Tourist Season Brynne Weaver Quotes

Fuck you and your skinbook and your murder dimples and your stupidly beautiful eyes. I won't be swayed by a hot psychopath.

She’s obviously a terrible person and completely unhinged. And I one hundred percent do not find her in any way adorable. Absolutely not.

Grief is a phantom that never gives up. It never grows tired of haunting our hearts. It clings on, somehow surviving even when other memories drift away.

I’M SURE NOBODY GOES ON vacation expecting to be dismembered and put through a woodchipper, but some tourists are just assholes and deserve their fate.

Listen,” I say, dropping the severed hands to my sides, “if we’re going to be bitter enemies, I really think we need to improve our communication skills.

Nolan Rhodes said he would walk through hell to drag me out if I ever tried to run. But I don’t hide in hell. I bring it to life.

I’m in love with the woman I came here to kill.

It means I promised I would hunt you until the end of time. And what I get at the end of that hunt might change, but one thing remains the same. You’re mine, Harper. I’ll never let anyone take you from me. Not some asshole like McMillan. Not Sam Porter. Not even the sea.

We might have started as enemies. Two monsters who are missing their souls. But our shadows share a likeness.

Pretty murder bird,” Morpheus says from the garden wall. Our gazes cut toward him as he pecks the last of the morsels off the stone. “Nom, nom. C is for cookie.

If you run, I will find you. You can hide in the farthest reaches of the deepest hell, and I will still drag you out. Even the devil can’t save you from me.

You might have been sent from hell to torment me, but you feel just like heaven.

But I’m as powerless as the sea is against the moon.

Society never accepts every facet of a woman’s true nature— especially their grief and trauma and darkness—though it feasts on those things until it consumes them

Pretty murder bird,” Morpheus says from the garden wall. Our gazes cut toward him as he pecks the last of the morsels off the stone. “Nom, nom. C is for cookie.” Morpheus gives three knocking clucks and then mimics the sound of the diesel tractor engine. Nolan’s eyes slide to the woodchipper and then back to mine, disbelief now mixing with the revulsion that still simmers in his face. “Did you name your woodchipper after the beloved Sesame Street character Cookie Monster and then teach a raven to beg for human snacks made from the people you murdered?

Society never accepts every facet of a woman’s true nature—especially their grief and trauma and darkness—though it feasts on those things until it consumes them, leaving only a polished facade behind. The world wants a perfect victim. Not the creature a woman like me might choose to become to survive. The best we can hope for is to find another soul who can stand in our path with open arms to embrace us.

We’re stalled, unmoving, trying to come to terms with what we’re doing, this detour from fate that we’ve both accepted, even if it only lasts for a fleeting moment of time.

A bit. And now I’m helping a woman I want to kill to cover up murders committed by another serial killer. This is the most incestuous murder party I’ve ever heard of.

When suffering and grief threatened to finally destroy me, hunting Harper Starling was the only thing that kept me alive.

The most dangerous monster is the one right next to me. When he’s there, I’m not afraid of the dark.

She’s pretty fucking adorable when her feathers are ruffled.

If you hate me so much,” she says as I cup her breast and pinch her nipple to draw a gasp from her parted lips, “you’d better fuck me like you mean it.

I’ll make it hurt next time, if that’s what you want,” he whispers into my ear in a decadent vow. I shudder at the thought, my core clenching with immediate need. “But this time, you’re going to be my good girl and take it sweet.

I’M SURE NOBODY GOES ON vacation expecting to be dismembered and put through a woodchipper

I remember Mead smiling at Adam in return, but it never reached the lightless abyss of his eyes.

Calvert

There’s a very particular brand of fury. One I’ve seen in my own eyes. The kind that only blooms when the world peels back and you see the abyss of grief and loss and anguish that lurks beneath it. You might claw your way out, riddled with scars. You might hide your deepest, unhealing wounds just to make it through each day. You might survive it. But that’s the worst part. Because you can’t unsee it. You always know hell is there.

Cookie Monster has been my faithful tool through twelve tourists now, including Mr. Mahoney. And he’s always hungry for more. Just like me.

First, check into the hotel. Second, go for a walk to loosen things up. Maybe find a sandwich. Third, start hunting down that bitch to give her the slow and painful death she deserves for making me suffer immeasurable grief and pain and torture and indignity. Fourth, hot tub.

I thought I’d forgotten how to do this. How to flirt with a man. I thought I’d shut all that away years ago. I might be only a few months shy of twenty-nine, but I thought I’d buried those skills a long time ago. I thought they’d died the day I did.

When I first announced this series, so many of you asked, “Will you ruin any foods?” and “Will there be eyeballs?” You are truly phenomenal, and I love you. This one’s for you. … Also, YES.

Waiting for the water to boil theoretically takes two minutes, but it might as well be two hours. But I’ve learned something important in these years of waiting. The anticipation of reaching your goal is sometimes even better than the satisfaction of achieving it.

Somehow, his shadow is warmer than the sun.

I don’t know shit about topiaries.” “You’ll learn. I have faith in you.” “Please don’t.

He’s just a guy. A completely psycho serial killer guy with a decent skin suit and muscles for days and some cute dimples.” I squeeze my eyes shut and turn to lean against the counter. “You should just feed him to Cookie Monster and be done with it.

Fuck you and your skinbook and your murder dimples and your stupidly beautiful eyes. I won’t be swayed by a hot psychopath.” Then she would have plucked out his eyeballs, slit his throat, and exhumed all the bodies by herself. She’d know what to do with Sam and how to protect Arthur without getting caught. She wouldn’t need anyone’s help.

No matter where you go. No matter how long it takes,” I whisper. I lean a little closer. There’s only an inch or two of space between us. My glare fuses with hers and doesn’t let go. And Harper stares me down in reply. “If you run, I will find you. You can hide in the farthest reaches of the deepest hell, and I will still drag you out. Even the devil can’t save you from me.

What the fuck. I am not flirting with the woman I might kill. Will kill. I will kill her. Later.

We always think the scent of the ocean refreshes us. Cleanses us. There’s a rightness to that for humankind. We say it gives us peace when it’s really the smell of death and decay.

Knowing you’re going to lose something before it even starts can be a balm as much as it can be a wound.

I had to let go of the woman I used to be and glue my shredded pieces together with shadow and sin to feel anything close to whole again.

we’re just different branches of the same evolutionary tree.

Grief is a phantom that never gives up. It never grows tired of haunting our hearts. It clings on

Not just one taste. I’m not some fucking snack.” I spread my legs wider. A ravenous shadow descends across Nolan’s face. “If you start, you’re going to finish your fucking meal.

The world wants a perfect victim. Not the creature a woman like me might choose to become to survive. The best we can hope for is to find another soul who can stand in our path with open arms to embrace us.