Quotes About Mystery

He looked gorgeous. Tough. Dangerous. Completely hot. And he was all hers.

She couldn't help herself; she reached up to trace that incredible smile with the pad of her finger. Who had a mouth like that? Who had such white, perfect teeth and such beautiful eyes? "You should be pretty with all those lashes," she murmured, still not certain if she was dreaming. "But your face is a little too rugged to be feminine." He caught her fingers and bit gently on them. "I'm thankful for that, at least.

Christine Feehan

You are not safe from me and you never will be, but you'll like the way you aren't safe. I can promise you that much.

This woman mattered in some undefined way he didn't fully understand. He wanted to stay in her company. His body wanted her with every breath he drew. His leopard wanted to stay close to her.

The wolf's shape contorted, stretched, shimmered in the smoke of the fire, and soon a large, heavily muscled man was facing Jacques. His long, shaggy mane of hair was blond, his eyes golden, his body perfectly balanced. "You are Jacques, brother to Mikhail. I heard you were dead." "That is the story going around," Jacques assented warily.

I think you've managed to put some kind of spell on me." "If I did," he whispered, "it backfired, and I managed to ensnare myself as well.

He was a complete stranger to her, but he knew that connection between them had started there in the parking lot, their shadows touching coiling together, their eyes meeting.

You just want mixed blood because you took one look at a certain woman and all brain matter went dead," Fen accused. Zev didn't open his eyes or stop feeding. She did make an impression.

She lifted her head when he set her feet on the stone floor, a small smile curving her soft mouth. Mysterious. Sexy. His little innocent was seducing him, and doing a damn good job of it.

She was sitting up. She lifted and pulled at her blankets, but it was gone. The hippopotamus of wisdom was nowhere in sight.

If the killer had really wanted to keep his victim's provenance hidden, he would have taken the head far away, or simply weighted it and thrown it into the fast-flowing tide of the Thames. The invention of the garbage bag had been a boon to murderers everywhere.

Bryant wanted to be outside digging up corpses and chasing (as much as his bad leg would allow) unscrupulous but fiendishly brilliant villains through the back alleys of the city. Instead he was meeting a clerk about forgotten bits of paperwork.

Agatha Christie's tales were aggressively anti-intellectual and crueller for it; hers was a world where confirmed bachelors committed suicide out of shame.

Christopher Fowler

Skinner's suits were a constant source of fascination to Robert. They seemed to be made from an alien synthetic fibre that never creased or got dirty. Indeed, it seemed possible that Skinner himself was constructed of the same material.

I have to go, I'm being asked to join a conga line through the Byzantine reliquaries.

The clouds of night opened like ink blossoming in water.

It sounds like something you'd find in a pack of tarot cards. Or a Robert Louis Stevenson novel. Certainly not London in the twenty-first century.' 'That's the thing about the backstreets of Bloomsbury. They've barely changed in hundreds of years. They'll probably be the same long after—

It was a man taking a machine and a machine taking a man into secret places, into the subliminal.

I have been called arrogant myself in my time, and hope to earn the title again, but to claim that I am privy to the secrets of the universe and its creator - that's beyond my conceit.

We are not immune to the lure of wonder and mystery and awe: we have music and art and literature, and find that the serious ethical dilemmas are better handled by Shakespeare and Tolstoy and Schiller and Dostoyevsky and George Eliot than in the mythical morality tales of the holy books.

There must be some connection between the general nullity of Christie's prose and the tendency of her detectives to take Jewishness as a symptom of crime.

The enduring rapture with magic and fable has always struck me as latently childish and somehow sexless (and thus also related to childlessness).