65
" Every gift comes with a price.” I frowned, and he grinned. “A kiss.”
“Absolutely not!” But my blood raced, and I had to clench my hands in the grass to keep from touching him. “Don’t you think it puts me at a disadvantage to not be able to see all this?”
“I’m one of the High Fae—we don’t give anything without gaining something from it.”
To my own surprise, I said, “Fine.”
He blinked, probably expecting me to have fought a little harder. I hid my smile and sat up so that I faced him, our knees touching as we knelt in the grass.
“What about your part of the bargain?”
“What?”
He leaned closer, his smile turning wicked. “What about my kiss?”
I grabbed his fingers. “Here,” I said, and slammed my mouth against the back of his hand. “There’s your kiss. "
― Sarah J. Maas , A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #1)
69
" I opened the curtain and entered the confessional, a dark wooden booth built into the side wall of the church. As I knelt on the small worn bench, I could hear a boy's halting confession through the wall, his prescribed penance inaudible as the panel slid open on my side and the priest directed his attention to me." Yes, my child," he inquired softly. " Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my First Confession." " Yes, my child, and what sins have you committed?" ...." I talked in church twenty times, I disobeyed my mother five times, I wished harm to others several times, I told a fib three times, I talked back to my teacher twice." I held my breath. " And to whom did you wish harm?" My scheme had failed. He had picked out the one group of sins that most troubled me. Speaking as softly as I could, I made my admission. " I wished harm to Allie Reynolds." " The Yankee pitcher?" he asked, surprise and concern in his voice. " And how did you wish to harm him?" " I wanted him to break his arm." " And how often did you make this wish?" " Every night," I admitted, " before going to bed, in my prayers." " And were there others?" " Oh, yes," I admitted. " I wished that Robin Roberts of the Phillies would fall down the steps of his stoop, and that Richie Ashburn would break his hand." " Is there anything else?" " Yes, I wished that Enos Slaughter of the Cards would break his ankle, that Phil Rizzuto of the Yanks would fracture a rib, and that Alvin Dark of the Giants would hurt his knee." But, I hastened to add, " I wished that all these injuries would go away once the baseball season ended." ..." Are there any other sins, my child?" " No, Father." " For your penance, say two Hail Mary's, three Our Fathers, and," he added with a chuckle, " say a special prayer for the Dodgers. ... "
73
" The sun glanced off a long, wicked looking knife in the Comanche's grip. At least Cash wouldn't have long to mourn. The other Indians held similar weapons, but they hung back as their leader knelt next to Sullivan. He muttered something, low and guttural, a single syllable that sounded like an insult, then picked up a lock of Sullivan's hair. The knife descended toward his scalp. " No!" Reese shouted. " Me." The Comanche paused and stared at him with a spark of interest, almost admiration. But that couldn't be since the Indian had no idea what Reese was saying. He continued to try anyway. " Me first." He struggled, wishing he could use his hands to point at himself. " Shut the hell up, Reese," Sullivan said. " What possible difference does it make who they kill first?" " Who knows what might happen. While they're working on me, anyone could show up and save the rest of you." " In that case, me first," Cash drawled. " Me." " No. Yo primero!" " Kid, I'm the only one without a wife and far too many children. No one would miss me." " I would." The words were punctuated by the distinct sound of a rifle being cocked. All eyes turned toward the man who had appeared at the edge of the clearing. Cash's sigh of relief was in direct contrast to the sneer in his voice. " About damn time, Rev. We've been waitin' on you. "
76
" [Olive’s] left foot was bleeding through a wide swath of bandages onto the tarp it was resting on. The bowl next to her was full of blood.
Olive looked a little pale. “I don’t think I should move,” she said.
“What are you doing?” Roger shut the door behind him and stood with his back to it.
“I decided I might try to eat my toes,” Olive said, closing her eyes. “But now that I’ve started, I don’t think I should move.”
Roger pushed himself off the wall and knelt down next to her. He unbuckled her silver belt and reached with it under her dress. He looped the belt around the top of her leg and tightened it. His hands were not shaking.
“Sit on the loose end,” he said, pushing it under her. “I hope that works.”
“You brought flowers,” she said, blinking.
“Olive,” he said. “You cut off your toes.”
She looked down at the bowl. “Are they still toes?” she asked. "
― Amelia Gray , Museum of the Weird
79
" Day had fucked up big time. This was all his fault, all because he couldn’t keep his nosy ass out of other peoples private business. Day rushed to God’s side.
“I’ll help you ba—” Day didn’t know how, but God had found enough strength after that beating to push him so hard that he flew into the dresser, knocking it and all of the items that were on top of it to the floor, including the television. Day rolled a few feet, the dresser just missing falling on top of him.
“Cash, what the fuck!” Day cursed.
He rolled to his side and winced at the sharp pain in his ribs from coming into contact with the dresser.
“I was trying to help you get into bed.”
“Get the fuck out, Leo.” God’s face was an unyielding mask. For the first time in four long years, Day couldn’t read what the hell was going through God’s mind.
Day stood slowly. “God, I only called him because I needed to go—”
“It doesn’t matter why you did it! You had no right! You have no clue what you just did!” God yelled. “Now get out!”
“Cashel, please. Just hear me out,” Day pleaded. His eyes begged for God to see the sincerity in them. He really didn’t mean for any of this to happen. “Baby, I swear. I didn’t know any of this was happening between you and your family. You should’ve told me. Why was he calling you a murderer?”
No matter what, Day couldn’t turn off his detective side.
Day watched God squeeze his eyes shut. He went down on one knee and clutched his chest when the hard coughing started again. God’s eyes were full of water and pain. Day timidly eased over to God’s side but God cut his eyes at him, daring him to come any closer.
Day had to fight the moisture in his own eyes. “I just want to help you into bed.”
“Day, if you don’t get the fuck out of my house, I’m going to show you why he called me a murderer,” God said through clenched teeth.
Day couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped his lips, or the pain that radiated through his chest, as if his rib cage had been torn open and his heart ripped out and thrown underneath the bed. Day kept his eyes on God as he knelt to pick up the dresser, then the television. God watched him as well. Day didn’t say anything as the rogue tear fell down his face without his permission. Day went around to the opposite side of the bed and pulled a pen and piece of scrap paper from the drawer, still watching God carefully. He really didn’t like the look on his best friend’s face. He’d seen the look before, but he’d never had it leveled on him. Day scribbled a couple of phone numbers on the paper. "
― A.E. Via
