The Witch Collector Quotes

Something must always be lost if you’re ever to gain. Don’t fear this. You will never move forward if you never leave things behind.

Fire of my heart, come that I may see you, warm my weary bones, be my place of rest.

In another life, I would’ve tried to know her. I would’ve admired her and read her poems written by my own hand. I would’ve walked with her through fields of stardrops, danced with her in the stream.

It would be best if you didn’t look at me like that.” I lean closer and lick my lips. “Like what?” He gives me a piercing look. “Like you want me to kiss you. Because I will.

There is no love without fear, but no one told me that fear feasts on those with something to lose.

It’s hard to despise someone who lights up the world when they smile.

There is no victory without sacrifice.

How do you feel, Raina? Listen to your misery. Listen to your rage. If you’re angry, let it boil. If you’re heartbroken, let your heart shatter.” His lips graze my ear, sending a rogue chill down my spine. “And if you hate, hate with the fire of a thousand suns.

I have trouble controlling my base emotions when the moon is full, but anger is the hardest for me. If I'm mad, I turn into the Hulk. Except I'm not green.

I fight fine in a dress.

There is no love without fear, but no one told me that feat feasts on those with something to lose.

What are you scared of?” he asks, his voice so soft. “What is it you fear when it comes to me?” I look up at him, and a thousand answers chase through my mind. The truth boils down to one thing, though, a truth I can’t hold inside anymore. “That I will never let myself know what it is to be yours. That I will deny myself this. Deny myself you. Out of fear.” I pat his chest before continuing. “Because I am so scared of losing anyone else.

And if you hate, hate with the fire of a thousand suns.

Idon’t know much about Alexus Thibault, but I do know he’s as heavy as a fucking ox.

Unfailing. When I’m grieving, he provides comfort. When I’m angry, he lets me rage but tempers my fury. When I’m frightened, he’s right there beside me, facing whatever comes my way. And sometimes tossing pebbles to scare me.

To the right collector, the Witchfinder Army’s library would have been worth millions. The right collector would have to have been very rich, and not have minded gravy stains, cigarette burns, marginal notations, or the late Witchfinder Lance Corporal Wotling’s passion for drawing mustaches

To say it was a dark and stormy night would be a gross understatement. It was colder than witch's kiss, wetter than a spring swamp, and blacker than a tax collector's heart. A sane man would have been curled up in front of a fire with a cup of mulled wine and a good boo-, ah, a willing wench.

You will never move forward if you never leave things behind.

He couldn't stop staring at her cleavage... The vee in between beckoned him like a bee to nectar.

How about you ask me something like, "What do you want more than anything?" and I reply with, "A hellhound in my bed"?

Neve, you're wicked," he groaned as she rocked up against him even harder. "I hope that's not a problem for you," she panted.

it

Finn has been my first everything. My first friend. My first fight. My first kiss. My first lover. My first heartbreak.

He pulls back and runs his thumb over my lips. “Raina Bloodgood, your mouth will be my ruin.” Tenderly, he kisses my forehead, then turns to leave.

There is no love without fear.  I can’t call this love—not yet—but I have to wonder if it could become something extraordinary. Eventually. I’ll never know if I let this night pass me by.

Elias Ashmole, a seventeenth-century book collector and alchemist whose books and papers had come to the Bodleian from the Ashmolean Museum in the nineteenth century, along with the number 782.

There is magick even in this,” he whispers against my ear. “If you close your eyes, if you search, you’ll see the threads of my desire for you. We’re connected now. You just need to draw the threads inside you. We can tangle our magick. Even though mine is weak, it will still make this night like nothing you’ve ever known.

The moment this is over, you're mind," Diesel all but groaned, keeping his eyes on the road so he wouldn't pull over and take her right there. "No, wolf, you're mine." the look on his face went immediately from lust to yearning. "That's right," she said with a sigh. "We're going to finish what we started. And then do it all over again.

The moment this is over, you're mine," Diesel all but groaned, keeping his eyes on the road so he wouldn't pull over and take her right there. "No, wolf, you're mine." the look on his face went immediately from lust to yearning. "That's right," she said with a sigh. "We're going to finish what we started. And then do it all over again.

