Best 28 quotes of Laura Oliva on MyQuotes

A chaotic mix of emotions churned inside him. Relief. Anger. Longing. She was the last person in the world he wanted to see. She was the only person in the world he wanted to see.

Ain't good to talk too much about infernal affairs if you can avoid it. Tends to make certain things stand up and pay attention.

Bez blew out a breath and leaned heavily against the bar. "Honestly, D, you're better off busting your subversive cherry with something else. A nice werewolf killing. A vampire blood drive.

Darius blinked. "You're an accountant?" She looked more like a supermodel librarian. Not that he could tell her that.

Do you have protection?" "Sure do." Durbin flipped up his jacket to reveal the M9 in his shoulder holster. "You people can keep your superstitious mumbo-jumbo. I have all the protection I need.

Durbin looked from one of them to another, and shook his head. "So what is all this, exactly? Who are you people, the Ghostbusters?" "Hell, no." Lena clasped Georgia's shoulder while the other woman helped her into a sitting position. "Bill Murray's got nothing on me.

Durbin's sunglasses were gone, and his gray eyes sparkled up at her. He winked. "Take care of yourself, Dr. Venkman." Lena bit back a grin. "You too, Dana Barrett.

Even her beauty had sharp edges. Her long ebony hair was cut like a razor blade. Her face was strong and fine.But her eyes. A milky green, they betrayed an air of vulnerability she seemed desperate to hide.

Father Gregory laid a hand on his shoulder. "Sometimes life knocks us to our knees." His hand tightened briefly. "But that's a damn good position to pray from.

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.

Go do your thing, magic girl.

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.

How long since he'd been back home? Ten years? Fifteen? He'd stopped keeping track around the time he'd finally stopped looking over his shoulder. At the time, leaving had seemed too good to be true. He'd spent months feeling like he was half a step ahead of some nameless specter; like if he let his guard down, even for a second, whatever it was would drag him right back where he'd come from.

I swear. Tell someone you're a vampire or a werewolf and they think it's sexy. Tell someone you're a witch and they go from zero to Torquemada in three seconds flat.

I think when magic is dark enough, it can look like anything it wants.

It was not accustomed to being summoned.

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.

MacMillian groaned again, and sat up. "Clients?" "Yeah. You know, people who'll give us money in exchange for work.

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.

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.

Some lines you just don't cross. Not in my business." "Your business?" Georgia rolled her eyes. "You mean the private detective business? I wasn't aware you guys had such ironclad rules about making out with clients." She ignored the choking sound he made. "Seriously, have you even seen The Maltese Falcon?" Darius' face heated. "This isn't some movie, Ms. Clare. You're not Mary Astor, and I'm sure as hell no Humphrey Bogart. Here in the real world, there are rules.

Something about the floating club reminded him of Wonderland. Not Disney's Wonderland, either, but Wonderland according to Lewis Carroll: dark, sumptuous. Treacherous. It was the sort of place where anything could happen...and probably did. He had a feeling if a deranged, bloodthirsty monarch suddenly swept in and started demanding people's heads, no one would bat an eye.

Something that sounded like ripping metal shredded the deadly quiet. The inaudible bass smoothed into a low, steady hum. Outside, a low, mechanical growl rumbled closer and closer. Darius caught his breath. He knew that sound, and it wasn't magic. It was a motorcycle.

That, my dear detective, was the other San Francisco. You've probably seen it before, just out of the corner of your eye. You've probably dismissed it all your life. Maybe you always told yourself you'd just had too much to drink." She paused, her gaze heavy on his face. MacMillian squirmed. "But I'm guessing you always knew better." His head was throbbing. He shook it once, twice, but it didn't clear. "I don't get it, Miss..." "Alan," she supplied. He nodded. "Ms. Alan. Why are you here?" Her eyes darkened. "Because there are things that go bump in the night, Mr. MacMillian. It's my job to bump back.

The Toyota plowed headlong into the boy. But there was no impact. No screams, no blood, no bending metal. The boy simply dematerialized in a swirl of white light.

Thing about witches; we're a paranoid lot. Call it a side effect of living in a world obsessed with seeing you burn.

What was she doing here? Private detectives were for insecure housewives, parents of troubled teens, bent old ladies who'd forgotten where they parked. She was none of the above. She was a sane, stable, capable adult. Yet here she was. Desperate times, and all that.

Wrong. This was wrong. A list of words raced through his head. Apostate, heretic, pagan. Witch.