“You were dropped as a child, weren't you?" Varen asked her.
"Maybe once or twice," Gwen said, "but at least I wasn't raised by highly literate vampires who, every night just before bed, fed me a steady diet of dark sarcasm and gothic horror fiction."
"Every morning before bed," Varen corrected. Stepping forward, he moved toward the headstone. "We slept during the day.”
“He hated himself," Gwen said. "You just got caught in the cross fire.”
“Isobel had entrusted the note to Gwen just before Baltimore. And the small scrap of paper still remained her only tangible evidence that Varen had loved her.
Expect...he didn't anymore.”
“Er is geen twijfel mogelijk dat mijn bewustzijn van de snelle groei van mijn bijgeloof (want waarom zou ik het niet zo noemen?) de groei alleen maar scheen te versnellen. Dat is, zoals ik al lange tijd weet, de paradoxale wet van alle gewaarwordingen die angst als basis hebben.”
“لقد صنعنا الآلة لكي تنفذ إرادتنا، لكننا لا نملك أن ندفعها لتنفيذها الآن.. والآن تجبرنا على عبادتها.. إن الآلة تتطور و لكن ليس وفق مخططاتنا..تواصل مسيرها لكن ليس نحو هدفنا.. نحن موجودون فقط ككريات دم تسري في شرايينها، وإذا كانت قادرة على العمل بدوننا، فسوف تتركنا نموت.”
“I'm going to take it slow this time. We're going to burn every stroke, every touch, and every kiss into our skin so when we're back together, it will only then just be cooling. While we're apart, we'll still be keeping each other warm.”
“Looking at her was disorientating. The ‘Percy’ part of me saw my usual awesome girlfriend. The ‘Nekhbet’ part of me saw a young woman surrounded by a powerful ultraviolet aura – the mark of a Greek demigod. The sight filled me with disdain and fear. (For the record: I have my own healthy fear of Annabeth. She has kicked my butt on more than one occasion. But disdain? Not so much. That was all Nekhbet.)”
“È molto pulito qui" osservò Martine sfilandosi gli anfibi nell'ingresso.
"Non ho tante cose" disse Harry dalla cucina.
"Quali sono le sue preferite?"
Harry rifletté. "I dischi."
"Non gli album di fotografie?"
"Non credo nelle fotografie."
Martine entrò in cucina e si sedette su una delle sedie.
Harry osservò che aveva ripiegato le gambe sotto di sé come un gatto.
"Non ci crede?" disse. "In che senso?"
"Fanno perdere la capacità di dimenticare. Latte?"
Martine scosse il capo. "Però crede nei dischi."
"Sì. Mentono in un modo più vero."
"Ma non fanno perdere la capacità di dimenticare."
Harry si fermò mentre versava il caffè. Martine si mise di nuovo a ridere.
"Io invece non credo alla storia del commissario arrabbiato e deluso. Credo che in fondo lei sia un romantico, Hole."
"Andiamo in soggiorno" propose Harry. "Qualche giorno fa ho comprato un disco abbastanza bello. Non è ancora collegato a nessun ricordo.”
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