In all that was to happen, there would be that feeling of inevitability and rightness, and the sense that the universe was conspiring in it. It would be easy.

For the way loneliness is worse when you return to it after a reprieve—like the soul’s version of putting on a wet bathing suit, clammy and miserable.

It was funny, she thought, but her smile turned wistful because she had nobody to tell.

Have you ever asked yourself, do monsters make war, or does war make monsters?

It was interesting the way a small hate could grow inside a big hate and take it over.

The audacity to love. Do you know what a gift that is?

She had been innocent once, a little girl playing with feathers on the floor of a devil's lair. She wasn't innocent now, but she didn't know what to do about it. This was her life: magic and shame and secrets and teeth and a deep, nagging hollow at the center of herself where something was most certainly missing.