"there is a patience of the wild -dogged, tireless, persistent as life itself- that holds motionless for endless hours the spider in its web, the snake in its coils, the panther in its ambuscade. this patience belongs peculiarly to life when it hunts its living food; and it belonged to buck as he clung to the flank of the herd, retarding its march, irritating the young bulls, worrying the cows with their half-grown calves, and driving the wounded bull mad with helpless rage.
for half a day this continued. buck multiplied himself, attacking from all sides, enveloping the herd in a whirlwind of menace, cutting out his victim as fast as it could rejoin its mates, wearing out the patience of creatures preyed upon, which is a lesser patience than that of creatures preying. as the day wore along and the sun dropped to its bed in the northwest (the darkness had come back and the fall nights were six hours long), the young bulls retraced their steps more and more reluctantly to the aid of their beset leader. the down-coming winter was harrying them on to the lower levels, and it seemed they could never shake off this tireless creature that held them back. besides, it was not the life of the herd, or of the young bulls, that was threatened. the life of only one member was demanded, which was a remoter interest than their lives, and in the end they were content to pay the toll.
as twilight fell the old bull stood with lowered head, watching his mates -the cows he had known, the calves he had fathered, the bulls he had mastered- as they shambled on at a rapid pace through the fading light. he could not follow, for before his nose leaped the merciless fanged terror that would not let him go. three hundredweight more than half a ton he weighed; he had lived a long, strong life,
To Queen Morgana
Last year, on my birthday, I was sitting at a café in the South of France
by myself, eating blackberry cake I hadn’t ordered and fielding
frantic phone calls from my mother.
A year ago today, I was running for my life from the Fey trying to
murder me. I got kidnapped by my ex-boyfriend, Raphael, and taken across
the English Channel to Avalon Tower. I spent the journey terrified,
bewildered, and totally unprepared for what came next. With no idea I’d
survive training at Avalon Tower, let alone that I’d become the Lady of the
Lake.
A year ago today, I discovered I had hidden magic, that I was half Fey.
And this year?
This year, I’m not alone. This year, I have friends who would bleed for
me, and I’d do the same for them. A family carved out of chaos. A mom
I’ve left behind in Camelot to finally learn how to look after herself.
Today, my birthday takes place on a mossy island of rambling ruins and
ancient Fey magic.
As I polish the crystal glasses, my gaze roams over the castle’s carvings
—the triple spirals above each arched doorway that hum with magic
whenever I pass beneath them. Already, musicians are setting up in the
banquet hall, a drummer, a lyre player with shimmering silver hair, and a
lutist.
Aisling bustles in over the sun-dappled floor of cowslips, violets, and
rue. She sets out a crystal tray of buttered chanterelles with apple slices.
“So, Brados said to me, like he was serious, ‘We control the kingdom now.’
A republic. Can you imagine such a thing? He ran a bloody tavern, pulling
pints of goat piss for mead, now he’s overseeing a bloody kingdom with
some backward farmers? Not that I’m judging the country types, but in my
experience, they don’t know their arses from their elbows. Of course, most
of the Fey who stayed in Brocéliande seem to be happy. My
Hangi tür kitapları seviyorsun?
🔎 Polisiye
💕 Romantik
🚀 Bilim Kurgu
🏰 Fantastik
📖 Klasik
🧠 Kişisel Gelişim
🏛️ Tarih
😱 Gerilim
The Bassilix Hunt
Somewhere in the depths of the forest, the basilisk is already hunting us.
Or rather, hunting me.
On his own, Talan would have no problem escaping this creature, but I
keep getting winded, my lungs wheezing. I can fight and throw daggers and
control people’s minds. What I cannot do is run like a Fey. I stopped
sprinting after about ten minutes.
I’m behind Talan. I walk quickly through the dark woods, twigs
snapping under my feet, and try to keep up with the Dream Stalker.
Armed with a bow, Talan prowls with a tiger’s grace. He’s all silence
and shadows, a quiet breeze between the trunks. When he catches my eye,
he doesn’t give the slightest hint of concern about the primordial monster
hunting us.
The fuck have I gotten myself into?
The snow crunches beneath my boots, and the chill seeps through to my
toes. Every breath of frozen air sears my lungs, and my heartbeat pounds in
my ears.
Barren and gnarled tree branches arch toward each other, a twisted, icy
cathedral above our heads. Apart from the sounds of our footfalls, quiet
blankets the forest. The silence is more menacing than noise, and fear
crawls under my skin.
Am I a spy or a prisoner who’s completely lost control of my mission?
As an undercover agent, I should be a manipulator, a puppeteer, influencing
those around me to work for my agenda. Instead, I’m fleeing from a fucking
basilisk so I can marry a man I’ve kissed once, a man I’m also trying to kill.
Worst game of Kiss, Marry, Kill ever.
The cold air pierces my lungs and stings my cheeks.
Part of me wonders if Talan already knows the truth about me. Maybe
this is all a slow torture plan—a punishment to take me apart one piece at a
time until I’m left defenseless before him and confess everything.
