Quotes About Blood

Gavriel was half in love with death. He'd lost a lover to it and put his own brother in a grave, so maybe it was no surprise that he stalked murderers through the city streets, sinking his fangs into their jugulars and gulping down their blood. Every night, it was as though he avenged his brother by killing some stand-in for himself.

Little queen," Madoc says with a crooked smile. Despite not sharing blood with Oak, the mischief in his expression is familiar. "All grown up and come to devour your maker. I can't say as I blame you.

They ran through the night together in a darkling fairy tale of blood and forests and snow, of girls with raven's wing hair and rose-red lips and sharp teeth as white as milk.

Cardan stands over me. His jacket is thrown on a nearby chair, the velvet soaked through with some dark substance. His white sleeves are rolled up, and he's washing my hands with a wet cloth. Getting the blood off them. I try to speak, but my mouth feels like it is full of honey. I slide back into the syrupy dark.

If one of the people who'd gone Cold drank human blood, the infection mutated. It killed the host and then raised them back up again, Colder than before. Cold through and through, forever and ever.

I've seen the hood, kept under glass in the armory. The fabric is stiff and stained a brown so deep it's almost black, except for a few smears of green. Sometimes I go down and stare at it, trying to see my parents in the tide lines of dried blood. I want to feel something, something besides a vague queasiness. I want to feel more, but every time I look at it, I feel less.

Inside the carriage, Cardan slumps. I stare at him, at the blood drying in tide lines over his body and crusting in his curls like tiny garnets. I force myself to look out the window instead. 'How long have I-' he hesitates. 'Not even three days,' I tell him. 'Barely any time at all.' I do not mention how long it has seemed. Nor do I say how he might have been trapped as a serpent for all time, bridled and bound. Or dead.

The Thorn of Istra, the mad vampire. She thought of the grainy video of him she had seen, head tipped back, so covered in blood that she hadn't remembered his features, hadn't remembered him as looking like anything but a monster, laughing, endlessly laughing. Mad as a dog. Mad as a god. Gavriel.

And as the whiskey sang through her blood and sweat slicked her skin, a dangerously familiar recklessness filled her.

His eyes narrow on the blood, and he points the wooden stick at me. 'You seem to have cut yourself.' I wonder if he's surprised that I'm alive. I wonder if he watched the tower the whole time during his luncheon, waiting for the amusing spectacle of me jumping to my death. I take the knife out from under my tunic and show it to him, stained a flinty red. I smile. 'I could cut you, too.

The rug was turning red. --- The smell of fresh blood was heavy in the air, like wet, hot metal. Like those scrubbing pads Mom used to clean the frying pans when stuff was really stuck on.

in the mortal world, there are such things as backyards. Here, there are forest and sea, rocks and mazes, flowers that are red only when they get fresh blood.

The servants are overfond of telling me how fortunate I am, a bastard daughter of a faithless wife, a human without a drop of faerie blood, to be treated like a trueborn child of Faerie.

Fishies. Fishies. Putting on their feet. Marry a fish and life will be sweet. Fry her in a pan and pick out her bones. Fishy blood is cold 'top a throne.

You know what the sun looks like?" Kaye asked. There was only a little more than a slice of red where the sea met the sky. "No, what?" Janet said, holding the lipgloss out to Kaye. "Like he slit his wrists in a bathtub and the blood is all over the water." "That's gross, Kaye." "And the moon is just watching. She's just watching him die. She must have driven him to it.

He doesn't fall like the others. Instead of blood pouring from his wound, red moths stream out, in to the air. They rush out of him so quickly that in a moment, the High King's body is gone and there are just those red moths, swirling up in to the air in a vast cloud, a tornado of soft wings. But whatever magic made them does not last. They begin to fall until they are scattered across the dais like blown leaves. The High King Eldred is, impossibly, dead.

I can smell spiced wine in the air, but not yet the other perfume of tournaments- fresh blood.

I am at lessons in the palace grove, sitting in the long shadows of the late afternoon. The moon has already risen, a sharp crescent in the cloudless blue sky. I draw a star chart from memory, my ink a dark red that clots on the paper. It's blood, I realise. I am dabbing my quill into an inkpot full of blood.

King of the land, I am not here to fight your sharp tongue. My blood is cold and I prefer blades.

Hey, Hazel?" he called softly in the upstairs hall, and she turned. "What did he kiss like?" There was a confusion of emotions on his face—longing and maybe a little jealousy and a whole lot of curiosity. She snorted a surprised laugh, her bad mood dissolving. "Like he was a shark and I was blood in the water." "That good?" he asked, grinning.

I curse you," Valerian whispers. "I curse you. Three times, I curse you. As you've murdered me, may your hands always be stained with blood. May death be your only companion. May you-" He breaks off abruptly, coughing. When he stops, he doesn't stir.

Little queen,' Madoc says with a crooked smile. Despite not sharing blood with Oak, the mischief in his expression is familiar. 'All grown up and come to devour your maker. I can't say as I blame you.

Gold fabric and glittering gems are drowning in scarlet.

Political liberty, the tranquility of a nation, nay, knowledge itself, are gifts on which destiny has laid a tax of blood!