84
" Miss Rasputin, what a delight to finally meet you,” said the vamp, speaking with only the faintest hint of an accent.
“Let’s hope you still feel that way in a few minutes, Mr. Delacroix.”
“Pierre, please. And may I call you Evangaline?” Pierre smiled at her winsomely.
“No, you may not. My name is Ms. Rasputin to you.”
Her answer took the vamp aback, but he recovered quickly and smiled again showing off his small pointed canines. Pierre’s dark eyes flicked over to Ryker in his feline form and he raised an aristocratic brow. “My, what a big pussy you have.”
“You know what they say, the bigger the better. "
― Eve Langlais , Wickedest Witch (Hell's Son, #0.5)
89
" Venus was rising, holding her own in the sky that was beginning to brighten. As I left the docks and warehouses behind, I came to a marshy shoreline, thick with water reeds. Though the sky above was clear, the water's surface swirled with little mists. I began to sing a song to Isis, made up on the spot, which caught the rhythm of the oars. A breeze sprang up and the reeds sang with me.
Then as the first rays of sun dimmed the stars, birds everywhere lifted their voices and rose in line after line into the sky. On the outskirts of the city, I came to what looked like it might have been an abandoned villa or farmstead. I decided to sit down and watch the lake changing colors with the light. That's when I heard it. Not the soft lapping of the water against the shore, but the sound of flowing water. I looked and in the glowing light, I saw a small stream, eally just a trickle washing down a pebbly incline towards the lake. Something prompted me to follow the stream inland.
I made my way though brambly thickets of brambling roses. The way seemed to open for me, the thorns all but retracting so as not to catch my cloak or scratch my arms and legs. At the source, I knelt down and parted the thicket, and there it was. The spring at the base of the hill so steep, it was almost a cliff. The water bubbled up from the darkness of earth, giving back the brightness of sky. Like all springs, a way between worlds.
I was no stranger to sacred springs and magic wells. I was raised to revere them. I had first glimpsed my beloved on the well of wisdom on Tir n mBan. But this spring. I closed my eyes to listen to its sound, and I knew I had heard it before.
The wind picked up, washing over me, scented with fish and roses. When it quieted again, I opened my eyes and gazed at the clear surface of the pool, and for an instant, I saw a tower, and the dawn sky, and the two people standing there. Then the image vanished, but I had seen all I needed to see.
Alright, I said to myself, my goddess, to Miriam's know it all angels, Magala is is.
And by the way, I added, my name is Maeve. "
― , The Passion of Mary Magdalen (Maeve Chronicles, #2)
91
" I want to move my hands, but they’re fused to his rib cage. I feel his lung span, his heartbeat, his very life force wrapped in these flimsy bars of bone. So fragile yet so solid. Like a brick wall with wet mortar. A juxtaposition of hard and soft.
He inhales again. “Jayme,” he says my name with a mix of sigh and inquiry.
I open my eyes and peer into his flushed face. Roses have bloomed on his ruddy cheeks and he looks as though he’s raced the wind.
“Mm?” I reply. My mind is full of babble, I’m so high.
“Jayme,” he’s insistent, almost pleading. “What are you?”
Instantaneous is the cold alarm that douses the flames still dancing in my heart. I feel the nervousness that whispers through me like a cool breeze in the leaves.
“What do you mean?” I ask, the disquiet wringing the strength from my voice.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he explains, inhaling deeply.
I feel the line of a frown between my brows. Gingerly, I lift the hem of his shirt. And as sure as I am that the world is round and that the sky is, indeed, blue the bruises and welts on his torso have faded to nothingness, the golden tan of his skin is sun-kissed perfection. Panic has me frozen as I stare.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper.
He looks down at his exposed abdomen. “I think you healed me.”
He says it so simply, but my mind takes his words and scatters them like ashes. I feel like I’m waking from a coma and I have amnesia and everyone speaks Chinese.
I can’t speak. If I had the strength to, I wouldn’t have the words. I feel the panic flood into me and fear spiked adrenaline courses through me, I shove him. Hard.
Eyes wide with shock, he stumbles back a few steps. A few steps is all I need. Fight or flight instinct taking root, I fight to flee. The space between us gives me enough room to slide out from between him and the car.
He shouts my name. It’s too late.
I’m running a fast as my lithe legs will carry me. My Converse pound the sidewalk and I hear the roar of his engine. It’s still too late. I grew up here and I’m ten blocks from home. No newbie could track me in my own neighborhood. In my town. Not with my determination to put as much distance as I can between me and the boy who scares the shit out of me. Not when I’ve scared the shit out of myself.
I run.
I run and I don’t stop. "
― Elden Dare , Born Wicked (The Wicked Sorcer Series #1)
97
" When I arrived at the house in the suburbs that night I seriously contemplated suicide for the first time in my life. But as I thought about it, the idea became exceedingly tiresome, and I finally decided it would be a ludicrous business. I had an inherent dislike of admitting defeat. Moreover, I told myself, there's no need for me to take such decisive action myself, not when I'm surrounded by such a bountiful harvest of death—death in an air raid, death at one's post of duty, death in the military service, death on the battlefield, death from being run over, death from disease—surely my name has already been entered in the list for one of these: a criminal who has been sentenced to death does not commit suicide. No—no matter how I considered, the season was not auspicious for suicide. Instead I was waiting for something to do me the favor of killing me. And this, in the final analysis, is the same as to say that I was waiting for something to do me the favor of keeping me alive. "
― Yukio Mishima , Confessions of a Mask
98
" When was the last time you were kissed?" he went on easily. " And I'm not talking about the dry, noncommittal, meaningless kiss you forget about as soon as it's over." I scrambled out of my stupor long enough to quip, " Like last night's kiss?" He cocked an eyebrow. " That so? I wonder, then, why you moaned my name after you drifted to sleep." " I did not!" " If only I'd had a video recorder. When was the last time you were really kissed?" he repeated." You seriously think I'm going to tell you?" " Your ex?" he guessed. " And if he was?" " Was it your ex who taught you to be ashamed and uncomfortable with intimacy? He took from you what he wanted, but never seemed to be around when you wanted something back, isn't that right? What do you want, Britt?" he asked me point-blank. " Do you really want to pretend like last night never happened?" " Whatever happened between me and Calvin isn't your business,” I fired back." For your information, he was a really great boyfriend. I-I wish I was with him right now!" I exclaimed untruthfully. My careless comment made him flinch, but he recovered quickly." Does he love you?" " What?" I said, flustered. " If you know him so well, it shouldn't be a hard question. Is he in love with you? Was he ever in love with you?" I tossed my head back haughtily. " I know what you're doing. You're trying to cut him down because you're-you're jealous of him!" " You're damn right I'm jealous,” he growled. " When I kiss a girl, I like to know she's thinking about me, not the fool who gave her up. "
