Laura Oliva Quotes

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.

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?

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.

Are you here about the infestation?"
MacMillian stiffened. "I don't ... We aren't-"
Lena cleared her throat. "I'm afraid bugs aren't really our specialty."
"Not bugs." The woman shook her head vigorously. "Ghosts. Whole place is crawling with 'em.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The way he smiled with just one corner of his mouth said he'd show her a good time if she let him.

MacMillian pinched the bridge of his nose. Conspiracy theories, secret societies ... what the hell had he gotten himself into? What was next? Vampires? Werewolves?

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.

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

You don't limp at all. Your recovery is going well."
"Yes." Though whether someone ever fully recovered from losing a limb, he didn't know. He sure as hell hadn't. It had been five years, and still there were days when the pain in his nonexistent leg was enough to drive him out of his mind.

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.

MacMillian steepled his fingers on the head of his cane. Anticipation rose in his chest. Lena and Cyrus Alan might have an advantage over him when it came to hunting ghosts, but this was where he excelled. This part of the game was all about patterns. He saw patterns. Always had.

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.

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.

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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.

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

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.

It was not accustomed to being summoned.

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 gulped as the entire doorway suddenly filled with a man she didn't recognize. She'd been expecting Jesper MacMillian.
This was definitely not Jesper MacMillian.
This man had a rich black complexion. His head was bald- whether by nature or design, she couldn't be sure. Tiny studs flashed in his ears. He wore a beautiful black suit, painstakingly tailored to fit his massive shoulders. Dark tattoos curled just above his pressed white collar, and down below the edges of his cuffs.
His face was neither kind nor unkind. He studied her with vague disinterest, his eyes quiet and guarded beneath solid brows.

I should hex the IRS.

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.

It had been a week since he'd ambushed her. She'd hoped the lack of contact would get him out of her mind. Instead, she felt like a junkie whose drug of choice was being withheld.

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

I never do this.' Her voice was low, rough. 'God, I never do this.

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

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.