You’re doing it again,” he says, the smallest of smiles tipping one corner of his mouth. I frown. “Doing what?” “Looking at me like you want me to kiss you.” I sign nothing. Instead, I slip my arms around his neck and thread my fingers through his hair once more. If I’m obvious, so be it.

There is no love without fear, but no one told me that fear feasts on those with something to lose. That’s been my problem all along, and though everything looks very different now when I gaze at my life, that part remains steadfast and true.

Magick can be created from a song, but it isn’t required. In truth, the most powerful magick is conjured from the deepest parts of our souls, not with voices or hands or anything else. But, no matter how a conjurer builds their magickal constructs, it must come from the heart. You know this, yes? Born of emotion, love, hope, sadness, desperation, all tied to ancient commandments of the old gods. The words are easy. Reaching for the emotion is what’s hard.

Now, when I try to decipher who my real enemies are in this game, I'm no longer sure. The game is bigger than I ever dreamed, and I'm its newest player.

We aren't anything like strangers anymore, and certainly nothing like enemies. Compassionate like friends. Tender like lovers.

I taste what remains of his power. The potent flavor is as sweet as fresh honey on my tongue. Dark. Promising. Consuming.

I taste what remains of his power. The potent flavor is as sweet as fresh honey on my tongue. Dark. Promising. Consuming. And I know, beyond any doubt, that I’ve tumbled headfirst into the worst kind of trouble.

A man made of shadows, souls, and sin.

I sense no power inside you anymore. Just useless immortality. What’s the point in living forever if you’re boring?

His body is so beautiful—so sculpted and powerful—that I couldn’t look away if the moon fell from the sky.

NOW

I form the words with my hands, drawing from the torch fire around us, channeling all my power into lighting these little pricks up like fireflies.

Imagine that, surrounded by your loved ones, you and your disease-riddled body have finally just breathed your last. No, scratch that. It’s really much more vile than that, because, even though you still had much life left in you, you’ve just been put to death, and not just in the most painful of ways, but, treacherously, by those whom you thought truly loved you, or, if not that, then, at the least, valued and respected you! Fortunately, or unfortunately, you disappear into the mists of time, and that means neither you nor your beloved face will ever be seen again. That one of those who had so cruelly abused you might ever try to track you down, or even be able to, is not possible, right? No, of course not, because, as we all know, birth is the beginning and death is the end of all that ever accidently took place in between. Whether birth is the beginning and death actually the end, it certainly is how the badly disfigured, yet somehow still disturbingly alluring, Virginia Finsterwald thinks. So, when a dying lady shows up at her door - with a duplicate version of her own previously perfect face - it would be impossible for the former spy, now private detective, to take this event as anything more than mere Happenstance. Meanwhile, just a couple of blocks up the way, Virginia’s principal patron is confronted by a woman who, inexplicably, has the exact face of his aunt, only, she had been lynched when he was a child! As a highly educated man who believes only in materials and reason, the only way Alistair Alligood, the a multi-zillionaire collector of gender-dysphorick pubescent boys, can prevent being undone by this unsettling matter is by writing it off, and yet:------does he really believe that such an occurrance is mere Happenstance? Maybe so, but, what is not mere Happenstance are the church exorcists, psychicks, mesmerists, physicians, psychologists, and mediums who, when Alistair Alligood falls gravely ill, war with each other over whether he is bodily ill, suffering from past-life trauma, under a witch’s spell, and or is it that he has become demon possessed? What unravels behind the curtain of Alistair’s malady is a centuries’long tale of Poisonings, Duels, Rape, Revenge, Possession, the Black Arts, and Taboo Familial Doings, the seeds of which will miscegenize and explode in ’Beyond The Last Breath’.

There is no love without fear and no victory without sacrifice.

...valuable things get locked away.

Gods’ balls, what in the bloody blazes?

We aren’t anything like strangers anymore, and certainly nothing like enemies. Compassionate like friends. Tender like lovers.

Outside of the bizarre crow murder, she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I also know that he fled a life he didn’t want, duty he did not choose, all to make a better path for himself and his family. And I, better than anyone, understand that. Sliding my hands over his shoulders and up his neck into his hair, I lean closer. I don’t want to talk anymore.

