Dinner For Vampires Quotes

Can you enter a house uninvited?" "No." "Why?" "That would be rude.

Kidnapped by a vampire, death by a squid. How tragic.

Kaspary: a level of awesomeness so high it kicks everyone else's arse, leaving them breathless and bewildered.

I'm sorry about the dinner." "Best date ever. Well, until people died and vampires showed up. But before that it was awesome.

P.S. Murders kill for pleasure. Vampires kill to survive.

Once upon a time, I tried to have dinner with my best friend, and the apocalypse happened.

He sighed, his hands tangling themselves in my already-knotted hair. “Violet, don’t ever leave me. Whatever happens; however things get, just don’t go. Please.

One day you might just find something worth living an eternity for

Never thought I'd see this moment, my voice said, full of the same breathlessness I felt as I looked up at him. Neither did I,I replied. 'Girly?' 'I give up.' 'What?' I took a deep breath.'I give in to you.'

I knew what I had left behind. The question was: What was I going to find ahead?

You're trying to be cool now, Leif? Seriously?" "I am the shit, home slice, straight up," he replied. "No. I mean, don't get me wrong, this is a great effort, but you still need to use more contractions. And your tone is so formal, it's like you're complimenting the pudding at a duke's dinner party." "Fucking H!" the vampire shouted, shaking his free left fist. He enunciated the g very clearly and projected his voice from his diaphragm, like a trained opera singer. "It's fuckin' A, not H, but yeah Leif, go ahead, let's throw down.

Handsome and brilliantly rich; their fatal flaw is murder.

Even if that were so, how could I be happy as a vampire? There is no chance of me actually liking the idea of living forever. It's hopeless!' Kasper faced straight ahead, glancing in his side mirror.He spoke softly, something like caring in his voice.'You don't know that, Girly! One day you might just find something worth living an eternity for.

Chapter 8, Dinner With the Vampire: Is there something wrong with your food?" No, I'm just not very hungry." You're going to break my heart, aren't you?

My mind told me he most have had a weapon; my eyes saw none.

I found out that when the numbness lasts for long enough it bears a striking resemblance to peace.

The closest you will ever come to seeing vampires burnt by daylight is by inviting a group of Danes for a hygge dinner and then placing them under a 5,000K fluorescent light tube. At first, they will squint, trying to examine the torture device you have placed in the ceiling. Then, as dinner begins, observe how they will move uncomfortably around in their chairs, compulsively scratching and trying to suppress twitches.

How would you take care of it?” I asked. He shrugged. “I know some ghouls. I make a couple calls, the guys come over for dinner, problem solved.” “They can put away nine whole giants? There’s that many ghouls in town?” “Probably not,” Leif admitted. “But whatever they do not eat tonight, they’ll take the rest to go.” I stared at him in disbelief. “You mean like a doggie bag?” The vampire nodded with a thin trace of a smile. “They have a refrigerated truck, Atticus. These are practical guys.

And what if Aaron drank from the unwilling? If he killed men and women – what then?” “I don't know that he did.” Kalina turned to face him. They drove on. “It sounds like he stuck to Vampire Wine. Which is more than I can say for you.” “Listen,” said Jaegar. “You eat your steak. I’ll eat my humans. You don't need to get self-righteous with me. As far as I'm concerned – you're just food.” “I'm food that can talk. And in any case – you don't seem to make up your mind whether you want to sleep with me or have me for dinner.” “Both, really.

I think we’re all little cathedrals of contradiction. Terrifying darkness and shocking beauty coexist in everyone, and God doesn’t wait for us to clean out all the bad before celebrating the good. It’s scandalous, really—that kind of love.

Yes you can let a guy bite you but not on the first date! he has to pay for dinner ! But you can bite him on the first date at no cost that is quite normal

I'll keep it," she said. "Then, when you get back, after you and the dark one are done making out and planning a future filled with blond-haired, green-eyed, pigment-challeneged rug rats, I'll bring it over and you can add it to your scrapbook, right before you start cooking me dinner. I like vegetarian lasagna with cottage cheese instead of ricotta." "Gwen?" "And don't forget the mushrooms. Garlic bread, too, please. That is, as long as your vampire lover doesn't object." "I want to say thank you," Isobel said. "For... everything." "No," Gwen said. "Thank you for the delicious dinner. I can almost taste the baklava you and Darth Vader will be making for dessert. Something tells me you're gonna have to look that one up, though.

