More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Arachessen were not supposed to mourn the things we gave up in the name of our goddess—Acaeja, the Weaver of Fates, the Keeper of the Unknown, the Mother of Sorcery. We could not mourn the eyesight, the autonomy, the pieces of our flesh carved away in sacrifice. And no, we could not mourn the sex, either.
Threadwhispers were very useful. Communication that couldn’t be overheard, that could transcend sound the same way we transcended sight. It was a gift from the Weaver, one for which I was very grateful.
Sisters of the Arachessen are trained extensively in the magic of every god. From the time we were children, we were exposed to all magics, even when our bodies protested, even when it burned us or broke us.
It was not a sacrifice. It was an exchange: Close your eyes, child, and you will see an entire world.
Acaeja was the only exception—the only god who tolerated Nyaxia and the vampire society she had created.
Ascension, not death. Never death. Arachessen didn’t believe in death, only change. Just as the loss of our eyes didn’t mean the loss of sight, the loss of a heartbeat didn’t mean the loss of life.
I jumped a little, startled, as he touched my cheek, the rough pad brushing a strand of my hair behind my ear. “You’re lucky,” he said, “that I have a soft spot for caged birds.”
“Beautiful. Mysterious. Dangerous. And an obvious, clear-as-the-fucking-moon mistake.”
“Hm,” he said. “To think I let such a dangerous creature sleep beside me every night.”
“Death is what happens when you stand still,” I said. “Don’t stand still. Not for anything.”