It gets worse,” he says,

One by one, the Witch Collector casts petals into the unhurried current where hundreds of blossoms float away to the river. “A stardrop for every soul,” he says, whispering the words like a prayer. It isn’t lost on me that he’s performing a ritual of my people. In Silver Hollow, Littledenn, Penrith, and Hampstead Loch, it’s customary to say a prayer to the Ancient Ones for the newly dead and provide a simple offering of the valley’s most beloved bloom.

Witch’s marks—that I’ve never had before. Vaguely, I recall noticing them when the Prince of the East came after me. Gold for life magick, red for healing magick, silver for common magick—like the protective magick we build at the wood’s boundary. The violet must be for Sight. All I can do is stare, disbelieving. “It was your mother,” the Witch Collector says. “She was far more powerful than anyone knew. She hid your marks, as well as her own, but…” He pauses, and compassion fills his eyes as he takes my cold hand, folding it inside his warmer one. “When she passed, the magick fell apart, and your marks became visible. I watched them appear on the green, Raina.

Nephele taught me years ago, a way to pass time,” he signs, moving his hands with flawless precision. “And because she missed you. She made me swear I would never choose her sister on Collecting Day. Your mother needed at least one of her daughters to care for her with your father gone. I promised that Raina Bloodgood would never leave Silver Hollow. Not by my hand.” His words are a shock to my entire being. I’ve never been chosen—not due to my lack of skill and witch’s marks—but because my mother shielded me and my sister asked the Witch Collector to spare me. I can’t wrap my mind around any of it. The thought that Mother knew what I was capable of and that my sister could ask the Witch Collector for my protection and have her wish granted seems so very wrong.

I owe it to your sister to get you to Winterhold without harm,” he continues. “But, as I said, I am no liar, and we are running out of bloody time, so I must be honest with you about what we face. A sennight past, word reached Winterhold that the Prince of the East planned to break King Regner’s treaty with the Northlands. To be certain the news was correct, we needed a certain kind of magick. The kind only you possess. You were to be my choice for Collecting Day because your sister claims you have the true gift of Sight. But I was too late.

With your gift,” he says, “we could’ve foreseen an attack. Maybe we could’ve found a way to stop the Eastlander army before they became a threat. Maybe we might’ve saved everyone in the vale. Nephele knew that and knew she had to tell us what you were capable of. She was only doing what anyone who loves their homeland would do. She was trying to protect it. Do not fault her.

The Eastlanders didn’t come to the vale to kill villagers and leave. It was never about us at all. We were only in the way. A deterrent to remove. A threat to silence. “They want to reach Winterhold,” I sign. “Why?” The muscles in the Witch Collector’s jaw tense, and his eyes turn hard as river-worn stones. “They want the Frost King. They are on their way to capture him now. They breached the forest last night.” Unsure which rising emotion to hold onto, I glance toward Frostwater Wood in the distance. In truth, I don’t care about the Frost King’s safety. But my sister, and all those Witch Walkers…they’re the strongest of the vale. Will their voices be enough against the Eastlanders? Or will they be cut down for protecting an unworthy king?

Ican’t process the girl I’m seeing. Helena is here. In the wood. Alive.

You’re thinking too hard.” He taps his chest. “Magick can be created from a song, but it isn’t required. In truth, the most powerful magick is conjured from the deepest parts of our souls, not with voices or hands or anything else. But, no matter how a conjurer builds their magickal constructs, it must come from the heart. You know this, yes? Born of emotion, love, hope, sadness, desperation, all tied to ancient commandments of the old gods. The words are easy. Reaching for the emotion is what’s hard.

She couldn't take her eyes off him. He had sandy-blond hair and piercingly green eyes. Today he wore a deep-red T-shirt with the word BOUNCER printed across the back. The material pulled tightly over his muscular chest. He was a specimen. But the most striking feature about him was his smile. The man was bewitching, and Sofia knew a thing or two about bewitching.

Diesel had gotten his nickname because he was built like a Mack truck. .... He stood six feet, six inches tall and his muscles had muscles.

Luke picked up a piece of paper lying on the seat. "Camden Hills Avenue in the Badlands Golf Club." Luke chuckled. "Going to find a criminal in the Badlands. It kind of has an ironic ring to it.

