Ben kitapçıları çok seviyorum. Hani Amerikalılar, kendilerini tamamen güvende, tehditten uzak hissettikleri yerlere “safe place”, yani “güvenli alan” derler ya, benim safe place’im de kesinlikle kitapçılar. Yalnız olmak korkutucu ve depresif geldiğinde, ama toplum içine karışmak için kıyafetler kadar mecburi olan o sahte kibar gülümsemeyi yüzünüze giydirmeye mecaliniz de olmadığında, kitaplarla takılmak çok iyi bir seçenek. Çünkü kitaplar kilonuzla, mesleğinizle ya da ruh hâlinizle ilgilenmezler. Kaliteli şakalar yapmadığınızda, ilginç sohbet konuları açmadığınızda, hatta hiç konuşmadığınızda bile varlığınızdan sıkılmazlar. Bilakis, siz iyi zaman geçirin diye önceden hazırladıkları lafları vardır ama insanların aksine, bir an önce anlatmak için ısrar etmezler. Siz kendi canınız ne zaman isterse o zaman dinlersiniz onları. Canınız istemediğinde ise susup sizinle sessizlik içinde otururlar. İnsanlar hep hayatın kısa olduğunu ve bu yüzden her anın değerli olduğunu söyler, bu fikir de onları müthiş bir acele içine sokar. Oysa kitapların hiç acelesi yoktur çünkü yazarları bir gün ölse bile kitaplar sonsuza kadar yaşarlar.
Bu kitap içimi ferahlatıyor tam bir safe placeAlıntı
“İster hayatımız, ister ekin tarlalarımız olsun, sahip olduğumuz şeyleri yitirmekten korkarız. Ama hayat hikâyemiz ile dünya tarihinin aynı El tarafından yazılmış olduğunu anladığımız zaman, bunu anlar anlamaz, bu korku uçup gider."
Her çiçeğin bir mevsimi, her kitabın bir zamanı vardır. Haziranın tadını yeni hikâyelerle çıkarın.
They won but he is injured
“Diametric powers! Twisted. Wrong.” Thrust. “And they gave you an
Avalon. Steel. Torc. An abomination.”
Each of his words is punctuated by a vicious swing that pushes me
further back against the wall.
I parry a thrust, but he twists, sharp and sudden. My sword tears from
my grip and clatters to the stone.
I’m at the edge of the turret now, and terror deafens my thoughts.
Talan is moving toward me, carving his way through another knight,
and I can feel his terror and panic for me.
Slowly, Wrythe raises his sword until the blade kisses my throat. My
focus snaps back to him, my heart stuttering. I lean away, nearly toppling
over the edge of the parapet. Fear courses through my nerve endings.
Then Talan’s sword bursts through Wrythe’s chest from behind, ripping
through his heart, and Talan stands above him like a god of vengeance.
Wrythe gasps, his mouth slack. Blood spills down his chin as his wide,
pale eyes lock onto mine and fade.
Talan drags his sword from Wrythe’s back, and the Seneschal crumples
to the ground like a discarded rag doll. Lips curled, Talan stares down at
him.
I throw myself at Talan, and he pulls me close, crushing me against his
chest. He’s holding me like I’m a magical talisman, something sacred to
keep the nightmares away.
“You’re okay,” he breathes into my hair. “You’re okay.” It sounds like
he’s trying to convince himself.
But then he sucks in a sharp breath. His body tenses, and his hand goes
to his stomach. He winces, and I realize he’s bleeding.
The world tilts beneath me. “How deep is it?” My words are sharp,
panicked. When I look closer, I see how bad it looks, a slash right thorough
his abdomen.
“Iron,” he grunts. “Iron poisoning.”
BUSTED
With Nivene’s arm looped through mine, we walk into the snowy forest.
I’m wearing a cloak over my shoulders, and the sun has started to break
through the winter clouds. Still, the cold bites my skin.
Griflet stands by an oak tree and waves to us as we approach. We reach
him, and he leads us beneath a canopy of gnarled branches. Sunlight pierces
the twisted boughs, and icicles hang from the hawthorn trees like jewels.
As I walk, the ferns curling from the snow brush against my gown.
Talan stands by a wooden altar carved from an enormous oak trunk with
intricate swirls and twisting vines. It must have been here for ages because
it is clearly worn by time.
