Raging Raven Quotes

I’ll be the villain for you. He is the epitome of death and revenge. The personification of rage. He destroys everything and everyone in his vicinity without glance or thought, and through the chaos, through the massacre, I revel in it.

Then, like ravening wolves in a black mist, when the belly's lawless rage has driven them blindly forth, and their whelps at home await them with thirsty jaws, through swords, through foes we pass to certain death, and hold our way to the city's heart; black night hovers around with sheltering shade.

She had not just altered the fabric of the universe, had not simply rewritten the script. She had torn it, ripped a great gaping hole in the cloth of reality, and set fire to it with the ravenous rage of an uncontrollable god.

Tisiphone stood silent and helpless in Alicia's mind. It was all she could do to keep Alicia's blind savagery from dragging Megaira under and clouding the lightning-fast reflexes which kept them both alive. She'd never guessed what she was creating, never imagined the monster she'd spawned. She'd seen the power of Alicia DeVries's mind without recognizing the controls which kept that power in check, and only now had she begun to understand fully what she had done. She had shattered those controls. The compassion and mercy she'd feared no longer existed, only the red, ravening hunger. Yet terrible as that might be, there was worse. She'd found the hole Alicia had gnawed through the wall about her inner rage, and she couldn't close it. Somehow, without even realizing it was possible, Alicia had reached beyond herself. She'd followed Tisiphone's connection to the Fury's own rage, her own destruction, and made that incalculable power hers as well. For the first time in millennia, Tisiphone faced another as powerful as herself, a mortal mind which had stolen the power of the Furies themselves, and that power had driven it mad.

She looked at the empty page, which remained blank, apart from the small wet dots from her tears, for hours. Her mind was a turmoil of sadness, rage, fear and all those emotions that gave her inspiration. However her heart lacked the will as the empty words enclosed her soul pulling it down towards the frenzied ravenous imps that stalked hells pantry....

But I’m not done. So I turn my rage toward Fifth Kingdom.

We are not just women; we are witches. We will pull ourselves on bellies through hardship, we will crawl through pain and we will rise with rage and devour all those who stand in our way.

She had not Must altered the fabric of the universe, had not simply rewritten the script. She had torn it, ripped a great gaping hole in the cloth of reality, and set fire to it with the ravenous rage of an uncontrollable god.

BLOODY LIPS The bloody wound Of the gladiator Gurgles out life's end. The cries of acclimations from the stands Fill the sky with raging tigers. Waving their arms about to incite the masses The aging notables add an air of dignity to the arena. Making their separate entries they K N E E L over the still-warm corpses Of the young. Their withered lips they pose Upon the fresh flowing wounds And, to prolong their lives – so they believe, Suck, ravenously suck out the blood, blood, blood. Fresh blood from the sun Flowing into filthy veins As into sewage pipes, And thus the Heart of the Nation is abandoned.

I have raged and paced and cursed endlessly, but none of it was heard. None of it seen. None of it mattered.

Gansey was right. You really can be a raging feminist.

Because the seething rot still thumps beneath my skin. The raging wind thunders in my ears, and my fury clamors in a deafening roar. Because I can’t get to her. So I’ll take vengeance instead.

in my voyages, when I was a man and commanded other men, I have seen the heavens overcast, the sea rage and foam, the storm arise, and, like a monstrous bird, beating the two horizons with its wings. Then I felt that my vessel was a vain refuge, that trembled and shook before the tempest. Soon the fury of the waves and the sight of the sharp rocks announced the approach of death, and death then terrified me, and I used all my skill and intelligence as a man and a sailor to struggle against the wrath of God. But I did so because I was happy, because I had not courted death, because to be cast upon a bed of rocks and seaweed seemed terrible, because I was unwilling that I, a creature made for the service of God, should serve for food to the gulls and ravens. But now it is different; I have lost all that bound me to life, death smiles and invites me to repose; I die after my own manner, I die exhausted and broken-spirited, as I fall asleep when I have paced three thousand times round my cell.

The people cast themselves down by the fuming boards while servants cut the roast, mixed jars of wine and water, and all the gods flew past like the night-breaths of spring. The chattering female flocks sat down by farther tables, their fresh prismatic garments gleaming in the moon as though a crowd of haughty peacocks played in moonlight. The queen’s throne softly spread with white furs of fox gaped desolate and bare, for Penelope felt ashamed to come before her guests after so much murder. Though all the guests were ravenous, they still refrained, turning their eyes upon their silent watchful lord till he should spill wine in libation for the Immortals. The king then filled a brimming cup, stood up and raised it high till in the moon the embossed adornments gleamed: Athena, dwarfed and slender, wrought in purest gold, pursued around the cup with double-pointed spear dark lowering herds of angry gods and hairy demons; she smiled and the sad tenderness of her lean face, and her embittered fearless glance, seemed almost human. Star-eyed Odysseus raised Athena’s goblet high and greeted all, but spoke in a beclouded mood: “In all my wandering voyages and torturous strife, the earth, the seas, the winds fought me with frenzied rage; I was in danger often, both through joy and grief, of losing priceless goodness, man’s most worthy face. I raised my arms to the high heavens and cried for help, but on my head gods hurled their lightning bolts, and laughed. I then clasped Mother Earth, but she changed many shapes, and whether as earthquake, beast, or woman, rushed to eat me; then like a child I gave my hopes to the sea in trust, piled on my ship my stubbornness, my cares, my virtues, the poor remaining plunder of god-fighting man, and then set sail; but suddenly a wild storm burst, and when I raised my eyes, the sea was strewn with wreckage. As I swam on, alone between sea and sky, with but my crooked heart for dog and company, I heard my mind, upon the crumpling battlements about my head, yelling with flailing crimson spear. Earth, sea, and sky rushed backward; I remained alone with a horned bow slung down my shoulder, shorn of gods and hopes, a free man standing in the wilderness. Old comrades, O young men, my island’s newest sprouts, I drink not to the gods but to man’s dauntless mind.” All shuddered, for the daring toast seemed sacrilege, and suddenly the hungry people shrank in spirit; They did not fully understand the impious words but saw flames lick like red curls about his savage head. The smell of roast was overpowering, choice meats steamed, and his bold speech was soon forgotten in hunger’s pangs; all fell to eating ravenously till their brains reeled. Under his lowering eyebrows Odysseus watched them sharply: "This is my people, a mess of bellies and stinking breath! These are my own minds, hands, and thighs, my loins and necks!" He muttered in his thorny beard, held back his hunger far from the feast and licked none of the steaming food.