Diesel," she moaned, "you are so damn sexy." He paused, breaking the kiss, his eyes filled with wanting as he gazed down on her. Then his mouth went up at an angle. "No, that would be you, Sofia. You are unbelievable. I don't think I've ever seen anyone who hold a candle to you.

Diesel" - his name sounded sweet coming out of her mouth --"I want you, and I mean I really, really want you. Please. Let's go back to my room.

Most battles are hard-fought. Something must always be lost if you’re ever to gain. Don’t fear this. You will never move forward if you never leave things behind.

there are those born with the calling and inner knowledge of its practice. These people love plants, animals, and nature, those who are naturals at taking care of anything green, healers, great cooks, tea lovers and collectors, and all those who love making their perfumes and essential oils.

another life, I would’ve tried to know her. I would’ve admired her and read her poems written by my own hand. I would’ve walked with her through fields of stardrops, danced with her in the stream. This is not another life.

There is darkness inside me too,” I sign. “Perhaps our darknesses can be friends.

Witch Walkers sing their magick, in Elikesh, the language of the Ancient Ones. Born without the ability to speak, I learned to weave magickal constructions by translating Elikesh using the language Mother taught me—a language of signs spoken with hands.

I want peace. To be surrounded by those I love. For them to be safe. To know joy. To know passion. To know serenity.

Think of the thing you want most in this world. It’s where true power comes from. We often hold the most will for our strongest desires.

Shhh. There now, don’t weep. It’s over. You’re safe.” His voice is still so warm, so gentle. It’s the kind of voice a woman could find solace in, a voice that could conquer even the strongest will.

We’ll meet again, Keeper,” he mutters. “And when we do, I’m going to drive that knife into your heart and inhale your pathetic little soul.

Sing me alive.” He glances toward my mother. “I saw you. Heard you. I know you can. D-don’t…let me die here. We can’t…let them…win. Sing me alive.

Mother used to say that grief always strikes when we least expect it, and that we rarely realize how those we love inhabit even the most seemingly inconsequential parts of our lives. It’s in those moments that the pain of their absence strikes so much deeper, because the time we took for granted suddenly shines in sharp relief.

You need to calm down,” he grits out, pressing his forehead to mine, holding even that part of me at bay. “I am not your enemy. Not anymore. If you want answers, I suggest you stop trying to kill me and let me explain.

You have fire in you. I don’t despise it.

That is the only positive thing about our current situation. Well, that and neither of us is dead yet.

She labeled me well enough, calling me an idealist with volatile tendencies and someone who struggles with a mundane existence. She called me impulsive, impatient, and imaginative, a restless being who needs freedom to flourish and love to thrive.

When I’m grieving, he provides comfort. When I’m angry, he lets me rage but tempers my fury. When I’m frightened, he’s right there beside me, facing whatever comes my way. And sometimes tossing pebbles to scare me.

Finn and I aren’t together anymore, not in the way we once were, but he’s still my comfort, even when he’s impossible. I don’t know how to live life without him, but I fear I’ll have to. When the moment arrives today, I’ll still give him—and his family—a choice, but if I’m honest with myself, he made that decision three years ago.

rope looped at my side before I realize that Raina is shaking her head, still pointing. I look down. Take a judicious half-step closer. A warrior’s face stares at us from beneath the ice. I glance around, only to see more faces and horses too. The Witch Walker magick created a tomb, all right. Eastlanders lurk beneath the surface, their last moments of fear forever frozen on their icebound faces. I pray to the Ancient Ones that this part of the construct swallowed the entirety of the prince’s army—him included. “Get off this patch of ice,” I tell Raina. “It’s too thin.