He looks perfect, as always. He’s wearing a perfectly fitted black suit
and a silver collar of order draped over his broad chest. In the center of the
collar is his ouroboros sigil. The midnight blue fabric of his garments looks
soft and seems to absorb the light.
His dark eyes find mine, and as they do, the air feels warmer, heavier.
Sometimes, when I look at him, it’s hard to remember that I’ve seen him
slit a man’s throat during dinner.
Branches arch overhead, forming a living cathedral that shielded the
ground from the snowfall. A carpet of moss leads to the altar. Glowing blue
butterflies perch on the boughs around us, and crimson berries dapple the
grove, vivid against the snowy branches.
As I step closer to Talan, he reaches for my hands. I slide mine into his.
I can’t quite read the expression in his eyes beneath those dark
eyelashes, just the faintest curve of his lips. Almost playful. I wonder how
much of this is simple rebellion, marrying a penniless peasant to piss off the
father he hates.
Griflet stands before the altar with a large book in his hands. He flips
through it, clearing his throat. “We are
He protects the children
“This…this is a fortress belonging to the royal family. Or a rogue
branch of them. The Blue Dragon Project. I saw it labelled on a map. Is it a
weapon? Is the Blue Dragon a weapon of some kind?”
“Is it a what?” she asks incredulously. She blinks a few times, then lets
out a snort of laughter. “Yeah, yeah, it’s a weapon. It’s horrific. The children
scream when they use it. So, who the fuck are you?”
Slowly, I start to put together why she looks familiar. The dark hair, the
bright silver of her eyes that blends to blue. The straight, black eyebrows.
“Do you know someone named Ysolde?” I ask.
She goes still, gripping my collar with her free hand. The blade eases
just a little from my throat. “Where did you get that name?”
It’s her.
I suck in a deep breath. “I know your brother. Raphael.”
Her eyes widen, jaw dropping open. “Where is he?”
Of course, I’d love to help with their family reunion, but I have a job to
do right now. “I’ll tell you what I know, once you tell me what you know.
What’s the Blue Dragon Project?”
She narrows her eyes. She’s breathing heavily, debating whether she
should kill me now or let me live. But she’s not going to sever the one
thread that would lead her back to her brother. “Okay, then. Let me show
you. We’ll take a walk down the stairs. I’m removing my knife from your
throat, but make a sudden move, and I’ll slit your throat so fast, you won’t
even have time to scream.”
I give her a nod.
Slowly, she eases the blade off my neck, keeping a vise-like grip on my
arm as I walk down the stairs. I can feel the blade prodding at my back.
I steady myself on the stone wall as I descend. When I push through the
door into the courtyard, the cold night air hits me, and I glance up at the
moons.
Ysolde’s fingers dig harder into me. She snarls, “Don’t even
Raphael
I flip through his thoughts, searching deeper. The prisoner. Does he
know anything about a beautiful, silver-eyed demi-Fey?
The prisoner has been here for some time. Captured in the war with the
humans, but they didn’t put him with the rest of the rabble. He’s too
valuable, for some reason. Doesn’t seem particularly valuable to Cadoc.
Just another half-breed mongrel…
My heart skips a beat. Raphael.
I invade Cadoc’s every thought, sifting through ideas, memories,
everything he knows. I’m ravaging the inside of his skull, grasping the
threads, then pulling the strings to bend him to my will.
Now, Cadoc wonders if the prisoner is literally valuable.
Maybe he’s rich. In fact, he’s probably rich, or they’d leave him with the
rest, right? If Cadoc will just do this tiny thing, just unlock the door, the
prisoner might reward him handsomely. Yes. That’s what he should do.
Odelia will fall back in love with him, and his father will get his job back in
the stables. Cadoc absolutely shouldn’t question this drunk lady more
because she’s a distraction from what’s really important. She’s just a tiny
woman, a drunken musician, not worthy of his notice.
When I withdraw from his mind, he stares at me, dazed. Then, without a
word, he pulls a skeleton key from his belt and opens a door into yet
another torchlit stairwell.
I follow him down a flight of stairs, the air growing staler, like wet earth
and mushrooms.
My heart is pounding as he leads me to another wooden door. He slides
a second key into a rusty lock, turns it twice, and pushes the door open.
I can hardly breathe.
“You,” he says into the darkness. “Get up.”
I step inside, trying to see in the dark.
In the corner of a grimy stone cell sits a shirtless man. For a second, I
almost don’t recognize him. Dirt smears his body, and