Raven Monroe tastes of mint and macchiato, of strawberry flavored lip-gloss and smells of all the good things that blossom in the Spring with just enough spice, musk and amber that reminds me she is purely autumn on the cusp of winter. She is the embodiment of crisp cool nights, warmth of roaring bonfires, pink super moons, the silence of absent cicadas and critters, of death in its most beautiful and natural form. She is the promise of new beginnings and transitions that come with time and rage. Furious like a fire devouring a house until only its charred skeleton remains standing.

—No one knows why. Perhaps her mind, ravenous, still insatiable, sensed that to struggle with the shreds of a voice must make her artistry subtler, more refined, more capable of expressing humiliation, rage, betrayal ... —Perhaps the opposite. Perhaps her spirit loathed the unending struggle to embody itself, to manifest itself, on a stage whose mechanics, and suffocating customs, seemed expressly designed to annihilate spirit ... —I know that in Tosca, in the second act, when, humiliated, hounded by Scarpia, she sang Vissi d’arte —“I lived for art”— and in torment, bewilderment, at the end she asks, with a voice reaching harrowingly for the notes, “Art has repaid me LIKE THIS?

There have been moments when writing this book has made me hopeful, but almost always I’ve felt rage or despair. You’ve been stealing those pleasures. Hope? Yes, but also rage and despair. Stealing? Not giving anything in return. Rage and despair are pleasures? The guiltiest. Why do you think New York magazine’s doomsday article about global warming went viral? People were suddenly ravenous for climate science? No, we were ravenous for a vivid description of our apocalypse. We’re drawn to it the same way we’re drawn to horror movies, car accidents, and the chaos of the current administration. And don’t pretend that the bleakest scenarios aren’t your favorite parts to write. I’m not pretending.

I could love you all night, Raven,” he murmured enticingly against her throat. His hands moved over her body, leaving fire in their wake. “I want to love you all night.” “Isn’t that the point? It’s dawn.” Her hands had a mind of their own, finding every defined muscle with her fingertips, stroking across his hard male form, seeking her own exploration. “Then I will spend the day making love to you.” He whispered the words against her mouth, bent closer to nibble at the corners of her lower lip. “I need you with me, Raven. You chase away the shadows and lighten the terrible load that threatens to drown me.” She skimmed her fingertips across the hard edges of his mouth. “Is this possession, or is it love?” She dipped her head to press her mouth to the hollow of his sternum, to slide her tongue over the ultrasensitive skin above his heart. There was no mark, no scar, but the sweep of her tongue followed the exact line of his earlier wound, where he had forced her to accept his life’s blood. She was merged with him, reading his mind, his erotic fantasies, wanting to bring them to life. His gut clenched hotly, his body responding with fierce aggression. Raven smiled at the feel of his hard length burning against her skin. She had no inhibitions when she lay with him, only a fierce desire to burn with him. “Answer me, Mikhail--the truth.” Her fingertips brushed his velvet tip, fingers curled around the heavy thickness of him sending hunger raging through his body. She was playing with fire, but he didn’t have the strength to stop her; he didn’t want to stop her. His hands curled in her damp hair, two tight fists. “Both,” he managed to gasp.

It was her acceptance that brought him back to sanity. This woman was not in a trance; she was offering herself freely because she felt his raging need, because she trusted him to stop before he hurt her, before he killed her. Mikhail’s tongue lapped across her breast, closed the wound. He lifted his head, his dark eyes still glowing with the beast, the taste of her in his mouth, on his lips. He swore softly, bitterly, his self-loathing total. She was under his protection. He had never hated himself or his kind more. She had freely given of herself and he had taken selfishly, the beast in him so strong he had given in to the ecstasy of uniting with one’s lifemate. He gathered her limp body to him, cradled her in his arms. “You will not die, Raven.” He was furious with himself. Had he done this on purpose? In some dark corner of his mind, had he wanted this to happen? He would try to find the answer to the question at a later date. Right now she needed blood, and she needed it fast. “Stay with me, little one. I remained in this world because of you. You will have to be strong for both of us. Can you hear me, Raven? Do not leave me. I can make you happy. I know I can.

