“I mean, most people want to escape. Get out of their heads. Out of their lives. Stories are the easiest way to do that.”
“The beautiful thing about books was that anyone could open them.”
“It was a cruel trick of the universe, thought August, that he only felt human after doing something monstrous.”
“Monsters, monsters, big and small,
"They're gonna come and eat you all.
Corsai, Corsai, tooth and claw,
Shadow and bone will eat you raw.
Malchai, Malchai, sharp and sly,
Smile and bite and drink you dry.
Sunai, Sunai, eyes like coal,
Sing you a song and steal your soul.
Monsters, monsters, big and small,
They're gonna come and eat you all!”
“You wanted to feel alive, right? It doesn't matter if you're monster or human. Living hurts.”
“He wasn't made of flesh and bone, or starlight.
He was made of darkness.”
“She cracked a smile. "So what's your poison?"
He sighed dramatically, and let the truth tumble off his tongue. "Life."
"Ah," she said ruefully. "That'll kill you.”
“We are the darkest acts made light.”
“Nobody gets to stay the same.”
“He could be the monster if it kept others human.”
“Why did everyone have to ruin the quiet by asking questions? The truth was a disastrous thing.”
“People are users. It’s a universal truth. Use them, or they’ll use you.”
“I read somewhere," said Kate, "that people are made of stardust."
He dragged his eyes from the sky. "Really?"
"Maybe that's what you're made of. Just like us."
And despite everything, August smiled.”
“But the teacher had been right about one thing: violence breeds.
Someone pulls a trigger, sets off a bomb, drives a bus full of tourists off a bridge, and what's left in the wake isn't just she'll casings, wreckage, bodies. There's something else. Something bad. An aftermath. A recoil. A reaction to all that anger and pain and death.”
“Not with a bang, but with a whimper.
In with gunfire and out with smoke.”
“It hurts,” he whispered.
“What does?” asked Kate.
“Being. Not being. Giving in. Holding out. No matter what I do, it hurts.” Kate tipped her head back against the tub. “That’s life, August,” she said. “You wanted to feel alive, right? It doesn’t matter if you’re monster or human. Living hurts.”
“Sing you a song and steal your soul.”
“Even if surviving wasn't simple, or easy, or fair.
Even if he could never be human.
He wanted the chance to matter.
He wanted to live.”
“I'd rather be able to see the truth than live a lie.”
“It was a cycle of whimpers and bangs, gruesome beginnings and bloody ends.”
“Whatever he was made of — stardust or ash or life or death — would be gone.
Not with a bang, but with a whimper.
In with gunfire and out with smoke.
And August wasn’t ready to die.
Even if surviving wasn’t simple, or easy, or fair.
Even if he could never be human.
He wanted the chance to matter.
He wanted to live.”
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights,” she said, shimmying along the edge.
“Not heights,” he murmured. “Just falling.”
“Why are there so many shadows in the world, Kate? Shouldn’t there be just as much light?”
“There are no monsters in the dark.”
“Listen to me,” he said, pulling off his coat. “You need to stay awake.”
She almost laughed, a shallow chuckle cut short by pain.
He tore the lining from the Colton jacket. “What’s so funny?”
“You’re a really shitty monster, August Flynn.”
“He shrugged, and for a second they stood there, sizing each other up, the moment stretching, the gaze growing uncomfortable until his gray eyes finally broke free, escaping to the ground. Kate smiled, victorious. She gestured to the patch of pavement, the border of grass. “What brings you to my office?”
He looked around, confused, as if he’d actually intruded. Then he looked up and said, “The view.”
Kate flashed a crooked grin. “Oh really?”
His face went red. “I didn’t mean you,” he said quickly. “I was talking about the trees.”
“Wow,” she said dryly. “Thanks. How am I supposed to compete with pine and oak?”
“I don’t know,” said Freddie, cocking his head. Stray dog again. “They’re pretty great.”
“I am Sunai,” he said. “I am holy fire. And if I have to burn the world to cleanse it, so help me, I will.”
“The witching hour, people used to call it, that dark time when restless spirits reached for freedom.”
“There would be a time to call the music. Time to summon the souls.”
“You know why horror-movie characters always get killed? Because they've never seen horror movies. They don't know how it works. Right? But we do. So no one go into the basement alone. No one go screaming off into the woods alone. No one has any sex.”
“I’d never considered myself to be that ambitious or driven before, yet I stood there waiting for us to roll out through the start line knowing that taking part wasn’t enough. I wanted to be a racer, not just a finisher.”
“Blobfish, the guy who snapped a hamsters neck, myself, the homeless guy who has never thrown a punch (but has killed a fox) and Dickface, the man obsessed with trees and touching himself in public, follow an arrogant midget into the home of a pale creature I am certain will kill us all, to save the life of an ungrateful bastard parrot called Madness.
The temperature drops further.
A cold night for heroes.”
“And the rest of the story?" he asked, trying to force a smile. "Is that like everything else in POT, on a need-to-know basis?"
She nodded.
The waiter came to their table, but must have sensed his timing was off and went away again.
She opened her mouth to say something. Harry could see that she was on the verge of tears. She bit her lower lip. Then she put the napkin down on the tablecloth, shoved her chair back, stood up without a word and left. Harry remained, sitting and staring at the napkin. She must have been squeezing it in her hand for some time, he mused, because it was crumpled up into a ball. He watched it slowly unfold like a white paper flower.”
“It's not good, is it?"
Galen's reply was convincingly nonchalant. "I've seen worse."
"Yes-on a dead man."
Galen averted his eyes for a moment before giving a reply. "Don't talk like that."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize, either."
Steldor gave a wry laugh. "Would you mind telling me what I am allowed to do?"
Galen couldn't suppress a smirk, thought it was laced with sadness, as he recognized the beginning of one of their classic bickering contests.
"Sure-you can shut your trap."
Steldor was smirking, too, then he grimaced, arching his back as unexpected pain shot through him, and new drops of sweat materialized on his forehead.
"Steldor-" Galen started, humor lost, reaching toward him with undetermined intent. Steldor smacked his hand away with as much vigor as he could muster.
"No," he growled, gritting his teeth. "Ignore it.I don't want to think about it."
Galen nodded, thought he looked uneasy. "Just tell me what to do," he said in a small voice.
"Tell me to shut my trap again.”
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