Don't Fear the Reaper (The Indian Lake Trilogy, #2)

by Stephen Graham Jones

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, yes, and the ceremony of innocence is drowned.

Girls without mothers fall apart on the inside when someone like Christine Gillette remembers them, notices their new hair.

“Now you’re the adult who doesn’t believe this is really happening. And, what always happens to that adult? Do you still remember, or do you forget all the true things when you grow up, Peter Pan?”

It should have been dead long ago, she knows, but souls are like livers: they regenerate and regenerate, until you’ve finally poisoned them enough that the only thing they can do is kill you, take you down with them.

Oh, the stories we tell ourselves

Jennifer hides her face in her hands, hates hates hates being seen like this. “You’re still you, I know you are,” Letha says right into her ear.

God they so so so so so so soul mates fuck

“If I chewed it for you?” “You would?” “You would for me,”

But, pre-death? “That’s just life, girl,”

Fifty thousand ancestors, going back and back, each of them a final girl.

It’s about two girls making it across the ice together.

It’s about putting the children and the old people in the middle and then making a circle around them, pointing out with every spear and shaking your head no, saying not this day. Not this day.

Through her eyes, he hasn’t. Over her shoulder, he hasn’t.

“It’s okay, it’s all right, your dad’s here,”

Because she’s Jade fucking Daniels. And a thousand men like you can’t even reach up to touch her combat boots.