GennaRose Nethercott

Even in a new land, their molecules reach backward, through time, through their own name, through a thousand stories, and erupt into beacons of sorrow. Beacons of light

Stubborn was one word for it. It was true—by all accounts, Yaga women were bold and took what they wanted; what they wanted, however, rarely included their own daughters

Tug four times if you are my one true enemy, finally caught up to me.

Have I ever heard four tugs? No. It’s not for lack of foes—anyone as strange as I am gathers a bushel of them. But none have ever been polite enough to ring the doorbell.

“The hair’s a modern miracle. It can pick up radio signals from thirty miles away.”

“That explains this idiotic idea. Your head’s full of static.”

He bowed his head piously. “Donated to a toddler trying to sneak into an R-rated movie.”

“Wouldn’t that be a trench coat? And two toddlers?”

She closed her eyes. She would free herself. She would not be taken by a rabid stranger

So many beautiful, terrible, wonderful things her daughters will do.

Her dark painted lips fluttered through his thoughts, a cruel winged insect. He swatted them away like a gnat.

Don’t get attached,” Bellatine cautioned. “She’ll be a lawn ornament by morning.”

Isaac sized the girl up. “Somehow I doubt that.”

In truth—so did Bellatine.

Don’t get attached,” Bellatine cautioned. “She’ll be a lawn ornament by morning.”

Isaac sized the girl up. “Somehow I doubt that.”

In truth—so did Bellatine.