You look like a naughty waiter," I remarked with a smile. "You look like my delicious dinner." His dark gaze was in fact eating me up with relish.

I spent the rest of the day doing little more than that. I skipped dinner. I shed a few tears. But mostly, I just sat on my bed thinking and growing more and more depressed. I also discovered the only thing worse than imagining Dimitri and Tasha together was remembering when he and I had been together. He would never touch me again like that, never kiss me again…

Leon had pestered me during dinner one night, I lost control, and the black wings made their debut. The family was stunned into silence for a whole thirty seconds. And then everyone called me Goth Princess for a week and Arabella kept leaving vampire novels by my door.

Sex and dominance. It’s what modern humans think vampire relationships are all about,” I said. “Their stories are full of crazed alpha-male vampires throwing women over their shoulders before dragging them off for dinner and a date.” “Dinner and a date?” Matthew was aghast. “Do you mean . . . ?” “Uh-huh. You should see what Sarah’s friends in the Madison coven read. Vampire meets girl, vampire bites girl, girl is shocked to find out there really are vampires. The sex, blood, and overprotective behavior all come quickly thereafter. Some of it is pretty explicit.” I paused. “There’s no time for bundling, that’s for sure. I don’t remember much poetry or dancing either.” Matthew swore. “No wonder your aunt wanted to know if I was hungry.” “You really should read this stuff, if only to see what humans think. It’s a public-relations nightmare. Far worse than what witches have to overcome.

In the interests of originality – not to mention verisimilitude – we’re skipping dinner and moving right on to the date.’ ‘Readers would love a vampire who said that!’ I said.

Helena abruptly stopped, cursing herself for deciding to go on this stupid trip to the ruins. If only she’d stayed at the hotel with her friends, none of this would’ve happened. Now her life was basically over; she’d end up dinner or a prisoner of some deranged nudist vampire.

He couldn’t count how many times he had seen desire turn to fear in his latest victims’ eyes when they learned that they were the dinner and not the date. Not that he had any qualms about playing with his food, first. He liked a good fuck as much as anyone.

Oooh, dinner and a show! How come you never take us to dinner and a show?" He smiled at Roxy. "I would spend the entire evening fending off the hordes of your admirers." She fanned herself and grinned back at him. "You gotta love all that suave debonairness!

I was falling for a vampire who was fighting to keep me alive so he could have dinner.

(…) death had come to dinner in their small house near the ramparts and stayed to say grace when everyone was done.

He invited me to dinner Thursday night," Rusty said. "I'm going to have to go to his house." "I don't think he invited you to dinner," Delilah said. "I think he invited you because you are dinner.

We would never go shopping together or eat an entire cake while we complained about men. He'd never invite me over to his house for dinner or a barbecue. We'd never be lovers. But there was a very good chance that one of us would be the last person the other saw before we died. It wasn't friendship the way most people understood it, but it was friendship. There were several people I'd trust with my life, but there is no one else I'd trust with my death. Jean-Claude and even Richard would try to hold me alive out of love or something that passed for it. Even my family and other friends would fight to keep me alive. If I wanted death, Edward would give it to me. Because we both understand that it isn't death that we fear. It's living.

Gavin turned us to face Josh, a satisfied grin springing up when he noticed the condition of Josh’s clothes. “Thanks for the last-minute invitation, man.” Josh chuckled, patting Gavin on the shoulder. “Shall I do the honors, Mr. Suave?” “Sure thing, Frodo Baggins. By the way, I hear the Shire has impeccable dinner parties this time of year.” The corners of Gavin’s lips twitched and his eyebrows shot up as he gestured to a food stain of some sort near the collar of Josh’s white shirt. Josh’s chin shot down to follow Gavin’s amusement and he quickly tried to wipe away the crumbs. “Yeah, well … you know how we hobbits like to eat.

There is one indisputable way to identify a cult, one characteristic they all share. If is not a belief in alien spacecraft or a plentiful supply of Flavor Aid. It is the notion that anyone who does not agree with the group's beliefs or choices, who expresses concerns, who simply dare to ask questions, is deemed "unsafe". Every good thing about that person must be subsumed by the fact that they disagree with me, so I can boil down their character into something vilifiable. For mind control to work, there has to be heroes and villains. It has to be us versus them. In a cult, it isn't good enough for you to say, "I love you, but I disagree with you." You must affirm my choices and beliefs. Only then can you be considered "safe". In a cult, safety means agreement. The irony of course, is that while you are not allowed to have your own opinions about my beliefs, I am allowed to have an opinion about yours.

