Queen of the Dead

Nice. I like a little desperation in a guy. It builds character.

This girl who equally drove me crazy and made me care about her more than I should. She was the only one who understood. The only one who could help make what I was more bearable, even if she occasionally tortured me in the process.

What part of Vivis servimus non mortuis do you not understand?” she asked. “All of it?

I resisted the urge to point out that since Alona was already technically dead, it wouldn’t really be homicide. I do have some sense of self-preservation.

I whispered, taking advantage of her momentary distraction to try to adjust the front of my pants. If I had to run now, I’d be in big trouble.

And no, I think i'm better than you because I am better than you.

Not five minutes after Alona had vanished through the far wall of my bedroom, my mom had poked her head in my room to say good night, and let’s face it, probably check up on me. Her face was glowing with happiness. She must have had a good time Sam at the movies. Where I was absolutely sure they did nothing but actually watch the movie, and refused to believe any evidence to the contrary. It was too...weird.

There's always that one thing, right? A particular action that is your own personal line in the sand. The nuclear threat you keep in your back pocket, never even mentioning it because it will escalate any conflict beyond the chance of reconciliation. And yet, here I was, declaring war, turning that line in the sand into a mere dot in the distance behind me.