Silk & Serif a book blog developed by Debbie. We are dedicated to reviews, the book community and all things "bookish"! The main focus of the blog being Fantasy, Science Fiction, Romance and YA novels.
We are live on Booklikes!
I stumbled on Booklikes while perusing the social media sites popular with bloggers. I cant wait to learn how this community works and broaden my network of book lovers. Hopefully, I will meet new people, find new authors and help others find different books and authors to enjoy!
That scent of lemons overshadowed the scent of death, and Owen breathed in, out and in again. From the moment he’d met her, she’d cleansed him, healed him, elevated him. He’d become so much more while he’d been with her. He’d become so much more because of her. She had loved him. She had saved him. He’d always wanted to tell her that, but he’d never been quite sure how. What he saw in her gaze made Owen tighten his fingers—to push her away, or pull her closer. He never knew, because she leaned over—so quick he had time to do nothing but say her name. A whisper. A plea. A prayer. And then she was kissing him; he was kissing her. The years fell away. It was their first kiss. Their last. That first one had been tentative—soft, a little afraid, yet so full of hope. The last had been shocked, a little tearful and full of despair. This one tasted of both. How strange. What did she hope for? What did she fear? Why did she despair?
"Every year, hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children across the nation depend on organ donations to survive. From kidney failure to liver cancer, and many diseases in between, families pray for the day when their loved ones will be the lucky recipient of a donor organ, because with those organs comes the chance to live again. But that opportunity comes at a heavy price. Transplant recipients face a lifetime of antirejection medications to keep their bodies from rebelling against the very thing giving them a second chance. Young women are unable to have children because of the plethora of medicines coursing through their bodies on a daily basis. But what if, through the miracle of modern science, daily rejection medication regimens were a thing of the past? What if there was a simple shot that allowed recipients’ bodies to accept the donated organ indefinitely?"
I spotted barcode tattoos on a few other Mods, too, now that I knew what to look for. They all had long sleeves, but the black lines stood out on some of their wrists. “I’m wondering why they’re doing all this,” Ty said. “Nobody’s out here except us and those Guards. What’s this even for?” Lissa shook her head. “No clue.” Suddenly, she gasped, pointing. One of the Mods had lunged at aGuard, grabbing for the Guard’s rifle. Dr. Krantz rushed forward, stabbing at a remote control he was holding in his hand. The Mod stumbled back and collapsed onto the ground, clutching his forearm, his scream piercing the night. “What are they doing to him?” I asked, unable to hide the tremor in my voice. Lissa’s hand tightened around my elbow. “I don’t know. But I think we should get out of here.” My ears were still ringing from that Mod’s screaming. He’d sounded as if he was in agony, holding his arm exactly where the barcode on Dr. Krantz’s arm had been. And Dr. Krantz—a Mod himself—had been the one pushing the button.
I told myself to take a step back, but somehow I ended up closer instead. “I don’t know, though . . .” he said. “Sometimes I think maybe friends isn’t the right word.” The sky lit up with blue and my hands flew up to cover my breasts. Cohl was a few feet in front of me, his black hair sticking against his forehead, his skin glistening with droplets that ran along his arms and down the middle of his chest past his navel until they met the surface of the water. Then the sky went dark again. His voice was lower, the laughter gone. “I think we both want a lot more than that.” “I . . .” I meant to say something sarcastic—to defuse this moment before we did something we couldn’t undo—but my head was as cloudy as the sky over our heads. “We should go . . . Ana . . .” “Yeah, those lights. You’re right. We should.” Neither of us moved. Then Cohl waded toward me and stopped just inches away, standing over me.
Dave, as she never tired of pointing out, was an exemplar - she used the actual work, too, having read it in one of those undreadable werewolf romances she immersed herself in between flights - Dave was an exemplar extra-freaking-ordinaire of why a woman like her, a woman of independent means and good breeding hips, had to be careful. Men who weren't to be found in the blessed state of being other women's husbands were generally deserving of their wretched and benighted state by way of being..
"What?" croaked Dave, who'd drifted off into a hangover haze for just a moment.
"Completely unmarriageable a-holes, Dave. Such as yourself. World is full of them, I said. All trying to get at my good breeding hips and my 401(k)."
Scaroth brought FoeSunder up and flowed into a killing stance. The point of the blade glinted high above Dave’s head before rushing down with terrible speed.
Dave dropped down to his right knee with Lucille above his head, blocking the first blow, half expecting Scaroth’s blade to slice straight through the wooden handle. But the enchanted hardwood held, the blow landing with a giant clang. Holding the Hunn’s blade, he pushed up with his right hand, using the maul’s head to drive the blade off to his left. Coiled tightly, Dave’s legs launched him into Scaroth’s midsection, knocking the BattleMaster off his feet. He rolled over the snapping fangs and hot froth to land on his feet a couple of yards away.
They circled each other one step at a time, shieldwise. Helicopters, hammering overhead, focused their searchlights on the action, driving the remnants of the Horde away from the two combatants.
“I will feast on you this day,” Scaroth said, lunging toward Dave. “The little champion’s blood will make a fine aperitif before I feed on your nestlings.”
“They have aperitifs in Monsterland? Man, you guys have changed. It used to be all about the skulls full of bloodwine.”
"Ruthless, they say. A complete manwhore, they say. And so ambitious he’d put Midas to shame. Oh yeah. They say Saint won’t rest until he owns the world."
"I'd say people respond to me on four levels and four levels only; they want to pray to me, be me, do me or kill me."