I have to clean up first. I’m still all sweaty and stuff from the crime scene.” I realized he was wearing a white shirt and I might have dried blood on me. It made me draw back and look at the front of him. “What is wrong, ma petite?” “I may have dried blood and things on me, and you’re wearing white.” He drew me back into his arms. “I would rather hold you close than worry about my clothes. The shirt will wash, or we can throw it away. I do not care.” I pushed back just enough to turn my face up, resting my chin on his chest so that I gazed up the line of his body, and he looked down so that our eyes met down the line of his chest. “I know you love me, but when you don’t care about your clothes, I know it’s true love for you.” I grinned as I said it. He laughed, abrupt, surprised, and for a moment I got to see what he must have looked like centuries ago before being a vampire had taught him to control his face and show nothing for fear it would be used against him by those more powerful than him. I smiled up at him, held as close to him as I could with clothes and weapons still on, and loved him. I loved that I could make him laugh like that, loved that he felt safe enough to show me this part of him, loved that even when we were ass-deep in alligators, being with each other made it better. The alligators would be chewing on our asses either way, but with each other it was more fun, and we were more likely to be able to make a matching set of alligator luggage out of our enemies rather than end up as their dinner. I gazed up at him as the laughter filled his face, and just loved him. The day had sucked, but Jean-Claude made it suck a lot less, and that was what love was supposed to do. It was supposed to make things better, not worse, which made me wonder if Asher truly loved anyone. I pushed the thought away, and enjoyed the man in my arms, and the fact that I had made him laugh.

Be ready at seven and I'll take you to dinner first." "First?" Just because I asked, didn't mean I plannedto go. I was a master at rationalization. "Before I take you home and fuck you until you forget your mother's name." "If I have any thought of my mama while you're fucking me, you're definitely doing something wrong.

Trafalgar Square is probably not the best place to stand at one o’clock in the morning. In fact, it is probably not the best place to be if you are alone at any time of the night.

I know that voodoo priests really do belief they can talk to the other side and vampires should never sparkle

Yeah, over my scattered panties, I asked him to dinner and told him to bring a friend.” - Laney

Jennifer where are you going, dear? Dinner will be ready in a minute. Your brothers found a few unattended five year olds.

hated myself. What a waste of space I was. A waste of talent. Of time.

I do not want ‘unity’ at the expense of truth.

If someone wants to label you against the loving truth of who you are, you are empowered to make the declaration ‘I don’t receive that.

In a cult, safety means agreement. The irony, of course, is that while you are not allowed to have your own opinion about my beliefs, I am allowed to have an opinion about yours.

What about me?" Monica whined. "Do you really want to know?" Shane gave her a glare that should have scorched her hair off. "Be grateful I'm not leaving you as an after-dinner mint on his pillow." Myrnin leaned close to Claire's ear and said, "I think I like your young man." When she reacted in pure confusion, he held up his hands, smiling. "Not in that way, my dear. He just seems quite trustworthy.

Oh! OH! Then, after dinner, when I backed Ken into our bedroom so that I could say thanks by riding his lifeless body for a few minutes, he actually stopped me and asked if I wanted to try anything new. NEW! (As in, new to him, obviously. For a sex act to be new to me it would require a stolen college mascot uniform, twelve yards of rappelling cable, a handful of gerbils, and thirty CCs of vampire blood.) And it was really good, Sara! The TV wasn’t even on or anything!

We ordered a pizza for dinner, and while we were eating, I suddenly realized that today is Rose’s birthday. Sweet sixteen. I still feel horrible for forgetting. “I don’t have a present for you,” I told her. She responded: “You’re alive. That’s all I need.

Metin Basoglu, a psychiatrist and trauma researcher, studied the psychological effects of torture on political POWs and war survivors from Yugoslavia and Turkey by comparing continuous versus intermittent torture. His findings showed that torture with breaks between abuses induced more severe psychological effects than continuous torture. Victims of intermittent torture had higher rates of depression, anxiety, and PTSD. The unpredictability and anticipation of more abuse heightened stress and anxiety, which then caused "learned helplessness," making victims feel powerless and passive over time. This increased compliance because resistance seemed futile." - p. 215

Aidan ducked his head, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “Damn, you feel good,” he whispered, his deep voice hoarse with need. It only excited her more. “What do you say we forget dinner and the movie?” she whispered, her breath shortening. “How you tempt me,” he rumbled, tightening his hold. “If I tempted you as much as you tempt me,” she pronounced boldly, “we would both be naked right now.