The bonds of family can be wonderful but there is a time to know when to stand apart." She held out a hand to Rycca on the nearby bench. "Besides, we are your family now, all of us, and we know your worth." Deeply touched, Rycca had to blink several times before she could respond. She knew both women spoke pure truth and loved them for it.After a lifetime of emotional solitude unbroken but for Thurlow, it was still difficult for her to comprehend that she was no longer alone. Yet was she beginning to understand it. Softly,she said, "I worry over Dragon. He refuses to talk of my father or of what will happen now that we are here, but I fear he is planning to take matters into his own hands." Cymbra and Krysta exchanged a glance. Quietly,Cymbra said, "Your instinct is not wrong. Dragon simmers with rage at the harm attempted to you. In Landsende I caught a mere glimpse of it,and it was like peering into one of those mountains that belch fire." Despite the heat of the sauna, Rycca shivered. "He came close to losing his life once because of me.I cannot bear for it to happen again." There was silence for a moment,broken only by the crackling of the fire and the hiss of steam.Finally, Cymbra said, "We are each of us married to an extraordinary man. There is something about them...even now I don't really know how to explain it." She looked at Krysta. "Have you told Rycca about Thorgold and Raven?" Krysta shook her head. "There was no time before." She turned on her side on the bench,facing the other two. "Thorgold and Raven are my...friends. They are somewhat unusual." Cymbra laughed at that,prompting a chiding look from Krysta,who went on to say, "I'm not sure how but I think somehow I called them to me when I was a child and needed them very much." "Krysta has the gift of calling," Cymbra said, "as I do of feeling and you do of truthsaying. Doesn't it strike you as odd that three very unusual women, all bearing special gifts, ccame to be married to three extraordinary men who are united by a common purpose,to bring peace to their peoples?" "I had not really thought about it," said Rycca, who also had not known of Krysta's gift and was looking at her with some surprise. All three of them? That was odd. "I believe," said Cymbra, who clearly had been thinking about it, "that there is a reason for it beyond mere coincidence. I think we are meant to be at their sides, to help them as best we can, the better to transform peace from dream to reality." "It is a good thought," Krysta said. Rycca nodded. Very quietly, she said, "Blessed are the peacemakers." Cymbra grinned. "And poor things, we appear to be their blessings. So worry not for Dragon, Rycca. He will prevail. We will all see to it." They laughed then,the trio of them, ancient and feminine laughter hidden in a chamber held in the palm of the earth. The steam rose around them, half obscuringm half revealing them. In time,when the heat had become too intense,they rose, wrapped themselves in billowing cloths,and ran through the gathering darkness to the river, where they frolicked in cool water and laughed again beneath the stars. The torches had been lit by the time they returned to the stronghold high on the hill. They dressed and hastened to the hall,where they greeted their husbands, who stood as one when they entered,silent and watchful men before beauty and strength, and took their seats at table. Wine was poured, food brought,music played. They lingered over the evening,taking it into night. The moon was high when they found the sweet,languid sanctuary of their beds. Day came too swiftly.

There was nothing in Nesta's head but screaming. Nothing in her heart but love and hatred and fury as she let go of everything inside her and the entire world exploded. The baying of her magic was a beast with no name. Avalanches cascaded down the cliffs in seas of glittering white. Trees bent and ruptured in the wake of the power that shattered from her. Distant seas drew back from their shores, then raced in waves toward them again. Glasses shook and shattered in Velaris, books tumbled off the shelves in Helion's thousand libraries, and the remnants of a run-down cottage in the human lands crumbled into a pile of rubble. But all Nesta saw was Briallyn. All she saw was the slack-jawed crone as Nesta leaped upon her, throwing her frail body to the rocky ground. All she knew was screaming as she clutched Briallyn's face, the Crown glowing blindingly white, and roared her fury to the mountains, to the stars, to the dark places between them. Gnarled hands turned young. A lined face became beautiful and lovely. White hair darkened to raven black. But Nesta bellowed and bellowed, letting her magic rage, unleashing every ember. Erasing the queen beneath her from existence. The young hands turned to ash. The pretty face dissolved into nothing. The dark hair withered into dust. Until all that was left of the queen was the Crown on the ground.

The seventh day, and no wind—the burning sun Blister’d and scorch’d, and, stagnant on the sea, They lay like carcasses; and hope was none, Save in the breeze that came not; savagely They glared upon each other—all was done, Water, and wine, and food,—and you might see The longings of the cannibal arise (Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. At length one whisper’d his companion, who Whisper’d another, and thus it went round, And then into a hoarser murmur grew, An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound; And when his comrade’s thought each sufferer knew, ’Twas but his own, suppress’d till now, he found: And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, And who should die to be his fellow’s food. But ere they came to this, they that day shared Some leathern caps, and what remain’d of shoes; And then they look’d around them and despair’d, And none to be the sacrifice would choose; At length the lots were torn up, and prepared, But of materials that much shock the Muse— Having no paper, for the want of better, They took by force from Juan Julia’s letter. The lots were made, and mark’d, and mix’d, and handed, In silent horror, and their distribution Lull’d even the savage hunger which demanded, Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution; None in particular had sought or plann’d it, ’Twas nature gnaw’d them to this resolution, By which none were permitted to be neuter— And the lot fell on Juan’s luckless tutor. He but requested to be bled to death: The surgeon had his instruments, and bled Pedrillo, and so gently ebb’d his breath, You hardly could perceive when he was dead. He died as born, a Catholic in faith, Like most in the belief in which they’re bred, And first a little crucifix he kiss’d, And then held out his jugular and wrist. The surgeon, as there was no other fee, Had his first choice of morsels for his pains; But being thirstiest at the moment, he Preferr’d a draught from the fast-flowing veins: Part was divided, part thrown in the sea, And such things as the entrails and the brains Regaled two sharks, who follow’d o’er the billow The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo. The sailors ate him, all save three or four, Who were not quite so fond of animal food; To these was added Juan, who, before Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could Feel now his appetite increased much more; ’Twas not to be expected that he should, Even in extremity of their disaster, Dine with them on his pastor and his master. ’Twas better that he did not; for, in fact, The consequence was awful in the extreme; For they, who were most ravenous in the act, Went raging mad—Lord! how they did blaspheme! And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack’d, Drinking salt water like a mountain-stream, Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing, And, with hyaena-laughter, died despairing. Their numbers were much thinn’d by this infliction, And all the rest were thin enough, Heaven knows; And some of them had lost their recollection, Happier than they who still perceived their woes; But others ponder’d on a new dissection, As if not warn’d sufficiently by those Who had already perish’d, suffering madly, For having used their appetites so sadly. And if Pedrillo’s fate should shocking be, Remember Ugolino condescends To eat the head of his arch-enemy The moment after he politely ends His tale: if foes be food in hell, at sea ’Tis surely fair to dine upon our friends, When shipwreck’s short allowance grows too scanty, Without being much more horrible than Dante.

