Black Jewels Trilogy Quotes

Stubborn, snarly male.

She's magic, Cassandra. A single flower blooming in an endless desert.

And the Lady's mate. Despite having only two legs and small fangs, there was much that was feline in that one, and he approved.

I am Tersa the Weaver, Tersa the Liar, Tersa the Fool.

Daemon clung to Surreal as she flew along the Winds, too weak to argue, too spent to care. His heart, however... His heart held on fiercely to Jaenelle's soft, sighing caress of his name. Everything has a price.

That’s why males defend, Lady Surreal. Because you females are deadlier when you’re roused—and you’re merciless when you’re riding the killing edge

Carefully bracing himself so that he wouldn't hurt her, he leaned over and brushed his lips against hers. He raised his head. Her haunted sapphire eyes stared at him. "Daemon?" There was so much uncertainty in her voice. "Hello, sweetheart," he said, his voice husky with the effort not to cry. "I've missed you." Her hand moved slowly, with effort, until it rested against his face. Her lips curved into a smile. "Daemon." This time, when she said his name, it sounded like a promise, like a lovely caress.

For the first time, they were seeing the dream beneath the flesh. Karla stared at the pointed ears that had come from the Dea al Mon, the hands with sheathed claws that had come from the Tigre, the hooves peeking out from beneath the black gown that could have come from the centaurs or the horses or the unicorns. Most of all, she stared at the tiny spiral horn. The living myth. Dreams made flesh. But, oh, had any of them really thought about who the dreamers had been? No wonder the kindred love her. No wonder we've all loved her. Karla quietly cleared her throat to ask the question she suddenly hoped wouldn't be answered. "Who is going to war with Terreille?" "I am," Witch said.

Have you taught her to kill, Priest? Can you teach her such a thing? She's so wise in her innocence, so innocent in her wisdom.

*I don't want the body,* she whimpered. *It hurts.* *Not always, sweetheart. Not always. Without the body, how will you hear a bird's song? How will you feel a warm summer rain on your skin? How will you taste nutcakes? How will you walk on a beach at sunset and feel the sand and surf under your... hooves?*

In the gray world above, I hear myself howling with laughter. Far below me, in the psychic abyss that is part of the Darkness, I hear another howling, one full of joy and pain, rage and celebration. Not just another witch is coming, my foolish Sisters, but Witch.

Frustration fills his golden eyes. "What Queen? Who is coming?" "The living myth," I whisper. "Dreams made flesh." His shock is replaced instantly by a fierce hunger. "You're sure?" The room is a swirling mist. He's the only thing still in sharp focus. He's the only thing I need. "I saw her in the tangled web, Daemon. I saw her.

It's none of my business, but I am curious," Saetan said. "Why are you standing out here displaying your assets?

Mrs. Beale made this. I can't cook." Lucifer took another mouthful and shrugged. "Cooking isn't that difficult." Then he looked up and wondered if a grown man had ever been beaten to death with a soup spoon.

Any chance of persuading my Healer to add a bit of food to that?" Jaenelle's head popped out of the kitchen doorway. "How does a large slice of fresh bread soaked in beef broth sound?" About as edible as the table leg. "Do I have any choices?" "No." "Sounds wonderful.

You disappoint me, Cassandra. Your legends paint you differently," Daemon said softly, his voice thick with malevolence. "I'm a Priestess serving at this Altar," she said, working to keep her voice steady. "You're mistaken, if you think--" He laughed softly. She stepped back from the sound and found herself pressed against the counter. "Do you think I can't tell the difference between a Priestess and a Queen? And the Jewels, my dear, name you for what you are." She bent her head slightly in acknowledgment. "So I'm Cassandra. What do you want, Prince?

It was Jaenelle's voice, but... She was medium height, slender, and fair-skinned. Her gold mane--not quite hair and not quite fur--was brushed up and back from her exotic face and didn't hide the delicately pointed ears. In the center of her forehead was a tiny, spiral horn. A narrow strip of gold fur traced her spine, ending in a small gold and white fawn tail that flicked over her bare buttocks. The legs were human and shapely, but changed below the calf. Instead of feet, she had dainty horse's hooves. Her human hands had sheathed claws like a cat's. As she shifted position to slip another shard into place, he saw the small, round breasts, the feminine curve of waist and hips, the dark-gold triangle of hair between her legs. Who...? But he knew. Even before she walked over and looked at him, even before he saw the feral intelligence in those ancient, haunted sapphire eyes, he knew. Terrifying and beautiful. Human and Other. Gentle and violent. Innocent and wise. *I am Witch,* she said, a small, defiant quiver in her voice. *I know.* His voice had a seductive throb in it, a hunger he couldn't control or mask.

Beyond the typhoon shelters, ships slid past them, lighted buildings on the march, and the junks hobbled in their wakes. Inland, the Island whined and clanged and throbbed, and the huge slums twinkled like jewel boxes opened by the deceptive beauty of the night. Presiding over them, glimpsed between the dipping finger of the masts, sat the black Peak, Victoria, her sodden face shrouded with moonlit skeins; the goddess, the freedom, the lure of all that wild striving in the valley. They

As the kiss deepened, his tongue brushed against mine. Images blazed in my mind—of a night sky over a desert, the moon hanging like a jewel, and the rush of wind over my body. The feel of his soft lips was transporting me. With a nip of my lower lip, he let out a low noise from deep in his throat—a sound of pleasure and agony in one. Then, he pulled away from the kiss, his black eyes piercing me. I stared at him, catching my breath. “Tell me. Do angels have a weakness?” Specifically, how did an angel end up murdered in a river? “Of course we do. Everyone has a weakness.” He leaned down, his mouth close to my ear as he whispered, “mortal women.

You're not going to answer, are you?" Jaenelle asked after a minute of teeth-grinding silence. "No." "Don't you know the answer?" "Whether I know the answer or not is beside the point. It's not something a man discusses with a young girl." "But you know the answer." Daemon growled.

SLEEP SHE DID: a sleep like winter, a sleep like sickness. In her sleep the men all died again, stoic or screaming, their guts like dark jewels in the snow. The black-cloaked figure stood by, calm and knowing, to mark each death. But this time a terrible, familiar voice spoke also in her ear. “See him, poor winter-king, trying to keep order. But the battlefield is my realm, and he only comes to pick over my leavings.” Vasya whirled to find the Bear at her shoulder, one-eyed, lazily smiling. “Hello,” he said. “Does my work please you?” “No,” she gasped, “no—