Tradition now dictated that anyone could try and pull the couple apart. Whoever succeeded in separating them at their ribbons would be able to sit beside the couple as they feasted in celebration. The field became a tumble of laughing mates and contestants as males tried to remove males and females tried to remove females. Jacob grabbed his newly healed bride and floated out of the reach of the would-be renders, a cry of protest rising from below them. Gideon and Legna were left unmolested, Gideon’s imposing reputation having a quelling effect on the nerves of any who might have approached. He was kissing his bride when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw Damien arching a challenging brow at him. Legna laughed, delighted as Gideon gave the Prince a dirty look. Her humor lasted about two seconds. That was when Damien’s partner in crime tapped Legna’s shoulder. Siena gave the bride a feline grin. “Oh, you bitch,” Legna choked out, laughing in her shock at the excellent maneuver on the Queen’s part. “Uh-uh,” the Queen scolded, her collar winking in the firelight. “That’s not very diplomatic of you, Ambassador.” “You realize this means war,” Legna said archly. “As if I would settle for anything less,” Siena returned. Legna and Gideon sighed, looking at each other and rolling their eyes. Husband grabbed hold of wife by their joined arms and then they braced their feet. Legna felt slim, strong arms around her waist and shoulders, and Gideon was seized in a similar hold by the determined Damien. “Darling?” Legna said. “Yes, love.” “Yes?” “Definitely yes.” The Vampire and Lycanthrope pulled, and immediately found themselves holding nothing but air. They both fell over hard into the dirt, dazedly watching a pair of ribbons floating down to the ground. “Oh look, they won,” Legna remarked from her and Gideon’s new position a few feet away. “How about that,” Gideon mused. “See you both at dinner. Congratulations on your victory.” The couple popped off to who knows where, leaving indignant but dubiously victorious royalty behind.

After a day filled with talking, laughing, reminiscing and making future plans, Evie had returned to Eversby Priory in high spirits. She was full of news to share with her husband... including the fact that the protagonist of Daisy's current novel in progress had been partly inspired by him. "I had the idea when the subject of your husband came up at a dinner party a few months ago, Evie," Daisy had explained, dabbing at a tiny stain left by a strawberry that had fallen onto her bodice. "Someone remarked that Kingston was still the handsomest man in England, and how unfair it was that he never ages. And Lillian said he must be a vampire, and everyone laughed. It started me thinking about that old novel The Vampyre, published about fifty years ago. I decided to write something similar, only a romantic version." Lillian had shaken her head at the notion. "I told Daisy no one would want to read about a vampire lover. Blood... teeth..." She grimaced and shivered. "He enslaves women with his charismatic power," Daisy protested. "He's also a rich, handsome duke- just like Evie's husband." Annabelle spoke then, her blue eyes twinkling. "In light of all that, one could forgive a bad habit or two." Lillian gave her a skeptical glance. "Annabelle, could you really overlook a husband who went around sucking the life out of people?" After pondering the question, Annabelle asked Daisy, "How rich is he?" She ducked with a smothered laugh as Lillian pelted her with a biscuit. Laughing at her friends' antics, Evie had asked Daisy, "What's the title?" "The Duke's Deadly Embrace." "I suggested The Duke Was a Pain in the Neck," Lillian had said, "but Daisy thought it lacked romance.

If I’d been alone, I wouldn’t have eaten at all. I’d have taken a shower, thrown on an oversize T-shirt, and gone to bed surrounded by a few select penguins. Now I had a fancy dinner to eat, by candlelight nonetheless. If I said I wasn’t hungry, would he be insulted? Would he pout? Would he yell about all the work going to waste and tell me about starving kids in Southeast Asia? “Shit,” I said softly and with feeling. Well, hell, if we ever were going to cohabitate, he’d have to know the truth. I was unsociable, and food was something you ate so you wouldn’t die. I