Say you want me.” His mouth moved over her throat, closed over her aching breast. Every strong pull sent an answering rush of liquid heat. “You know I do.” She pressed him to her, wound a leg around his. She could barely breathe with her need, clawing at him to get closer, to crawl inside the shelter of his body, his mind, to feel his body in hers, taking possession as he was meant to, to feel his mouth at her breast, dragging her further into his world. “All of it,” he said hoarsely, his fingers probing the nest of tiny curls, stroking, caressing. “Mate with me my way.” She moved in a kind of anguish against his hand. “Yes, Mikhail.” She was frantic for release, frantic to relieve him. She was consumed with the same red haze, not separating love from lust or hunger from need. She was on fire, hurting, aching, body and mind, even her soul in torment, not knowing where his wild, uninhibited emotions left off and hers began. Mikhail lifted her easily with his enormous strength, slid her slowly, erotically down his clenching belly until she was pressed against the broad head of his raging erection. Her heat seared him, beckoned. Raven’s arms slid around his neck, her legs around his hips, opening for him. Slowly he lowered her body over his, impaled her on the thick length of fire so that she surrounded him with such a moist, tight sheath he shuddered, somewhere beyond mere pleasure, a kind of erotic heaven and hell. Her nails dug into his shoulders. “Stop, Mikhail. You’re too big this way.” Alarm spread across her face. “Relax, little one. We belong together, our bodies were made for one another.” He slid in farther, began to move in a long, slow rhythm, his hands caressing, soothing. He shifted his shoulders so that he could see her face, his body claiming hers with deep, sure, possessive strokes. Without conscious thought, the words formed in his mind. Te avio päläfertiilam--You are my lifemate.

Isis Astarte Diana Hecate Demeter Kali Inanna Over and over their voices filled the air calling in these Ancient ones, their energies, magic and wisdom, their rage and righteous anger as shouts of No More and Never Again filled the air.   Asherah Erishkigal Cerridwen Brigid Maat Hathor Freya Skadi Sigyn Voices invoked the battle energies as the Warrior Goddesses arrived. Lilith Andraste Durga Athena Hel Mami Wata Pele Ixchel Freya An’ Morrighan Boudicca of the Iceni Zenobia of Palmyra Lakshmi Bai of Jhansi Through the night they chanted the invocation “show us another way” to the ancient Mothers, Queens, Warrioresses, Witches. Voices raising power and raised IN power as both Queen Boudicca and An’ Morrighan held the circle, swords in hand symbols of both peace and truth as well as strength and protection. Eyes of the night still held vigil for this sacred activist work as each woman plucked her part of the web weaving new threads of hope and spinning the wheel of change. Fox, wolf and coyote opossum, turtle and deer bear, raccoon and hare held vigil as the moths danced, spiders wove webs, and serpents shed skins no longer needed, all while the calls of the owls and night birds echoed in synchronous harmony. As the darkness of night gave way to the light of a new dawn, the Ravens and Crows and birds of the day arrived calling out as the women prayed their work had been enough to alter the events of this day... They prayed it was enough to alter the events of the Coming Days. As they walked back through the woods, sunlight streaming through the trees and with eyes still watching, the women held the Rim of the Eternal Circle safely in their hearts and womb space, encased in a deep knowing that Whatever this new day held... Whatever and Whomever was to come... Their work, the ancient ways and this Rim of Power would always continue For the Circle never ends and the Weaver always weaves. Excerpt from "Holding the Rim", featured in Asherah: Roots of the Mother Tree

I can choose to stay stagnant here, at the bottom of the cliff, broken and unmoving. I can rage, I can wallow, I can blame, I can hide. I can let the severed parts of me sever all the rest. Or I can get up, dust myself off, and look back up. I can find a path that ensures I’ll never fall again, ensures that I don’t lose any more parts of myself. All I have to do is turn and follow my feet, one step at a time. So that’s what I’ll do.

Thus I gave Aster my rage. Ugly rage, human rage, the rage she deserved to feel but could not, because it had been taken from her forever.

When you hit rock bottom, you feel it. You break down, walls crumbling until you’re free-falling. The feelings that you tried to run from suddenly rush up around you in an unstoppable force, the gravity of your thoughts now nothing but a punishing plunge. When you slam into the bottom, that landing jolts you all the way to your very soul. You hit hard, and it cracks the very foundation of the world. The ground fragments beneath you, lines stretching far and wide. And then you’re left, a pile of rubble. But I realize something as I lie here, surrounded by the destruction of my plummet. These cracks that have spread out from my caustic landing, they’re not evidence of my ruination. They’re paths. Each jagged line leads from me and then diverts away, showing me all the different ways I could go from here. But I’m also in my mind, staring at the fissures around me, seeing where each one leads. Because now that I’m forced to feel what I didn’t want to, I have a decision to make. I can choose to stay stagnant here, at the bottom of the cliff, broken and unmoving. I can rage, I can wallow, I can blame, I can hide. I can let the severed parts of me sever all the rest. Or I can get up, dust myself off, and look back up. I can find a path that ensures I’ll never fall again, ensures that I don’t lose any more parts of myself. All I have to do is turn and follow my feet, one step at a time. So that’s what I’ll do. I let myself cry until all my tears dry up. There is no choked breathing or scrunched up nose. No pulled lips or furrowed brow. This is the suffering of the silent. A hurt so deep it doesn’t show itself on a face.

I felt as though I were pouring a glass of water that I was about to show, from the other side of prison bars, to a person dying of thirst. In that moment, I hated the Green Well more than I ever had before. I hated that it existed, that people wanted it. I hated that I had sat on the edge of it and not felt the vileness radiating from its mossy stones. How dare it look the way it did, a hollow thing, surrounded by ferns and bluebells and singing birds. Had Aster had any way of knowing the eternal horror to which she was agreeing? The tip of my feather quivered with the force of my anger....Thus I gave Aster my rage. Ugly rage, human rage, the rage she deserved to feel but could not, because it had been taken from her forever....She was alive on the page in a way even my Craft rarely achieved. She was real again.

He was going to blow up a club. You literally found his blueprints for blowing up the White Raven.” As one of the most popular nightclubs in the city, the loss of life would have been catastrophic. Briggs’s previous bombings had been smaller, but no less deadly, all designed to trigger a war between the humans and Vanir to match the one raging in Pangera’s colder climes. Briggs made no secret of his goal: a global conflict that would cost the lives of millions on either side. Lives that were expendable if it meant a possibility for humans to overthrow those who oppressed them—the magically gifted and long-lived Vanir and, above them, the Asteri, who ruled the planet Midgard from the Eternal City in Pangera.

