When I hit writer's block, seven times out of ten it means I didn't know my characters well enough. If I knew my hero, I'd know exactly what he planned to do next. If I knew my villain, I'd know exactly what he's been up to in the background. So maybe it's time we writers asked them to dinner.
The horns of his mother and father were both armored in scars, where no smooth skin would grow—a texture somewhere between scale and bone. Blades couldn't break them.
Argent’s fingers froze on the cuff hiding his kingfisher tattoo.
Getting a place at Mary's Refrain Church of England Boarding School in Cumbria was not as difficult as Eric had feared.
His name was Halcyon Kingfisher, or Halcyon Neverwar, and there was absolutely nothing else of significance to be found on him in the vampire library--not even after three acuity potions and a coffee. Personally, Elizabeta Collins would have liked to hear more about the rampant immorality, but the vampires didn't seem interested in that.
Legendarily, it was called “Mary’s Refrain” because its students were the sort of behavioral nightmares that might make even the immaculate virgin hang up her immaculate halo for a night to brood over hard drinks and a full ashtray.
She’d adored Bran, then. Hadn’t hated his cigarette-smelling arms. Had never really met Eric. Hadn't liked James too much.
Burn scars were etched around each, odored faintly by old fire. The man’s eyelids were raw and pink without eyelashes.
Direhounds: a cross between Hellhounds and dire wolves. Writing is fun.