So I’m deep in a deadline cave–which I feel I shouldn’t even call a cave these days, just a default state–but my mind is always a dozen places, and my hands are always in a dozen projects, so I thought it might be fun to do a peak behind the curtain and post a snippet from each of them.
Disclaimer: Some of these projects might not become books. Some are things I’m just playing around with. Because of that, I’m not going to identify the source of each snippet. But some should be obvious 😉
The night Kate Harker decided to burn down the school chapel, she wasn’t angry, or drunk.
She was just desperate.
And in her defense, the chapel was empty. Burning it down was a last resort; she’d already broken a girl’s nose, smoked in the dormitories, cheated on her first exam, and verbally harassed the nuns. But no matter what she did, St. Agnes kept forgiving her. That was the problem with Catholic schools.
“Wesley, I need you to listen to me.”
“Why should I?”
“Because we’re a team. Because you’re my best friend—my partner—and because I can’t do this without you.”
His eyes move feverishly over my face. “Mackenzie,” he says, my name little more than a breath. I lean in, hoping it’s recognition, but it’s too much to ask for. His brow furrows. “Whatever brought you to this, we’ll get through it. We’ll sort it out.”
My heart sinks. He’s trying to talk me down, like I’m a History, someone who might slip.
Alucard slumped into his high-backed chair, the stolen crown slouched forward against his brow. The bounty glittered in the firelight, and his eyes shone, dark with drink, and in that moment he reminded her of Rhy, and of Kell, and yet of no one she’d ever met. A trickster god, face shifting in turns of light. He was dangerously charming, and Lila suspected he knew it.
“Tell me something.” His words had a slight drawl.
Lila raised a brow.
“Who was Delilah Bard before she came aboard my ship?”
Eli Ever sat on the cot in isolation.
He wrapped his arms around himself, palms against ribs, fingers grazing the outside edges of the scars that traced his back. He ran a thumb over one of the lower lines, shuddering a little. He always did.
When he was young, and the scars were fresh, he tried to tell himself they looked like wings, the whip marks tracing out the feathers.
“Who do you think gave Joan of Arc her blessed sword, so that she could not be struck down?”
“But she was.”
“Not in battle.” Edric drew his fingertip around the glass’s rim. “Semantics may seem small, Addie, but the power of a deal is in its wording. She did not ask for the ability to keep hold of her weapon. Only the invincibility while wielding it. And even with her fate, I’d wager it was a fair trade.”
Addie shook her head. “I refuse to believe that Joan of Arc did a deal with the devil.”
Edric shrugged. “It’s possible she didn’t know. It’s possible that I let her believe I was something a little more…angelic? But deep down, I think she knew. Greatness requires sacrifice. Who you sacrifice to matters less than what you sacrifice for.”