surrendering the chair.

Poets are too precious to sacrifice carelessly," he said, his long mouth downturned at the corners. "It had to be something other than Master Shakespeare himself.

No, I know the Fae and their fondness. Fondness would not keep you from spilling my blood.

Kit's voice stayed level, amused, but there was a honeyed rasp in it that Will knew for sheerest hatred.

A poet flanked them on either side-one dark, one fair and blood-smeared-and a Fool rode on a pony between.

The bindings were calculated to do him very little harm, no matter how struggled.

The Wolf wore leather gloves, and still the heat of his body soaked through, so hot Cathoair thought he would surely have burns wherever the wolf touched him.

She stands and quaffs her drink as well, and lays down the horn. She places one hand on his shoulder and one on mine. Her nails graze my neck. A shiver follows.