She stepped closer to one of the statues. It looked wide-eyed, almost afraid as she reached out her hand. One of the women reached out and snatched Aislinn's still uplifted hand. "No." The women spoke all at once, not to her or to Keenan, but softly-as if to themselves-in a sibilant whisper. "He's ours. Fair exchange. Not yours to interfere.

...Bananach sits on your throne, has declared herself Dark Queen." "She WHAT!?" Niall- or perhaps Irial-asked.

Over a four-month period, I sat down and wrote every day. And then there was a novel, and all of a sudden, there were agents and offers.

In the end mortals always expired before faeries. They were such finite creatures. Their first heartbeat and breath were but a blink from death. To add the weight of nourishing his insatiable court in a time of peace was to hasten that unconscionably.

She was afraid, but she couldn't just sit around waiting for someone to save her. She had to try to save herself, try to figure it out.

They've been stealing mortals away for centuries, but they can't have you.

Chase away sorrow by living