This can’t be right. His threads are…smoldering. Crumbling into flecks of ash and just as fragile. This is what I smelled on him earlier, but the distinct scents are clearer now. I still smell the septic yarrow—it’s overpowering—but beneath it hides the aroma of fire, of a sweltering day, of dust and earth. This is the scent of someone’s death, but the Prince of the East is very much alive. I look closer. The threads of his wound need to be entwined to heal, but they’re not just burning. They’re all wrong. There are two threads for every instance there should be one, coiled around one another tightly. I’m too curious not to look at his life threads as well. They’re not burning, but they’re not golden either. And again, there are two for every one. This time, it doesn’t look like any sort of weaving. One of the strands crawls up the other, clinging like a disease. Both bear the pallid colors of decay, but there’s something more. There are dozens of loose filaments floating around the main threads, whisper-thin as gossamer, like the dead husks of old strands. I swear I sense another person, some presence writhing to break free, but that’s impossible. Except—it’s not. Alexus’s threads had multiples, the residue of glimmering shadows. Because he contained the soul of a god.

A strange compulsion comes over me. I reach out and touch the prince’s temple. He flinches but doesn’t stop me. An image flashes across my mind, a man in a dank cell, a tower overlooking a foamy, wild sea. He lies on a stone bed in a threadbare shift, unmoving. His skin appears leached of all color and spirit. His cheeks are hollow, his muscles wasted. There is skin, and there are bones, and there’s a breath of life, but it isn’t much. Just enough to keep him a hair’s breadth from losing his soul to the Shadow World. Gods. Losing his soul. Recoiling, I yank my hand away from the prince and press it to my chest, remembering my father’s words. The Prince of the East is a man who somehow steals life and magick from others to grant himself immortality and power his own dark desires. A man made of shadows, souls, and sin. The shadows are indeed here, always, and gods know he’s filled to the brim with sin.

But he also carries a soul. One who is an unwilling participant. One whose life and magick are being stolen. And if I had to guess, I’d say it’s the soul of a Summerlander in a dank cell overlooking the sea. The prince looks at me and smiles with one side of his mouth, an evil glint in his eyes. “See something you didn’t like?” My heart pounds in my ears. I’m shaken to my core. Those gossamer filaments—are those old souls he’s used up?

In the middle of Winter Road stands a naked, nebulous being with white hair down to his waist, pointed ears, and unmistakable lupine features—from slanted amber eyes to fangs tucked behind a curled upper lip. His hands are enormous, and though they have fingers, each digit is dark and claw-tipped, his palms more paw than flesh. He bares the lean, sinewy torso of a man, but he stands on the thickly muscled hind legs of a beast, covered in silky, pristine fur. I swallow. Hard. Part man. Part wolf. Neri.

But…wait. They do. Neri made Asha a deal. If she gave him her heart once again, this time for eternity, he would do the thing she could not. He would make Fia Drumera immortal as well, but worse, he would cast within her the element of fire, and in Colden Moeshka the element of frost, that they may never—for all their infinite days—come together again. Neri just removed the curse he placed three hundred years ago. And stole the Frost King’s power.

Un Drallag.” He spells the word with his hands. “Do you know what that name means?” “No,” I tell him. I’m not sure my father even knew what it meant. “It means The Gatherer. Under King Gherahn’s order, I was forced to roam the Eastern Territory and gather sorcerers for the king’s service during the Land Wars. Those who refused…” He casts his gaze toward the fire. “Those who refused died. At my command.

I have earned my title as Witch Collector,” he continues. “But the moment I had the chance, I fled that life and came to the valley with my wife and newborn son. We prospered for a time, until the king sent hunters to find us.” He meets my watering gaze. “They killed my family before I could do anything to stop them. Helena’s wraith made certain I relived that moment and so many others.

It gets worse,” he says, like he knows my thoughts. “I struggled after they were killed and became determined to bring my family back to the land of the living. I spent months traveling the world, ship to ship and shore to shore. I spoke with magi and witches and sorcerers and even a godling, until I finally felt that I could attempt the unthinkable. And I succeeded. Somewhat. I went to the Shadow World, but I did not come out alone.” I close my eyes. The world is spinning. “Your wife?” I ask, hands trembling. “Your child?” When I open my eyes, he shakes his head and touches the rune on his breast as a few tiny tears pearl in the rings of dark lashes shadowing his eyes. “My body is a cage, Raina,” he signs. “These runes are a trap. It takes all the magick that I possess, along with these runic boundaries, to keep that power subdued. When I channel it for my own use, like I did on the path, there is a risk that it will escape, that I will not be able to lock it down.” His voice comes out as a whisper. “I almost couldn’t contain it earlier. A hundred years ago, I was much better at wielding it, but I’ve had no need for it in so long that I’m weaker than I want to be. That inability to control this power is why I told you to leave me. I was so scared of hurting you or causing my magick to collapse and letting this thing loose, but it was your presence that made me win the fight.