I ached for her humiliation so ravenously that when it finally arrived, it took all the concentrated restraint in the world not to fall upon her like a mindless, raging beast.

For as long as I could remember, the weather had felt apocalyptic. Y2K fever and the War on Drugs and the War on Terror. The death of bees and the death of bats and radioactivity in the oceans and ravenous hurricanes. I thought the country was like a fire that would rage and rage until the embers lost their heat....

And he does. Because my sweet genfin always takes care of me. Even when I’m being a feisty, raging, hormonal beast.

It's like my heart—my fucking soul—has been torn from my chest, leaving me to gape. I'm hollow with nothing but the echo of her and the reverberation of fury. I imagine my aura must be a pit of malevolence churning in the deepest shade of black, because this rage...it will consume me wholly. And I'll let it.

Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.

the books are her escape, she always tells me.

My eyes burn with the flash of my challenge, my pupils taking on the heat of this airborne rage, and I want him to. I want him to try to grab me, to try to move me. Because right now, unaccountable violence is screeching through my veins and tightening the ribbons at my spine.

Then, I spotted him. With his raven hair and night- black clothes, he cut an ominous silhouette against the raging wall of flickering orange. I couldn’t make out the details of his face, and his imposing body was shrouded by the crowd clustered around him, but somehow, even among the pandemonium, I knew him. More than that— I felt him, his strange aura sweeping across my skin. Luther. As if he’d heard my thoughts, his head snapped in my direction. Even tucked as I was among a sea of onlookers, his glowing blue eyes found mine in an instant.

I want to continue to rage.

I kiss her with a slow decadence that tells her all the things I cannot yet say. That I raged. That I grieved. That I lost myself without her. Through this kiss, I tell her every heartbreaking second that we lived apart was a moment I didn’t truly exist. That the depth of my love for her stretches further than this mortal body could ever contain.

All he knew was that the rage was still there, eating inside him, not with the slow stealth of a cancer, but with the rapid, careless ravening of a weasel gnawing at his entrails, or the constant alimentary torment that drives on the shark to his incessant feeding until only death gives him rest.

And in that moment, he no longer regarded the residents of Abandon and the thousand other mining camps scattered like bacteria through the West as people of ambition and courage. They were a cold, dirty, desperate, miserable lot. He saw them now so clearly. They had crossed the plains and made homes in these savage mountains and borne their myriad afflictions not because they were brave pioneers pursuing a dream. They had come for no other reason but that their ravenous hearts raged with greed.

She thought of the animals at the Zoo. She and Bub had gone there one Sunday afternoon. They arrived in time to see the lions and tigers being fed. There was a moment, before the great hunks of red meat were thrust into the cages, when the big cats prowled back and forth, desperate, raging, ravening. They walked in a space even smaller than the confines of the cages made necessary, moving in an area just barely the length of their bodies. A few steps up and turn. A few steps down and turn. They were weaving back and forth, growling, roaring, raging at the bars that kept them from the meat, until the entire building was filled with the sound, until the people watching drew back from the cages, feeling insecure, frightened at the sight and the sound of such uncontrolled savagery. She was becoming something like that.

Denial stops us from listening. I cannot hear what Mother is saying. I can only hear what I want. But denial lies. It protects us from the potency of a truth we cannot yet bear to accept. It takes our hands and leads us to places of comfort. Denial flourishes in the familiar. It seduces us with our own desires and cleverly constructs walls around us to keep us safe. I want the walls down. Mother’s rage over our inability to face her illness has burned away my defenses. I am left with guilt, guilt I cannot tolerate because it has no courage. I hurt Mother through my own desire to be cured. I continue to watch the gulls. Their pilgrimage from salt water to fresh becomes my own. RAVENS lake level: 4209.10′ Mother began her radiation

The furious, feathered, snapping beast is brooding on a storm, and I’m ready to watch it rage. Wings opening, teeth gleaming, her eyes as gold as mine. And her screech, that call that ruptures like lightning, it doesn’t shatter a sea. It shatters me.

now I found myself next to an enormous pit with raging flames of fire leaping high into an open cavern. As I looked up into that dark, eerie, tomb-like atmosphere, it seemed to be like a mouth that had swallowed her dead. The flames of her ravenous appetite were never satisfied with the pitiful screams of untold multitudes. The heat was far beyond unbearable, and I desperately wanted to escape before I too would be thrown into that inferno. As I look back on the experience now, I am reminded of the devastation of the twin towers of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, when some people, rather than facing the two-thousand-degree heat, chose to plummet to their death by leaping out a window. That fall, especially from such great heights, must have been horrendous. It was reported that a person subjected to that temperature would be completely incinerated in about fifteen seconds. Those people chose to make that leap rather than face the intensity of those flames for even fifteen seconds. Some scientists have reported that the core temperature at the center of the earth is approximately twelve thousand degrees. To endure that for an eternity is unfathomable.

I can choose to stay stagnant here, at the bottom of the cliff, broken and unmoving. I can rage, I can wallow, I can blame, I can hide. I can let the severed parts of me sever all the rest. Or I can get up, dust myself off, and look back up. I can find a path that ensures I’ll never fall again, ensures that I don’t lose any more parts of myself. All I have to do is turn and follow my feet, one step at a time. So that’s what I’ll do.

Dawn finally wins over the last of the night. It shines like a beacon, lighting the way for the storm raging. I look behind us, eyeing the clouds that seem to be

You are rage and pain and fire, and you don’t know what to do with it. But I do. I’ll hurt you the way you want to be hurt. I’ll take you apart piece by piece and give you what you’re looking for. A reason to self-destruct. An excuse to be as low and dirty as you already feel.

I can choose to stay stagnant here, at the bottom of the cliff, broken and unmoving. I can rage, I can wallow, I can blame, I can hide. I can let the severed parts of me sever all the rest. Or I can get up, dust myself off, and look back up. I can find a path that ensures I’ll never fall again, ensures that I don’t lose any more parts of myself. All I have to do is turn and follow my feet, one step at a time.

