“I’ll see you in Hell first.” Deirdre threw back her head and laughed. Her floor-length white hair twitched around her ankles. “This is Hell, Broc.”
“It hadn’t been Druid magic. It had been the power of a Warrior. There was only one Warrior who she knew could alter a person’s perception of their surroundings with such ease. “Phelan,” she murmured. His power was so great, she and her wyrran had thought they were being attacked by at least a dozen Warriors. Their claws had felt real as they scoured her skin, their roars loud to her ears.”
“I knew I chose you for a reason.” She playfully punched his shoulder. “You chose me? If I remember correctly, Fallon MacLeod—and I always remember correctly—I was the one who picked you. You wanted nothing to do with me.”
“Phelan chuckled at Deirdre’s outrage as her precious wyrran were being beaten by Warriors she didn’t control. There were times Phelan thoroughly enjoyed his power. Like now. If only the rest of his life could give him such enjoyment he might be able to put aside the resentment that filled his soul. Until then, however, he was going to relish hurting Deirdre.”
“think it’s the artifact. It says the tablet is on the Isle of Eigg, hidden and guarded in a stone circle.”
“It was true. Logan had created a different side of himself, one that always wore a smile and made jests to hide the truth. It had worked effectively. Everyone thought he was something he wasn’t. And if he had any say in it, no one would know the truth.”
“I do not admire greatness that has no substance.”
“Even in the midst of all this commotion she knows none of it really belongs to her, and marvels at the strange fact of her dearest wish: to be part of it, to give in to it's distractions, to find herself the owner of a life lived rather than a life endured. And then she looks into the face of Mother #3, worn smooth and almost featureless, with moist eyes that can't seem to settle on anything for more than a heartbeat at a time, and she knows this is a very dangerous wish.”
“A man is more than the sum of all the things he can do.”
“She felt the snake between her breasts, felt him there, and loved him there, coiled, the deep tumescent S held rigid, ready to strike. She loved the way the snake looked sewn onto her V-neck letter sweater, his hard diamondback pattern shining in the sun. It was unseasonably hot, almost sixty degrees, for early November in Mystic, Georgia, and she could smell the light musk of her own sweat. She liked the sweat, liked the way it felt, slick as oil, in all the joints of her body, her bones, in the firm sliding muscles, tensed and locked now, ready to spring--to strike--when the band behind her fired up the school song: "Fight On Deadly Rattlers of Old Mystic High.”
“It is something radically different from them all. They are out for battle and extol violence; liberalism, on the contrary, desires peace and the ascendancy of ideas. It is for this reason that all parties, however badly disunited they may otherwise be, form a united front against liberalism.
The enemies of liberalism have branded it as the party of the special interests of the capitalists. This is characteristic of their mentality. They simply cannot understand a political ideology as anything but the advocacy of certain special privileges opposed to the general welfare.
One cannot look on liberalism as a party of special interests, privileges, and prerogatives, because private ownership of the means of production is not a privilege redounding to the exclusive advantage of the capitalists, but an institution in the interest of the whole of society and consequently an institution that benefits everyone.”
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