Just say it,” I demand, every muscle in my body going taut. “What is this thing inside you?” Without hesitance or preamble, the collision finally comes. “It is Neri,” he signs.

Outside the complications with Alexus, the Prince of the East means to conquer the City of Ruin and raise Thamaos.

The Prince of the East is on his way to Winterhold, so now you must face General Vexx. And I won’t be able to save you.” He pauses, breathing hard against my face. “We’ve been following you ever since you blew up the godsdamn forest. The prince left others behind, but they failed, so he commanded his best battalion—mine, of course—to remain in this hellish place and find this knife you two have so pathetically protected.” He lets out a long, annoyed breath. “Warriors are coming down from the cliffs as we speak. Where is the woman? I can only help her if I know where she is.

whispers. “We’re being watched. I don’t have much time.” My free hand is splayed on the boulder. I stretch my fingers wide and lift my palm from the snow, an effort to show a silent moment of surrender. He leans close. “I’m a spy for the king. You don’t remember me. I was just a boy when I left Winterhold with my mother for the Eastland Territory. She was from Penrith.” His grip tightens, and he speaks through clenched teeth. “I sent a warning that the prince was coming. Why did you not heed?” Gods. The rumor.

Let me see your face.” “They can smell your fire, Thibault. They can’t see it, but they can smell it. They will sniff her out. Unless I get to her beforehand.” I grit my teeth. “Face. First.” He flips me over, and it takes a moment, but his face registers. If he was a boy when he left, and if he knew me, I have long forgotten him. But I do recognize him. The red-haired Eastlander I faced in Hampstead Loch. The warrior with the bloodless blade who stared me down and rode the other way. “The name’s Rhonin.” He glances up, only his eyes, his sharp gaze scanning the ravine. A heartbeat later, he raises a meaty fist and meets my stare. “Sorry about this, but I’m doing you a favor.” Above him, that odd and silent silver lightning splits the red sky. Then his fist comes down like a hammer, and my world goes black.

Raina lies in my arms. The prince almost took her from me, but a clever sorcerer marks what’s his. Raina Bloodgood now bears my rune. My power. My seal. My name. Alexi of Ghent. Shared with her.

I lost the Northland king and the God Knife to the enemy, Vexx fled the wood unscathed, and the Prince of the East and Neri are free. Matters could be worse. I have to keep reminding myself of that fact. The fight isn’t over.

He’s immortal. Something I knew, in a sense. He’s Un Drallag the Sorcerer. Alexi of Ghent, the prince called him. I knew he’d been alive for three hundred years. I just haven’t had time to wonder why.

I suppose not, but eternal life for me is very different, Raina. I’m bound to Colden’s immortality. The magi who created the spellwork between Colden and I are gone, and their unified magick is still strong. There is no undoing it. Are you understanding what I’m saying?” My chest tightens, and I feel sick, though the sudden flood of feelings attacking me makes no sense. It’s as though my body knows something my mind has yet to grasp. “No, I do not understand. You and I are bound—” “Yes, but the bond we share is only a connection. A link. If I lose my life, you do not lose yours. For Colden and me… We are two halves of the same whole, Raina. My immortality only goes so far as the king’s.

Alexus Thibault is bound to the Frost King unto death. If Colden Moeshka loses his life at the hands of the Prince of the East, he will take Alexus with him. And there won’t be a damn thing I can do to stop it.

He marked you. That is no small thing, Raina. He claimed you. Alexus has never claimed anyone. It’s an ancient rite. It means that he shared his power with you. If you don’t want that, you can tell him. It can be changed.

I would be riding into battle for Colden Moeshka, the man who gave all for my sister and me. I would be riding into battle for the future of Tiressia.” I turn to leave but face him once more. With my hands, I pound out a truth I need him to understand, a truth that’s quickly becoming more than I can stand. “And I would be riding into battle for you.