Extraits

He pulls me around to meet his gaze, his other hand rising to cup my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone. I can’t remember the last time someone looked at me so softly - treated me so softly. Like I’m precious. Not precious like china, or glass, something cold and brittle to be wrapped up and put away from harm, never taken out in case it gets damaged. But precious like I’m necessary. Precious like I mean something.

Staying to fight monsters - that kind of nonsense is for the dying type. The hero type. That’s not me. I’m the surviving type.

“Frightened people do stupid things, Alva. They don’t listen to reason.”

“If you end up dead because of this, I will never forgive you,” he says, looking back at me. “I mean it.”

“Alva, you’re just a girl.”

“No such thing as ‘just a girl’, Maggie,” I say. “You should know that better than anyone.”

I find her scorn comforting. There might be monsters in the world, and we might be in their lair, but Cora Reid still thinks I’m worthless. The whole world hasn’t turned completely upside down.

Here are the rules of living with a murderer.

One: Do not draw attention to yourself.

I would have chalked it up to folklore, or ignorance. Ancient people using monsters to explain what they couldn’t understand. Yet all the while the creatures were waiting. Biding their time.