Best 21 quotes of Erica Cameron on MyQuotes

After all the shit that went down with Calease, I hate sleeping the way some people hate airplanes. Or small, dark spaces. Or spiders. Or being on an airplane in a small, dark space filled with spiders.

A shadow passes over her face, but she shakes it off fast as she leans forward, her bright-blue hair swinging over her shoulder and clashing with her pumpkin-orange shirt. “You think you’re the only one who wants to bring back someone they love? Everyone loses someone. It’s inevitable. Everyone thinks they’re willing to give up everything to get that person back. There aren’t many who are actually capable of it.” My breath catches in my throat as my brain processes her words. Nowhere in that speech did she say what I wanted was impossible. She just said most people aren’t willing to make the necessary sacrifice. “I’ll do it. Anything. Whatever it takes.

Be direct and sure of the path you tread, but not so sure that you pass the paths better suited to your feet, brother.

Don’t be stupider than you need to be, I remind myself. Remember Calease? The last glowing girl you talked to tried to kill you.

Glancing at the time on my phone, I cringe. Midnight. The witching hour. This was when Calease always came for me. I hate midnight.

Hey, hold up!” I drop the pickax to the ground and jog after K.T. I pull a roundish piece of amethyst about half the size of my palm out of my pocket and hold it out. “Would you give this to her?” K.T. tilts her head to the side as she takes the stone and examines it. “Pretty. Is it amethyst?” “Yeah.” “Why don’t you give it to her yourself?” I shove my hands in my pockets and shrug. There’s no answer I can give that wouldn’t either sound crazy or be an outright lie. K.T. smiles and slips the stone into her pocket. “All right, Romeo. I’ll go see if I can get Juliet to come to the ball tonight.” K.T. winks and walks around to the front of the house.

Holy shit. I’m a Smurf.

Hudson looks at me, waiting for what I was trying to say, but no matter how many times I try, the words won’t come. My chest contracts, and panic knocks my thoughts into disarray faster than a tornado. For years, I was silent by choice. Now, choking and straining and silently screaming, I actually know what it’s like to be silenced.

I didn’t think you were real for a long time,” I confess. “I thought you were someone I’d dreamed up.” “A dream worth reliving every night for ten years?” he asks, chuckling and slowly loosening his hold. “For eternity,” I whisper, winding my arms around his neck to keep him close. “Good.” He leans down and brushes his lips against mine. “That is exactly how long I plan on keeping you.

I look down, trying to see my skin like she does. Underneath the soft, cerulean-blue glow, there are so many lines it looks like a roadmap. I’m so used to the ruts and puffy scars crisscrossing my arms that I forget about them sometimes. They’re the legacy of the questionable talent that’s kept me alive as often as it’s gotten me in trouble. The story of my life is written in the wounds on my skin. I just wish other people could read the story, too. It’d save me a lot of explaining.

I’m getting used to the fact that you find me incredibly forgettable.

In the last three months, I’ve started having creepy dreams that give me a glimpse of the future. Or sometimes a portal will open up in the middle of the night and something will try to kill me. There’s no way to know which one I’m gonna get hit with each day. It’s kinda like playing Russian roulette every night with a drunk who hates you.

I see the glow before I see her. The orange light is so strong it’s hard to believe the house isn’t on fire, but when feet appear at the top of the staircase, I can finally see that the light isn’t coming from the house. It’s coming from her. My heart beats so fast I can’t tell the pulses apart—it’s one harsh thrum inside my head. If I’m a Smurf, this girl is an Oompa Loompa. No. Not even. It looks like she walked out of a horror movie. She really is on fire, burning from the inside out. I’m staring, but I can’t help it. Everyone would be staring if they could see what I see.

I tell myself I have time. But the itch forming along the back of my neck and across my shoulders says otherwise. I hate this. It’s like I’m racing a clock ticking down to doomsday without knowing how much time I have left.

My gaze lands on the digital clock on my nightstand as it flicks to 12:01 AM. Hours spent in Orane’s world, and one minute has passed in mine.

Near my feet is a glowing archway. The light is white and shimmery, like iridescent glitter, and it’s so tall the top nearly brushes the ceiling. Inside, instead of seeing the cement wall of the basement, I’m looking at evenly spaced wooden pillars and a reed-mat floor. Standing on that mat is a woman with curves that would make a Playboy model jealous. She’s wearing a long, butter yellow dress, and her white hair hangs down to her waist. She looks like an angel when she smiles at me, holding out her hands. “Hudson, come with me.” Her voice reminds me of the breeze rustling through the trees near the lake. Soft and subtle and calming. “Let me help you.” Did I die? Maybe the scratch on my side got infected. Maybe I’ve been slowly bleeding to death from internal injuries for the past week. Who knows? If this is death, if she’s what’s waiting for me on the other side, then fuck it. I’m letting go.

Time isn’t a line or a circle or any 2-D object, Aisling had written. It’s more like you’re standing inside of a sphere of constantly flowing energy. When you find that center, you can reach out and touch any part of your life.

What in the seven levels of hell did my son see in this place?” Horace asks. We’re standing on the street on Thursday morning, staring up at the house, after taking inventory of the place. From here, I can see five different spots where the brick needs to be repaired and pick out where shingles are missing on the sloped roof. The porch sags, and the windows are dingy. But if I let my eyes go out of focus and ignore all that, I can kinda picture what the place might look like after a little—never mind—a lot of TLC. “It has good bones?” I suggest. “It’s got old bones,” he mutters. I smirk. “Yeah? So do you. Doesn’t mean they’re all bad.” He smacks my arm, but he’s grinning. “Just wait till you get to be my age, and then tell me how good old bones are.

What’s up with your friend?” Dawn asks after a few minutes. I doubt she’s asking about K.T. I follow Dawn’s stare and wonder how much she can see from this far away. Mari is standing in front of the store’s nearly empty stone display and listening as K.T. points out the different types of stone. “Her name is Mariella.” “I don’t usually get a read on people unless they’re giving off some pretty strong vibes, but wow. That girl needs an aura cleansing fast.” “Yeah. I know.” I look away from Mari, forcing myself to focus on the selection Dawn has laid out in front of me. “It’s a work in progress.

When I look at Mari now, it’s like I see her in layers—the burning blonde with the ribbon over her mouth, the princess tearing apart a screwed-up tea party, the goddess wrapped in burning chains, and the girl who is somehow all those things yet isn’t aware of it. Who doesn’t even see the cliff she’s running toward at full speed.

You know the phrase ‘hard to get’?” K.T. asks. “Yeah.” “Forget hard to get. Chasing Mari would be like Mission: Impossible.