The void is my friend.
“By now, I’m sure many of you have tried to find the devil at a hotel bar, and I probably should have said this before: Be very careful. Hollywood was not built on dreams, it was built on favors from the devil, and the devil does not handle it well when those favors aren’t paid back.”
page 36, Alchemy of Secrets by Stephanie Garber
There was a particular brand of humor employed by twelve and thirteen-year-old girls, especially when they weren’t in the presence of boys: it was at once disgusting and innocent, bawdy and naive. When it wasn’t being used for ill–when no one was its target–this type of humor delighted Louise. From the wall, she watched them quietly, fondly, recalling what it was like to be in this moment of life that was like a breath before speech, a last sweet pause before some great unveiling.
Part 1: Barbara, The God of the Woods by Liz Moore
Aeril, Matron of Assassins, the Silent Blade, the Lady of Knives, Snatcher of Souls–and, sometimes, the Crafter of Delectable Culinary Delights–entered the world. The goddess stood taller than all about her. No, not just tall. She was more, as if this reality could not contain her grandeur. Her very presence made the vast chamber seem small. She wore a gown threaded from shadow and stitched with pearls that twinkled like stars. It draped her shoulders to hug a slender torso, blending with the skin of her bare arms that reflected night, as she gripped her hounds by chain leashes linked to spiked black-iron collars. Only her face was different: the upper half a bloodred that flowed from chiselled cheekbones to scalp–where braided rows of hair fell back in thick corded ropes that looked spun from gold.
page 185, The Dead Cat Tail Assassins by P. Djèlí Clark
No Knight hoped to live a long life; they hoped for a good death.
page 18, To Clutch a Razor by Veronica Roth
Ruko had always wondered how his mother kept her face so blank. Now he understood. You had to open a hole inside yourself and let everything drain through it. The horror, the grief, the guilt. The love. Most of all, the love. Let it drain away until there was no feeling left.
Chapter Three, The Raven Scholar by Antonia Hodgson