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I comfort myself with the knowledge that if Duval ever feels smothered by me, it will be because I am holding a pillow over his face.

R.L. LaFevers

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R.L. LaFevers
Feels
Suffocating
Pillow
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Faces
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Smothered

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However, there are those who deserve to die but who have not yet encountered the means to do so—we help them on their way.
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When one consorts with assassins, one must expect to dance along the edge of a knife once or twice.
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And so it is with us we serve as handmaidens to Death. When we are guided by His will, killing is a sacrament.
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The body on the ground is nothing more than a shell, a husk, and I am filled with a sense of peace. Yes, I think. Yes. This is what I want to be. An instrument of mercy, not vengeance.
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People hear and see what they expect to hear and see.
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You are not my nursemaid. Remember, I am rescuing you.
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He does not start guiltily, as he should, but frowns in annoyance. Who are you? I slip my hand through the slit of my overskirt, and my fingers close around the hard wood of the crossbow tiller. Vengeance, I say softly.
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I am left with the conviction that an avalanche would be easier to dissuade than that man.
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Whenever you are ready, or if you never are, my heart is yours, until Death do us part. Whatever that may mean when consorting with one of Death’s handmaidens.
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Good intentions are only lies the weak tell themselves.
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It is all we have left to us. And while it is more than I ever dared dream, it is nowhere near enough.
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If he is smart, he will run. He is not.
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We are all of us, gods and mortals, made up of many pieces, some of them broken, some of them scarred, but none of them the total sum of who we are.
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In the distance a wolf howls. Let it come, I think. Beast will most likely simply howl back, and the creature will either turn tail and run or fall into line behind him, like the rest of us have.
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It is a good thing I no longer have a heart, because if I did, it would surely break.
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There is no shame in scars, Ismae.
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Every time he glances at me I feel it just as surely as if he has reached out and run his finger along my soul. It is all I can do not to smile at the sheer wonder of it.
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Why be the sheep when you can be the wolf?
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You come to us well tempered, my child, and it is not in my nature to be sorry for it. It is a well tempered blade that is the strongest.
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He barks out a laugh. My little rebel.
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