We need to assess the damage to our people. All of the assassins died? Not one escaped?” “Hans, the American couple, and the man who attacked Raven all died.” Eric counted them off. “They were the only ones present. No mortal could have survived the intensity of the storm, or the killing rage in the animals. If there had been an unseen observer, Mikhail or the beasts would have known.” Gregori stirred tiredly, his enormous strength beginning to fade with his continuing efforts. “There was no other.” He said it imperiously, as if no one would think to question him, and of course they wouldn’t.

Gregori placed his hands over the wounds, closed his eyes, and went seeking out of his own body and into the one lying so hideously wounded, as still as death. Mikhail felt Raven’s stirring of pain. She flinched and tried to move away, tried to fade so that this new, painful sensation could not touch her. Mikhail surrounded her effortlessly, held her still for Gregori to do the intricate work of repairing damaged organs. Relax into it, little one. I am here in this place with you. I can’t do this. It was more a feeling than words. So much pain. Choose for us, then, Raven. You will not go alone. “No!” Jacques’s protest was sharp. “I know what you do, Mikhail. Drink now, or I will not continue the transfusion.” Fury welled up, shook Mikhail out of his semi-stupor. Jacques met the rage in his dark eyes with deliberate calm. “You are too weak from loss of blood to oppose me.” “Then let me feed.” There was cold fury, black as night, in those words. Pure menace, the threat of death. Jacques exposed his throat without hesitating, managing to prevent a groan of pain as Mikhail bit deep, fed hungrily, ferociously, like a savage animal. Jacques did not struggle or make a sound, offering up his life for his brother and Raven. Eric moved toward them as Jacques’s knees buckled and he sat down hard, but Jacques motioned him away. Mikhail lifted his head abruptly, his shadowed features so haunted and grief-stricken, Jacques ached for him. “Forgive me, Jacques. There is no excuse for my treatment of you.” “There is nothing to forgive when I offer freely,” Jacques whispered raggedly. Eric moved immediately to his side, supplying Jacques with blood. “How could anyone do such a thing to her? She is so good, so courageous. She risked her life to help a stranger. How could someone want to harm her?” Mikhail asked, raising his eyes toward the heavens. Silence was his only answer.

His eyes closed, savoring the feel of her body against his, the fact that he could want her with such intensity. He held her, wanting her, needing her, burning for her, not even understanding how such a firestorm could consume him. Reluctantly he lifted his head, his body raging at him. “Let us go home, Raven.” His voice was pure seduction. A slow smile curved her soft mouth. “I don’t think it’s safe. You’re the kind of man my mother warned me about.” He kept his arm possessively around her shoulders, shackling her to him. Mikhail had no intention of allowing her to leave his side again. His body urged her in the direction he wanted. They walked together in companionable silence. “Jacob wasn’t going to hurt me,” she denied suddenly. “I would have known.” “You were not touching him, little one, and it was lucky for him.” “He’s certainly capable of violence. It’s always hard to miss violence.” She flashed him her mischievous smile. “It clings to you like a second skin.” He tugged at her thick braid in retaliation for her teasing. “I want you to come stay in my home. At least until we find and dispose of the assassins.” Raven walked several steps in silence. He had said we, as if they were a team. That pleased her. “You know, Mikhail, it was the strangest thing today. Not one person at the inn or in the village seemed to know of the murder.” His finger flicked along her delicate cheekbone. “And you said nothing.” She flashed him a quelling glance from under long lashes. “Of course not. Gossiping is not my form of entertainment.

Eric, clean up here. Make certain no one will find their bodies,” he added as he lent his large frame as a shelter from the wild storm over Raven. “She is not dead,” Mikhail hissed, seeing the compassion in his brother’s eyes. “She is dying, Mikhail.” Jacques’s chest hurt with the knowledge. Mikhail dragged her to him, bent his head until his cheek lay against hers. I know you can hear me; you must drink, Raven. Drink deeply. He felt the faint stirring in his mind. Warmth, regret. So much pain. Let me go. I’m sorry. No! Never, sivamet--my love, do not talk. Just drink. For me, if you love me, for me, for my life, drink what I offer. Before Jacques could guess his intent and try to stop him, Mikhail jabbed deeply into his own jugular. Dark blood spurted. Mikhail forced her mouth to him, using every considerable power he possessed to force compliance. Her will obeyed, her body was almost too weak to follow. She swallowed what poured into her but could not draw deeply on her own. Bolt after bolt of lightning slammed to earth. A tree exploded, and rained fiery sparks. The earth heaved again, rolled, came apart at the seams. Gregori loomed over them, the darkest of the Carpathians, his pale eyes ice cold and holding the stark promise of death. “The wolves did their job,” Eric reported grimly. “The lightning and earthquakes will do the rest.” Jacques ignored him, gripping Mikhail’s shoulder. “Enough, Mikhail. You grow too weak. She has lost too much blood. She has internal injuries.” Black rage filled Mikhail. He threw back his head and roared his denial, the sound exploding through the forest and mountains like the booming of the thunder. Trees burst into flames around them, exploding like sticks of dynamite. “Mikhail.” Jacques refused to relinquish his hold. “Stop her now.” “She has my blood; it will heal her. If we can keep blood in her, get her into the soil, and perform the healing ritual, then she will live.” “Kaćak--stars, Mikhail. It’s enough.” Jacques’s voice held very real fear. Gregori touched Mikhail to draw his attention. Those pale eyes held command. “If you die, my old friend, we have no chance of saving her. We must work together if we are to do this thing.