I wish it had occurred to me in that moment to ask him one question: Who has spiritual authority over you? Such a simple and vital question to ask any leader - spiritual or otherwise. I didn't ask, though. Instead, I thought sincerely about who had invested the most in my life recently. Pam was becoming the warm, sweet mom I never had. Les was becoming the emotionally available father figure I always wanted. This whole group felt like the loud, fun, real family I had dreamed of. If anyone was going to help me figure out the right way to live, it would be them. - pp. 93

There is one indisputable way to identify a cult, one characteristic they all share. It is not a belief in alien spacecraft or a plentiful supply of Flavor Aid. It is the notion that anyone who does not agree with the group's beliefs or choices, who expresses concerns, who simply dares to ask questions, is deemed "unsafe." Every good thing about that person must be subsumed by the fact that they disagree with me, so I can boil down their character into something vilifiable. For mind control to work, there has to be heroes and villains. It has to be us versus them. In a cult, it isn't good enough for you to say, "I love you, but I disagree with you." You must affirm my choices and beliefs. Only then can you be considered "safe." In a cult, safety means agreement." - p. 296

Even so, most of the stories people told about Amos [Tversky] had less to do with what came out of his mouth than with the unusual way he moved through the world. He kept the hours of a vampire. He went to bed when the sun came up and woke up at happy hour. He ate pickles for breakfast and eggs for dinner. He minimized quotidian tasks he thought a waste of time—he could be found in the middle of the day, having just woken up, driving himself to work while shaving and brushing his teeth in the rearview mirror. “He never knew what time of the day it was,” said his daughter, Dona. “It didn’t matter. He’s living in his own sphere and you just happened to encounter him there.” He didn’t pretend to be interested in whatever others expected him to be interested in—God help anyone who tried to drag him to a museum or a board meeting. “For those who like that sort of thing, that is the sort of thing they like,” Amos liked to say, plucking a line from the Muriel Spark novel The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. “He just skipped family vacations,” says his daughter. “He’d come if he liked the place. Otherwise he didn’t.” The children didn’t take it personally: They loved their father and knew that he loved them. “He loved people,” said his son Oren. “He just didn’t like social norms. A lot of things that most human beings would never think to do, to Amos simply made sense. For instance, when he wanted to go for a run he . . . went for a run. No stretching, no jogging outfit or, for that matter, jogging: He’d simply strip off his slacks and sprint out his front door in his underpants and run as fast as he could until he couldn’t run anymore. “Amos thought people paid an enormous price to avoid mild embarrassment,” said his friend Avishai Margalit, “and he himself decided very early on it was not worth it.” What all those who came to know Amos eventually realized was that the man had a preternatural gift for doing only precisely what he wanted to do. Varda Liberman recalled visiting him one day and seeing a table with a week’s worth of mail on it. There were tidy little stacks, one for each day, each filled with requests and entreaties and demands upon Amos’s time: job offers, offers of honorary degrees, requests for interviews and lectures, requests for help with some abstruse problem, bills. When the new mail came in Amos opened anything that interested him and left the rest in its daily pile. Each day the new mail arrived and shoved the old mail down the table. When a pile reached the end of the table Amos pushed it, unopened, off the edge into a waiting garbage can. “The nice thing about things that are urgent,” he liked to say, “is that if you wait long enough they aren’t urgent anymore.” “I would say to Amos I have to do this or I have to do that,” recalled his old friend Yeshu Kolodny. “And he would say, ‘No. You don’t.’ And I thought: lucky man!

We would never go shopping together or eat an entire cake while we complained about men. He’d never invite me over to his house for dinner or a barbecue. We’d never be lovers. But there was a very good chance that one of us would be the last person the other saw before we died. It wasn’t friendship the way most people understood it, but it was friendship. There were several people I’d trust with my life, but there is no one else I’d trust with my death.

I’ve got to go.” He hung up suddenly as if afraid of being caught. His mom had probably come into the room. The Zeemans had four sons and a daughter. The sons were all six feet or above. The daughter was five nine. They were all over twenty-one. And they were all scared of their mother. Not literally scared, but Charlotte Zeeman wore the pants in the family. One family dinner and I knew that. I

