If you hear voices, you’re a lunatic. If you write down what they say, you’re an author.

Everybody says you have to decide between the head and the heart, but that’s just so much bullshit. Your heart and your head don’t know a damn thing between them when it comes to other people. Your head can know facts about them, sure—like a criminal record or a Purple Heart—but that’s about it. And your heart only knows how it feels and what it wants, not what the other person is feeling . . .

Kind of like CSI investigating a social error—Here’s the corpse of the situation, what do you think killed it?—with the hope of preventing further fatalities. Often as not, it boiled down to missed cues.

Sometimes the universe conspires to give you what you really want, Liam. And it’s your job to let it.

Perhaps the so-called civilized world was a great noisy burden beneath all its wonders, and it was a relief to let go of it for a while.

Life is naught but battles big and small, and most of them unexpected.

Aye, well, it’s like a battle. Ya lay yer plans, then when they go wrong, ya make things up as ya go.

High to low, roof to floor, wall to wall, and door to door; Basement deep to sky above, fill this home with light and love.

Funny how being a grown-up didn’t make you any less glad to have a mom on the scene. Whether it was your own or someone else’s mother, it was like having the cavalry arrive.

To hold the Gift is to protect the balance in all things and to restore harmony. To hold the Gift is to comfort the mind and spirit, and to heal both heart and body. To hold the Gift is to be a bridge between worlds and to be a bearer of light.

Education and assimilation were devastatingly effective at controlling a conquered people.

There is nothing like the moment you connect with a reader! Nothing like the response that you get when what you have written touches someone in some way. It's a moment in which your work is almost a co-creation, you and the reader joining forces to make your words live.

Rhys was hot enough to bake cookies on.

As she peeked through the curtains with the phone in her hand, waiting for the police dispatcher to pick up, she realized there was one thing she did know about the naked stranger in her yard. He had, without a doubt, the finest butt on the planet.

Romans and fairies and death dogs, oh my.

Rhys—if that was even his real name—either believed what he was saying or he was a prime candidate for an Oscar. Because try as Morgan might, she couldn’t see any evidence that he was lying. He had to be crazy then, but everything about the whole situation was insane. After all, she was standing in her front yard in her pajamas, holding a naked man at the point of a garden hoe. She’d taken assertive action when she’d seen him lying in the grass, assuming he was drunk or something. Well, she’d gotten the upper hand all right. Now what was she supposed to do with the guy?

The Tylwyth Teg were immortal beings, but the burden of living for endless millennia was often tedium. It was one reason that the Fair Ones tended to play terrible pranks upon mortals. Like bored children, they sprang upon the unwary, seeking diversion. So it had been when a weary Celtic warrior turned reluctant gladiator had fought his way to freedom at last. Wounded and near death, pursued by his former captors, he’d blundered straight into the territory of the Tylwyth Teg in the steep hills northwest of Isca Silurum….

I’m almost used to you showing up without shoes, but where the hell are your pants?

Although only three legs would obey him, the white wolf began to run. Run, to outpace the agony that could rip and tear a human heart. Run, to outdistance the human grief that could not be borne. Run, to be as the moon, a swift white shape gleaming in the night. Run, to be a wolf and only a wolf.As he raced away into the welcoming arms of the night, James was only fleetingly aware that he had just buried his human self alongside Evelyn.And then he was aware of nothing.

By the time she yanked on her old jeans and a battered plaid flannel shirt, she felt almost normal. Calm, as she plugged in the coffee pot. But the nightmare was still very much on her mind, because it wasn’t a dream…It was a memory.

Come with me if you want to live.” Neva stared at the enormous hand the stranger extended her. Her gaze followed the black leather-clad arm up to the massive shoulders, the strong jaw, and the thick lock of wavy blonde hair hanging over his dark glasses. “You have so got to be kidding me,” she said.He shrugged. “I always wanted to say that line. Except I’m not kidding.

Shit. Shit. Shit. He’d known he couldn’t save her. He’d known he was too far away. Knowing didn’t prevent the bare-knuckled punch to his heart, though.

Maybe she’d remember him as a pain in the ass. Or maybe, he hoped most of all, that she’d remember what she told him: “You can be a real jerk sometimes, but you’re decent.” As epitaphs went, it wasn’t bad.

I really hate you."It was loud and clear in his brain. "Your first words. How sweet." "Get out of my head. You’re not invited.""This is how Changelings communicate as wolves. Get used to it." He picked his way through the bushes to get closer to her – although he was prepared to dodge if she decided to bite him again. "Are you okay?""My head hurts. No thanks to you.""Yeah, well my ass hurts. No thanks to you.

I’m no werewolf, and I’m tired of hearing the word. I’m a Changeling, okay? And either you trust me or we call it quits right here.” It was Travis’s turn to fold his arms, as if he was daring her to convince him.

Travis ignored her protests as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket, thankful anew for that little Changeling quirk that allowed him to retain his clothes and everything that was within his aura each time he shifted. Christ, if life was like the movies, he’d end up naked and penniless every damn time he ran as a wolf. No wonder Hollywood werewolves were insane with rage. Probably pissed off at the sheer inconvenience of their lives.

Magic is magic. It isn’t good or bad in and of itself. It’s the intent that matters. Ideally, you treat magic as a gift and you use it to influence natural forces to help and to heal. It’s a positive act.

It's a difficult truth to face that some people choose to define themselves by the pain they feel or the wrongs they've suffered. They're not going through hard times so much as making all times hard.

He sniffed her. The rubbery black nose inhaled deeply as it passed back and forth over her face, along her throat, her ears. Jeez, it was like being vacuumed-only most Hoovers didn't have the potential to bite her face off.

Computers are heaven-sent when they work and hell-spawn when they don't.There's just not much middle ground when it comes to technology.