Simon watched the bubbles struggle and die, but his apprentice did not stir under his hand. He waited for a while, keeping her head firmly submerged, but even when he knew she must be giving in, attempting to take breath, she did not stir ( Read more... )

Each footstep was a perfect echo of the ticking clock on Simon's bookshelf; his even pace to his work room was an exact cadence, one he practiced unconsciously ( Read more... )

She was walking down a long hall of dark blue curtains. She knew that it was a labyrinth made of these rippling drapes, and the air smelled faintly of something burning, as if some candle had spilled nearby ( Read more... )

(January 27, 1951... Frenchman Flat, Nevada, early morning ( Read more... )

Simon never hurries. He comes through the door quietly, and seats himself with generous poise, pinching at his already pristine trouser leg to make certain the crease falls the right way. Everything about him is tailored; the sheen of his hair, the perfect positioning of his spectacles, every fold of his antique wardrobe is pressed into service ( Read more... )

My front door opens on a back street in Morocco, where you can hear the calls to prayer like a faint summer wind, lost in the yellow peeling drab of the buildings. But the doorframe, it is like a mouth that speaks words from Heaven, for never does it open on the same place twice. All who pass through it are sublime, for this shop is not so easy to ( Read more... )

You are an SEDF--Sober Emotional Destructive Follower. This makes you an evil genius. You are extremely focused and difficult to distract from your tasks. With luck, you have learned to channel your energies into improving your intellect, rather than destroying the weak and unsuspecting ( Read more... )

Following Isabella was not difficult. The pain that leaked off of her skin left a red haze in the air, and it lingered in thin sinister curls for a long time after her passing. Something recent had opened an old wound, and I could follow her just as certain as if she'd left me a trail of blood, ink dropped from a pen that aches to write but cannot ( Read more... )

Marion didn't remember passing out, but the pain he felt when he woke up was familiar enough. His memories of running away from the Children were a progression of small, ugly injuries ( Read more... )

Breathing slowly, with a rasping sound, Lucas crouched in a nest of old blankets and newspapers, crusted now with old blood, just as he was. Isabella had to take a moment to distinguish him from his surroundings ( Read more... )