He raked a hand through his thick hair. He needed to feed soon. There was a dark, cold anger in him. It crawled through his body, dangerous and deadly. Jacob was unscrupulous, even with his sister, it seemed. And he had looked upon Raven with lust. Raven looked up and found unblinking eyes on her. They were dark, fathomless, the eyes of a hunter. A prickle of unease ran down her spine. She felt her hand tremble as she smoothed out her skirt. “What is it?” Sometimes Mikhail looked like a strange, not the warm man she knew with laughter and tenderness in his heated gaze but someone calculating and cold, someone more lethal and cunning than she could imagine. Automatically her mind reached out to his. Do not. He slammed a block down hard. Raven’s lashes fluttered against a sudden spurt of tears. Rejection was painful anytime, and coming from Mikhail it hurt like hell. “Why, Mikhail? Why are you shutting me out? You need me. I know you do. You’re so willing to help everybody, be everything for everybody. I’m supposed to be your partner, be all things, everything to you. Let me help you.” She approached him slowly, cautiously. “You do not know what could happen, Raven.” He stepped backward, away from temptation, away from her pain. She smiled. “You always help me, Mikhail. You look after me. I’m asking you to trust me enough to let me be what you need.” He was allowing his mind block to fragment, bit by bit. She sensed grief mixed with rage at Noelle’s senseless murder and fear for Raven’s safety. Love, strong and growing, a hunger, sexual and physical. Raw need. Someone definitely needed to love and comfort this man. “I need you to do as I ask you,” he said in desperation, fighting the beast lifting its head hungrily. Her laughter was soft, enticing, the sound dancing over his skin. “No, you don’t. Too many people think your word is law. You need someone to defy you a little bit. I know you won’t hurt me, Mikhail. I can feel your fear of yourself. You think there’s something in you I can’t love, some kind of monster you’re afraid for me to see. I know you better than you know yourself.

When his mind was once more clear and calm, Mikhail trotted back to the blackened ruins, changing back into his own muscular form, complete with clothes, as he strode toward his brother. He was well aware that all of nature, everything he was so much a part of, could feel his ice-cold rage. It was buried deep, seething below the surface, disturbing the harmony in the air, in the forest. His enemies would not escape. Jacques straightened slowly, as if he had been waiting for hours. His hand went to the nape of his neck, rubbing at a kink. Mikhail and Jacques stared at one another, dark sorrow in their eyes. Jacques stepped forward and reached for Mikhail in an uncharacteristic show of affection. It was brief and hard, two stiff oak trees exchanging a hug. Mikhail knew Raven would have laughed at the two of them. Gregori remained hunkered down, low to the ground, his solid bulk rivaling the broad tree trunks. He was totally motionless, his shadowed face expressionless. His eyes were a slash of silver, of mercury forever moving restlessly in the granite mask. Gregori rose slowly, fluid power and raw danger. “Thank you for coming,” Mikhail said simply. Gregori. His oldest friend. His right hand. Their greatest healer, the relentless hunter of the undead.

He stood over his fallen enemy, fighting to control the beast in himself, the wild surge of triumph, the addicting rush of power that shook his body. He felt none of his earlier wounds, only sheer joy in the night, in his victory. The wildness in him grew dangerously, spread like molten fire. The wind whipped up and carried a scent. Raven. Mikhail’s blood surged hotly; his fangs ached, and hunger grew. He scented the humans, the one that had touched his lifemate. Bloodlust shook him, and the Carpathians stepped farther back as the power seemed to radiate from Mikhail’s body, as the need to kill nearly overwhelmed him. The wind swirled around him in a constant eddy, and Raven’s scent remained elusive and faint. Raven. His body clenched, burned. Raven. The wind whispered her name, and the turbulent storm raging in him began to ease. Mikhail’s mind reached for the light, the path back from the world of violence. “Destroy every evidence of this thing,” he snapped tersely, to no one in particular. He moved with blinding speed back inside the ruins of the vampire’s lair, materialized out of thin air, and loomed over Monique, who was holding Raven’s lifeless body in her arms, rocking her.

Shea stared out the window of the cabin into the driving rain. The droplets looked like tiny silver threads streaming from the gray sky. She shivered for no reason and crossed her arms protectively across her breasts. “What’s wrong, Shea?” Raven asked softly, not wanting to intrude. “Jacques just cut himself off completely from me.” Shea swallowed hard. All this time she had been so certain she needed her freedom from the continuous bond between them, but now that Jacques had withdrawn, she felt almost as if she couldn’t breathe. “I can’t reach him. He won’t let me.” Raven sat up straighter, her face going very still. Mikhail? Leave me for now, he ordered. Raven caught the impression of fear for Jacques’ sanity, the swirling, violent rage that had welled up in the Carpathian males just before Mikhail broke the mind contact with her. She cleared her throat cautiously. “Sometimes they try to protect us from the harsher aspects of their lives.” Shea whirled around to face her, eyebrows up. “Their lives? Aren’t we bound to them? Haven’t they done something to irrevocably bind us to them so that there is no way to leave them? It isn’t just their lives. They brought us into this, and they have no right to arbitrarily decide what we can and can’t know.” Raven swept a hand through her blue-black hair. “I felt the same way for a long time.” She sighed. “The truth is, I still feel the same way. But we persist in judging them by our human standards. They are a different species of people altogether. They are predators and have a completely different view of right and wrong.

Jacques! My God, he’s killed Raven! Gregori! I’m sorry, I couldn’t save her. Shea was fighting, kicking and punching, and didn’t even realize it until Wallace hit her repeatedly in the face. “Shut up! Stop that screaming or I’ll knock you out.” He hit her twice more. “Damn vampires think they’re so smart. It was so easy, wasn’t it, Uncle Eugene?” Shea was sobbing uncontrollably, almost immune to the pain of Wallace dragging her by her injured arm. Warmth stirred in her mind. Shea? We need you to look at the man holding you, look around the room slowly and picture everything exactly the way you see it. Jacques’ voice was calm and unruffled, no hint of rage or anger, simply a cool wind of logic. We are all three linked and can aid you. Raven is dead! They shot her! she cried hysterically in her mind, afraid to move or call further attention to herself, lest she endanger Jacques in some way. Just do as I tell you, love. Look around the room. Study your enemy and picture every detail in your mind so that we can see him. Jacques was tranquil, breathing steadily and slowly to help her control her own breathing. Block out everything else. What they say does not matter. What they do does not matter. Give us the data we need.