My lungs burn, the airways tightening. Of course, I don’t have
To save him...
“Fine. Now, will you tell me how to save Raphael?”
He stretches out a long arm and plucks an apple from a tree. “Of course.
To save him, we must learn exactly where they’re keeping him.”
“So, you don’t know where he is?”
“In my dreams, I see mere glimpses. He is in Auberon’s fortress, but it’s
a vast place, with countless dungeons, cells, and torture chambers. I need to
think.” He takes a bite of the apple, closes his eyes, and leans his head back
against the column.
I grit my teeth in frustration as I turn back to look at the banquet table.
He’s actually still got ancient wine in the decanters. Dust and snow cover
the plates and the faded gold tablecloth. There are food trays with silver
domes on them. I hate to think of what’s underneath them.
I have no idea what Mordred is doing right now. Eyes closed, he seems
deep in thought. He begins to hum, an eerie, haunting tune that raises the
hair on my nape and pulls my attention from the banquet table. The song is
uncanny, strangely familiar, and his body glows with silver. And for some
reason, I feel as if the tune is beckoning me closer.
After a while, movement catches my eye from above, and I glance up to
see a cloud of silver moths fluttering down from the ruined ceiling. As
Mordred hums, they twirl and dance in the air, their wings ignited by the
slate-silver moonlight. Mordred holds out his hand, and a moth lands on his
palm.
He opens his eyes and clamps his hand into a fist, crushing it. The rest
of the moths scatter, flitting away from him. He opens his hand again, and
my breath hitches. On his palm is a jeweled silver moth, its wings decorated
with tiny, sparkling stones.
“Take it,” he says.
I take it from his palm, a lifeless moth made of metal.
“This moth will be my ears and my eyes. Carry it into Auberon’s
Jim not that way Jim. That's no way to treat a garage door, bending stiffly down at the waist and yanking at the handle so the door jerks up and out jerky and hard and you crack your shins and my ruined knees, son. Let's see you bend at the healthy knees. Let's see you hook a soft hand lightly over the handle feeling its subtle grain and pull just as exactly gently as will make it come to you. Experiment, Jim. See just how much force you need to start the door easy, let it roll up out open on its hidden greasy rollers and pulleys in the ceiling's set of spiderwebbed beams. Think of all garage doors as the well-oiled open-out door of a broiler with hot meat in, heat roiling out, hot. Needless and dangerous ever to yank, pull, shove, thrust. Your mother is a shover and a thruster, son. She treats bodies outside herself without respect or due care. She's never learned that treating things in the gentlest most relaxed way is also treating them and your own body in the most efficient way. It's Marlon Brando's fault, Jim. Your mother back in California before you were born, before she became a devoted mother and long-suffering wife and breadwinner, son, your mother had a bit part in a Marlon Brando movie. Her big moment. Had to stand there in saddle shoes and bobby sox and ponytail and put her hands over her ears as really loud motorbikes roared by. A major thespian moment, believe you me. She was in love from afar with this fellow Marlon Brando, son. Who? Who. Jim, Marlon Brando was the archetypal new-type actor who ruined it looks like two whole generations' relations with their own bodies and the everyday objects and bodies around them. No? Well it was because of Brando you were opening that garage door like that, Jimbo. The disrespect gets learned and passed on. Passed
Love concuers all
“This is as close as we get,” Jacks said.
He stroked her throat, and she knew that in a second, he was going to let
her go. He was going to release her, pluck a leaf, and set his heart on fire.
Evangeline felt terrified to move, petrified of speaking for fear of saying
the wrong thing. Her hands were shaking and her chest felt hollow, as if
there was a hole and the hope was draining out of her as well, disappearing
into the same place that had stolen all of his hope.
But she knew where that place led and she refused to go there.
“I love you, Jacks.”
He closed his eyes as she said the word love.
She hoped a little harder. She wanted to ask him to look at her, but all
that mattered was that he didn’t let her go.
“I used to wonder if fate was real,” she said gently. “I used to fear it
meant that I had no real choices. Then I secretly hoped fate was real and
that you and I were fated, that by some miraculous chance I was your true
love. But now I don’t care if fate is real—because I don’t need it to decide
for me. I don’t need it to make this choice. I’ve made my decision, Jacks.
It’s you. It will always be you, until the end of time. And I’ll fight fate or
anyone else who tries to tear us apart—including you. You are my choice.
You are my love. You are mine. And you are not going to be the end of me,
Jacks.”
“I think I already am.” He opened his eyes and they dripped red tears.
“Let me go, Evangeline.”
“Tell me you won’t set fire to your heart, and I will let you go.”
“Don’t ask me to do that.”
“Then don’t ask me to let you go!”
His eyes bled more tears, but his hand held tight to the jar. “I’m broken. I
like to break things. Sometimes I want to break you.”
“Then break me, Jacks.”
His fingers tensed against her neck. “For once I want to do the right
thing. I can’t do
