Night Of Masks And Knives Quotes

Oh, the villainous lengths we all took. Truth be told, we all were a little monstrous in our own ways.

And the touch of her own mask, at first cool and clammy leather, but quickly like a second skin, and the play it gives her, herself a stage, her every breath a performance, and yet (herein lies the magic) also and entirely true. Every game, every lie flirting and cruel - and the house is full of them, games and lies - is real as knives, for the masquerade has come to define the night. The false face of everyday, that hides reality beneath flesh and skin, is itself hidden beneath the fantasy that, because it is a product and reflection of the mind, is an honest facade. Sadie has lived a wary, defensive life, always urged by that self-preserving instinct to stay small, hidden, safe. She did not know she had an imp inside her until she wore it on her face. ("One Of The Hungry Ones")

Cold as I tried to be, I wished I felt less when she came too close. Fewer dips in my belly, fewer leaps in my chest.

I survive by darkness, Malin. I keep it close, and it keeps me.

Malin Strom was my beautiful downfall. And I would take any pain if it meant more of her. Ruin me. Brutalize me. Just give me her.

The Nightrender on his knees, I never knew such a thing of beauty existed.” I rolled my eyes to her, grinning a little wickedly as I finally succeeded in the clasp. I pressed a kiss to her stomach, the bones of her hips. “I only bow to you.

The Mask,” Rhys murmured, “the Harp, and the Crown.” Nesta had a feeling none of them were good. Feyre frowned at her mate. “They’re different from the objects of power in the Hewn City? What can they do?” Nesta had tried her best to forget that night she and Amren had gone to test her so-called gift against the hoard within those unhallowed catacombs. The objects had been half-imprisoned in the stone itself: knives and necklaces and orbs and books, all shimmering with power. None of it pleasant. For the Dread Trove to be worse than what she’d witnessed … “The Mask can raise the dead,” Amren answered for Rhys. “It is a death mask, molded from the face of a long-forgotten king. Wear it and you may summon the dead to you, command them to march at your will. The Harp can open any door, physical or otherwise. Some say between worlds. And the Crown …” Amren shook her head. “The Crown can influence anyone, even piercing through the mightiest of mental shields. Its only flaw is that it requires close physical proximity to initially sink its claws into a victim’s mind. But wear the Crown, and you could make your enemies do your bidding. Could make a parent slaughter their child, aware of the horror but unable to stop themselves.” “And these things were lost?” Nesta demanded. Rhys threw her a frown. “Those who possessed them grew careless. They were lost in ancient wars, or to treachery, or simply because they were misplaced and forgotten.” “What does it have to do with the Cauldron?” Nesta pushed. “Like calls to like,” Feyre murmured, looking to Amren, who nodded. “Because the Trove was Made by the Cauldron, so might the Trove find its Maker.” She angled her head. “Briallyn was Made, though. Can’t she track the Cauldron herself?” Amren drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “The Cauldron aged Briallyn to punish her.” A glance at Nesta. “Or punish you, I suppose.

Malin.” I tugged at her trousers, my fingers sliding beneath the waistline. “Everything I want is all that you are.

I would burn the world to the ground to keep her breathing and in my arms.

She was stunning. Her taste, her body. Her. She was my perfection and always had been.

Those were the nights when a poor boy and a forgotten girl dreamed aloud of the new lives they’d live far across the sea. Of good kings and gods’ magic. Tales where they were not hunted, where they were not afraid. The sort of tales where heroes never died, and pain did not exist. Those were nights when the girl told the boy he was valiant and steady like a raven, and he said she looked as pretty as a rose. The boy whittled them, a raven and rose, then tied the raven to her neck, the rose to his, and told her he’d always keep her secrets. Always. In the loft, under the stars, littles could be little, and first loves could be safe and kind and wanted. But those tales were fables. In those grand adventures, love stories, and far-reaching kingdoms, no one ever told the boy and girl how the stories ended. No one ever said the kind brother would be lost to them. No one mentioned how brave little boys would grow to become killers. Or how sweet little girls would someday be the trickiest of thieves.

Everything I want is all that you are.

Time for my vengeance had come and gone too many times. I would take it now.