Don Wallace found himself floating in the air, his scattergun on the ground below. The flames died as suddenly as they had begun, but his arm was a mass of charred flesh. Still screaming, he struggled with his one good hand to pull his revolver out of his shoulder holster. He was horrified when it seemed to take on a life of its own and slowly pointed itself at him. His own finger found the trigger and compulsively settled over it. Shea made a sound in her throat. This was a scene from a horror film, yet she couldn’t look away. A huge black wolf burst from the underbrush, running flat out. It leapt into the air, its gleaming jaws closing around Wallace’s leg. Bones snapped like twigs as the wolf pulled the man to the ground and thrust its fangs at his exposed throat. Shea was released from the mind hold and scrambled to her feet, rushing at the wolf tearing at the struggling man. “Jacques! No! You can’t do this!” For one bizarre moment the wolf turned its head to look at her, and time stood still. She recognized Jacques’ icy eyes and felt his triumph raging in her mind. Gregori yanked her arm as he emerged from the woods running, still half wolf, half man, changing as he ran. “Come on, we have no time. Damn it, Shea, I need you. You are a doctor, a healer. Come with me.” He did not release her arm, and she was forced to sprint with him up the steps into the cabin. Gregori shoved Slovensky’s body out of the way with a boot. “Listen to me, Shea. We will have to do this together. Raven has shut down her body as much as she dared. Mikhail is keeping her and the child alive, but she is very weak, and the child is in trouble. You have to repair the damage done to Raven, and I will save the child.

Well, as you American’s say, time to pee in his cheerios,” I said laughing.

man of stark passions. This woman knows exactly how to incite them… and how to calm them down. The King goes from barely reserved to ravenously passionate. I dare a quick glimpse at Dagan. He’s watching the display with complete apathy. But I cannot help but feel the stirring of some very bad, very unwanted emotions in my gut. I tear my eye away from the heavily muscled vampire. If anybody even suspected my secret… Quickly, I stem those thoughts. Better not entertain the horrendous possibilities. Eventually the King lets his woman go. He yanks her to his side and openly gropes her ass. Some of the rage has flowed out of him. “You should not chastise poor Riyu so,” Beatrice says sweetly. “If the fault lies with anyone, it is with me. Yes, I let both your lieutenant and his trusted under servant assume the command came from you. I take the blame.” Her voice turns sultry. “So punish me, if you’re going to punish anyone.” A growl of deep desire comes from the King’s throat. I don’t know the sort of bedroom games they play, nor do I want to. “Later,” he promises. “When we are in a more suitable space.” “The King can do as he pleases anywhere,” Beatrice reminds him. “Dismiss all these men, and have me now.” A trickle of discomfort goes down my spine. “I would, but I am not done with them.” “Then tell them what you want. But be quick about it. My recent activities have given me quite the appetite for…” She leans in and whispers the final word in his ear. It sounds a lot like “lock.” The atmosphere in the room shifts. Few know exactly the sort of experiments Beatrice runs underground. But all have heard the agonizing screams, the shrieks for mercy, which occasionally drift up from her “laboratories.” Vampires are ruthless killers. None of us shy away from a little blood. But what Beatrice

They had crossed the plains and made homes in these savage mountains and borne their myriad afflictions not because they were brave pioneers pursuing a dream. They had come for no other reason but that their ravenous hearts raged with greed.

You are more than you believe you are. Do not let sorrow and pain swallow that.

My eyes flash with uncontrollable rage and the next thing I know, I’ve shifted. My duck takes over, and she is a form of feathered fucking fury.

...black, a color of lust, decaying and ending of all things. Or, perhaps, it just marks the blackness of the deepest rage, when the mind lowers itself to the coldest depths and when you lose control over yourself.

You can learn a hundred swings and fancy battle dances, as well as the hundred tricks, but they will be of use to you as much as the spoon with a hole in the middle or a toothless comb. Adversaries are broken by a blind and bloody rage.

I’ll be the villain for you. He is the epitome of death and revenge. The personification of rage.

It’s like my heart—my fucking soul—has been torn from my chest, leaving me to gape. I’m hollow with nothing but the echo of her and the reverberation of fury. I imagine my aura must be a pit of malevolence churning in the deepest shade of black, because this rage…it will consume me wholly. And I’ll let it.

Auren, you can let go now.” My brow furrows. Let go? I don’t want to let go. I want to continue to rage. I want to take my gold that was stolen from me, and punish everyone in my path. I want to be the monster that’s been held back for far too long.

But me? I’m not returning to Brackhill yet. Because the seething rot still thumps beneath my skin. The raging wind thunders in my ears, and my fury clamors in a deafening roar. Because I can’t get to her. So I’ll take vengeance instead.

Rip’s mouth curves. “Good. Use your rage to complete your courage.

Because now that I’m forced to feel what I didn’t want to, I have a decision to make. I can choose to stay stagnant here, at the bottom of the cliff, broken and unmoving. I can rage, I can wallow, I can blame, I can hide. I can let the severed parts of me sever all the rest.

Gnarled hands turned young. A lined face became beautiful and lovely. White hair darkened to raven black. But Nesta bellowed and bellowed, letting her magic rage, unleashing every ember. Erasing the queen beneath her from existence. The young hands turned to ash. The pretty face dissolved into nothing. The dark hair withered into dust. Until all that was left of the queen was the Crown on the ground.

Because now that I’m forced to feel what I didn’t want to, I have a decision to make. I can choose to stay stagnant here, at the bottom of the cliff, broken and unmoving. I can rage, I can wallow, I can blame, I can hide. I can let the severed parts of me sever all the rest. Or I can get up, dust myself off, and look back up. I can find a path that ensures I’ll never fall again, ensures that I don’t lose any more parts of myself. All I have to do is turn and follow my feet, one step at a time. So that’s what I’ll do.

And they should fear me, the power I possessed, and the bright, ravenous rage that now fuelled my every breath. From that moment onwards, even I did not know what I was capable of.

Use your rage to complete your courage.

But I am a conduit for a god. And my god is rage.

No one was able to get away, though. Not from me. Not from my rage.