The four men exchanged glances and shifted into a tighter group, making sure that the open back of the van and the cooler of blood were hidden; then Lucern echoed, “What we’re doing?” “Oh, like it isn’t obvious,” she snorted. “Sneaking out here, crowding around the van.” She shook her head and gave them a condescending look. “I may have been raised in Nebraska, but I’ve lived in New York long enough to be savvy about you artist types.” Now the looks the men exchanged were bewildered. Artist types? Lucern was a writer, Etienne a program developer, Bastien a businessman and Greg was a therapist. Artist types? And what did she think artist types did anyway? The only way to find out was to ask. Lucern did. “What is it exactly that you think we are doing out here?” She gave a resigned sigh. “You’re smoking pot-joints.” She said it as one word. The men all gaped at her; then Etienne released a disbelieving laugh. “What?” Kate tsked with exasperation. “Pot. Marijuana. You guys snuck out here for a debbie.” “Er…I believe it’s called a doobie,” Greg interjected. “Whatever. That’s what you were doing, right?” “Er…” Lucern began. Then he, Bastien, Etienne and Greg shared a grin. “Yes. You caught us. We were smoking a debbie,” Etienne agreed. “Doobie,” Greg corrected. “Yes.” Bastien nodded. “We’d offer you some, but we…er…” “Smoked it all up,” Etienne finished. The two men sounded disgustingly apologetic to Lucern’s mind. Good Lord. “Oh, that’s okay. I don’t smoke anything.” She smiled crookedly, then added, “Besides, dinner is about to be served. I think that’s why Rachel was looking for you.” “Well then, we should go in.” Stepping forward, Lucern took Kate’s arm firmly and turned her toward the building. They’d barely taken two steps when he heard the van doors closing and the other men fell into step behind them. Smoking debbies. Good Lord.

My husband's father had encouraged his three sons from a young age to take out their aggression against women on the drywall and furniture, and he set the example himself. "Right in front of the women, if needed," Les would coach, "so she can see how passionate you are about her and see how controlled you are to not harm her in spite of the fact that she makes you so angry." And boy, did I make my husband angry. Everything I did, said, thought - my very existence, it seemed.

...something ingrained in me from years of being in these charismatic environments was that Christians were supposed to have the ultimate answers, so we shouldn't take advice from nonbelievers.

Intelligent and ambitious people want to be challenged, and someone having high expectations of you is a turn-on. High demand is a motivator, success is a drug, and before you know it, you're rationalizing anything in order to meet the demand and get your high. The demand has become your god. There <\i>is one indisputable way to identify a cult, one characteristic they all share. It is not a belief in alien spacecraft or a plentiful supply of Flavor Aid. It is the notion that anyone who does not agree with the group's beliefs or choices, who expresses concerns, who simply dares to ask questions, is deemed "unsafe." Every good thing about that person must be subsumed by the fact that they disagree with me, so I can boil down their character into something vilifiable. For mind control to work, there has to be heroes and villains. It has to be us versus them. In a cult, it isn't good enough for you to say "I love you, but I disagree with you." You must affirm my choices and beliefs. Only then can you be considered "safe." In a cult, safety means agreement. The irony, of course, is that while you are not allowed to have your own opinion about my beliefs, I am allowed to have an opinion about yours.

The only way people change their perception of abuse survivors is if they are challenged—if they hear about what it’s really like from someone who experienced it, rather than have the usual cult stereotypes and clichés reinforced by whatever trashy true-crime podcasts they listen to and documentaries they love to watch.

...cults can come in multiple guises and anybody can fall for one...

I sat with her on the kitchen floor. Octonauts Band-Aid, Popsicle from the freezer, and she was laughing again. As I watched those bright eyes, the rage in me quelled. I thought of the last lines I’d delivered as Haley. It’s a magical place. I’ve seen that magic in your eyes. There’s only one Tree Hill, and it’s your home. I wanted Rosie to be able to feel that kind of magic and peace. I had her. I had her. Nothing else mattered.

Coldplay’s “Fix You” came on the radio like a ridiculous movie cliché, and I stared out the window trying to be strong and not succeeding.

I hated myself. What a waste of space I was. A waste of talent. Of time.

Metin Başoğlu, a psychiatrist and trauma researcher, studied the psychological effects of torture on political POWs and war survivors from Yugoslavia and Turkey by comparing continuous versus intermittent torture. His findings showed that torture with breaks between abuses induced more severe psychological effects than continuous torture. Victims of intermittent torture had higher rates of depression, anxiety, and PTSD. The unpredictability and anticipation of more abuse heightened stress and anxiety, which then caused “learned helplessness,” making victims feel powerless and passive over time. This increased compliance because resistance seemed futile.

Let’s call him Pirelli, after the snake-oil salesman in Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd.

