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“And how is a miracle different from a spell? Who is to say the saint was not a witch?”
“Careful. In nature, beauty is a warning. The pretty ones are often poisonous.”
“You will learn, it is better to bend than to break.” María stared into the hearth. “Why should I be the one who bends?”
(She is used to wanting plenty, but it is another thing to be wanted.)
Death is a kind of freedom, after all.
“Those grown in the midnight soil are never alone.”
She drinks, and drinks, sure that here at last she will finally feel glutted, finally feel full, finally find the limits of her hunger. But she doesn’t. Instead, it only opens wider, each bite like a stitch unpicked until the darkness is a chasm. And she is falling in.
Alice gets it now. Why her sister was always breaking things. Because rage shatters out, not in.
the simple act of having a teenage body, no matter how it’s dressed, has always been enough to justify a man’s attention.
“We are hollowed, bit by bit, as all that made us human dies. Our kindness. Our empathy. Our capacity for fear, and love. One by one, they slough away, until all that’s left is the desire to hunt, to hurt, to feed, to kill. That is how we die. Made reckless by our hunger. Convinced we are unkillable until someone or something proves us wrong.”
“There is no filling it. You will never be sated. It does not matter whether you drink a carafe or drain a city. The hunger will not ease.”
how the more she fed, the emptier she felt. How the hunger never waned, but opened in her like a chasm, so wide it nearly swallowed her as well.
“You must learn to master it,” says Matteo, “or it will master you.”
The daylight ushers in another kind of torment: children.
What is the point, she thinks, of loving something you are doomed to lose?
“Madness will take you before hunger ever will.”
but one way or another, eventually, pieces of us die. The parts that made us human. Till all that’s left is hunger, and rot.”
Who you were isn’t who you have to be.”
As if love and horror could not go hand in hand.
