40 Quotes by Laura Oliva

It wasn't every day a witch came to see him.Darius deCompostela gave up on the paperwork he'd been trying to fill out and leaned back in his chair. Semantics. Technically, Georgia Clare hadn't come to see him. She'd come to see MacMillian. Most people did, often with barely a sideways glance in his direction. Usually, that chafed.Not this time. For one thing, her reluctance to speak with him didn't seem to have anything to do with, well, him.For another thing, he didn't do witches.

Have I ever told you you're like some kind of occult superhero? Georgia Clare: bookkeeper by day, badass biker witch by night. Seriously, you should put that on your business cards.

Georgia's skin buzzed as she approached the heavy wooden doors. She swallowed hard. She didn't put much stock in church. Church was a place people went, a story people told. Most of the time, those stories didn't impress her much.Faith, however, was another matter. Faith of any creed was sacred. Faith of every kind had power.St. Jude was chock-full of faith.

Of course you had to pick the dive-y-est dive bar this side of Market. I think that door handle just gave me a venereal disease.

MacMillian narrowed his eyes at the man in the fedora. Neither he nor his friend looked a day older than nineteen, at most. "You're a... minister?"The man's lips twitched. "Of sorts.

Let me get this straight." He struggled to form the words. "You're telling me all the conspiracy nuts are right? The Freemasons, the Illuminati, Area 51- all that shit's real?

When had she moved so close? Her brain screamed at her to back away. She would regret this. She already regretted this.

Jesus, but he'd caught a tasty one.

His raspy voice cut through the blackness, darker than the blackness. 'Mine.