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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.

R.L. LaFevers

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R.L. LaFevers
Death
Handmaidens
Sacrament
Guided
Sacraments
Serve
Killing

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The pain of hope dying is worse than his fists and boots.
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Hate cannot be fought with hate. Evil cannot be conquered by darkness. Only love has the power to conquer them both.
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You would throw away all that we have given you for a man’s love?” “Not a man’s love,” I say softly. “But Duval’s. And I would find a way to serve both my god and my heart. Surely He does not give us hearts so we may spend our lives ignoring them.
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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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There is no shame in scars, Ismae.
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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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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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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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When he laces his fingers through mine, my heart does its now familiar panicked flight, bumping painfully against my ribs. My shoulder twitches as if to pull my hand back, but my heart overrules it.
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Good intentions are only lies the weak tell themselves.
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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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I am sorry,' he whispers. 'I am sorry I treated you so ill. I thought only to protect Duval.' 'It was not I who was poisoning him,' I say. 'No, but you had stolen his heart and I was afraid you would rip it from his chest when you left.
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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.
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He smiles then, and even though it is well past midnight, its as if the sun has just come out.
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One heart cannot serve two masters.
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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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People hear and see what they expect to hear and see.
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