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“Do you know what I am, Maxinius-If-It-Please-You?” “… D-da…” His voice trembled. His gaze flickering to shadows shifting at her feet. “Darkin.”
Mia noticed one of his eyes moved slightly before the other, like a child leading a slow cousin by the hand.
At the heart of it, two kinds of people live in this world or any other: those who flee and those who fight. Your kind has many terms for the latter sort. Berserker. Killer instinct. More balls than brains.
“Nothing is where you start. Own nothing. Know nothing. Be nothing.” “Why would I want to do that?” The old man crushed out his cigarillo on the boards between them. His smile made her smile in return. “Because then you can do anything.”
“Blood is blood, love,” the Shahiid smiled. “Pigs. Paupers. Cattle. Kings. It makes no difference to Our Lady. It all stains alike. And it all washes out the same.”
“Apologies,” Mia frowned, searching the floor as if looking for something. “I appear to have misplaced the fucks I give for what you think…”
“The books we love, they love us back. And just as we mark our places in the pages, those pages leave their marks on us. I can see it in you, sure as I see it in me. You’re a daughter of words. A girl with a story to tell.”