I had a joke for them. What do you call a human who mocks a vampire? Dinner.

Get in here and make me some dinner—now, woman." "News flash, Michael, you're supposed to be evil, not redneck!

The quickest way to exacerbate a dinner with my parents was being late for dinner with my parents. Well, other than bringing zombies to dinner. Because who kept brains in the fridge?

Now, what would you like for dinner? Steak? Chicken? I, for one…I am thinking…Chinese.” Stunned, Jenera stopped and looked between Nylora and Aleta, “Uh…I don’t think you mean sweet and sour pork, right?” The older handmaiden laughed heartily, “You catch on quick, my lady.” She winked, “Nothing says delicious like a short Chinese man in a darkened alley to whet my appetite.

It’s from Damien. Dinner in my apartment?

William never let me down. Tonight’s dinner was as much theater as food. Each course was presented in such an unusual way that I wanted to hang the plates on the walls, as they seemed too pretty to eat. From tiny, perfect pastry parcels of an indescribably delicious duck filling, served on tiny bare tree branches, to a salad of local greens to lamb chops with a fig glaze and swirls of green mousse and tiny, perfect vegetables, I was kept in rapture.

<\i> No expectations. That seemed impossible. There were always expectations. To prepare, to perform, to deliver, to speak up, to be quiet, to relax, to behave, to be intelligent. There were expectations to pay attention, be on time, be professional, be original but don't be weird, be creative but don't make anyone uncomfortable. Be collaborative but trust your instincts. Be tough. Be sweet. Smile.

As soon as we started complaining, no matter how justifiably, we caught ourselves, chastised ourselves for being so negative and spoiled and ungrateful, and turned it into a blessing - an opportunity for learning and growth.

He’d been excited to learn that Morrigan actually lived in a hotel. “Do you order room service every day? I would order room service every single day. Lobster for breakfast and cake for dinner. Do they leave chocolates on your pillow? My dad says all the fancy hotels leave chocolates on your pillow. Does it really have its own smoking parlor? And a dwarf vampire?” “Vampire dwarf,” she corrected.

Charity swore under her breath, her spoon stopping mid-stir in the simmering sauce on the stovetop. “More demons? How many nights in a row is that?” She dragged the pan off the burner, then turned off the cooktop and oven. Dinner would have to wait. Again.

We call them survivors, but once the vampires get you, the person you were dies, like any traumatized part of you never leaves that room, that car, that moment, and you walk forward a ghost of your former self. You rebuild yourself over the years, but the person you were isn’t the person you become. The great bad thing happens, and you become a ghost in your own life, and then you become flesh and blood and remake your life, but the ghosts of what happened don’t go away completely. They wait for you in low moments, and then they wail at you, shaking their chains in your face and trying to strangle you with them.” ―Laurell K. Hamilton, Affliction

Trafaglar Square is probably not the best place to stand at 1 o'clock in the morning. My name is Violet Lee, and I was standing in the shadow of Nelson's Column, Trafaglar Square, London, shivering as the supposed warm air of July blew through square. I shuddered, pulling my coat tightly around myself, seriously regretting my choice of wordrobe - a short, simply black dress.

With vampiric dexterity I slipped into shadowy gardens and listened at the open doorways of the dimly lighted villas as those inside talked softly over dinner or listened to the delicate music of a young boy accompanying himself with a lyre.

All eyes focus on me. Sam looks like a hopeful puppy. Noah looks like a pissed-off house cat. It’s ridiculous. And I’m definitely not hosting the team for dinner at my beautiful home. My sanctuary. Not after what happened last time.

I was generally more comfortable alone than with others precisely because of the expectations I often felt accompanied company.

I was angry with him for suddenly showing no interest in me besides my body, and he was angry that everything he'd been promised about wives being a personal blow-up doll was false.

I was terrified of being misunderstood by the people I loved the most.

There is one indisputable way to identify a cult, one characteristic they all share...it is the notion that anyone who does not agree with the group's beliefs or choices, who expresses concerns, who simply dares to ask questions, is deemed "unsafe.

In that moment, with my eyes closed, I thought of Les and of what a huge responsibility it must be for him to constantly bear the weight of people. People asking for help, for wisdom, for prayer. The thought made me grateful that I was being shepherded by someone who was so strong and unselfish, because even though it felt good to be a conduit for peace in Camille, I felt something else, too, something that in the wrong hands could be used to manipulate and abuse: I felt power.