Empire of the Vampire (Empire of the Vampire, #1)

by Jay Kristoff

ASK ME NOT if God exists, but why he’s such a prick. Even the greatest of fools can’t deny the existence of evil. We dwell in its shadow every day. The best of us rise above it, the worst of us swallow it whole, but we all of us wade hip-deep through it, every moment of our lives. Curses and blessings fall on the cruel and just alike. For every prayer heeded, ten thousand go unanswered. And saints suffer alongside the sinners, prey for monsters spat straight from the belly of hell. But if there is a hell, mustn’t there also be a heaven? And if there is a heaven, then can’t we ask it why?

The only possibility remaining is that he can stop it. He simply chooses not to.

We are prey now, mon ami. We are food. And he never lifted a fucking finger to stop it. He could have. He just didn’t. Do you ever wonder what we did, to make him hate us so?

“People will remember it different, of course. The soothsingers will harp about the Prophecy, and the priests will bleat on about the Almighty’s plan. But I never met a minstrel who wasn’t a liar, coldblood. Nor a holy man who wasn’t a cunt.” “Ostensibly, you are a holy man, Silversaint,” Jean-François said.

My mama knew herself, and there’s a fearsome power in that. Knowing exactly who you are and exactly what you’re capable of. Most folk would call it arrogance, I suppose. But most folk are fucking fools.”

“There’s no misery so deep as one you face by yourself. No nights darker than ones you spend alone. But you can learn to live with any weight. Your scars grow thick enough, they become armor.

there’s a difference between those who swim with the flood and those who drown fighting it. And its name is Wisdom.

I truly believed that I’d been chosen, that all this—my sister’s murder, what I’d done to Ilsa, the cursed and bastard blood in my veins—all of it was part of God’s plan. And if I trusted in him, if I said my prayers and praised his name and followed his word, all would be well.”

“What a fucking fool I was.”

“Very well, de León. Have it your way.” “I always did, coldblood. That was half the fucking problem.”

The silversaint stared hard, his jaw clenched. Then he spoke, not only as if to a child, but as if to one who’d been dropped repeatedly and enthusiastically on the head by its mother.

“What kind of hero are you?” Gabriel laughed, shaking his head. “Who the fuck told you I was a hero?”

“Short for ‘Jezebel.’ Since I’d only know her for a night and all.” “Ah. Prostitute humor.” “Don’t fall down laughing, coldblood.”

Gabriel tapped an empty leather pouch at his belt. “Behold the purse in which I keep my fucks for what you think of me.”

“Words can’t describe it. You might as well try to explain a rainbow to a blind man. Imagine the moment, that first second you slip between a lover’s thighs. After an hour or more of worship at the altar, when everything else has run its course and there’s naught but want for you in her eyes and finally she whispers that magic word … please.”

Why pride is looked on as an evil. You work hard at something you’re not born good at? Damn right you should be fucking proud. There’s nothing comes of quitting besides the knowledge you didn’t finish.”

The only thing worse than finishing last is not beginning at all. And fuck finishing last.”

The wise man knows you don’t blame the blade, priest. You blame the blacksmith.’

‘God may have sent the storm, but he gave me arms to swim for shore. He might bring the winter snows, but he gave us hands to light the flame. You see the suffering all around you but not the joy right beside you, and you curse him for the worst but don’t thank him for the best. What the hell do you want from him?’