Best 41 quotes of Ilse V. Rensburg on MyQuotes

Built like an ogre, with a thick ginger beard, wiry orange hairs sprouting from his tree trunk arms and a head resembling a shining snooker ball, he takes one look at Gwen and sneers. “Put that feckin’ gun down, cowgirl.

Creatures, like myself, have voices that are laced with impending peril, and yet, each and every time they succeed in hypnotising another victim.

Demento's laugh is wildflowers and bourbon on an autumns day just before winter comes to take it all away.

Dextra’s obsidian gaze burns into her soul, branding it as hers for all eternity.

For anyone, man or woman to desire me, it is absurd! I am nothing but a gargoyle filled with the blood of others.

For a reason, unbeknownst to me, I cannot help coveting those strange hooded eyes of hers - the black of her pupil enveloped by a whirlpool of forget me not blue. If I could catch her gaze once more, even if it is only to discern if she has been as unnerved by me as I have been by her...

Has he finally had his full of my acquired taste? Has he decided that I am too wicked to live with after all? The idea clenches at my lungs, smothering them to uselessness.

He'd come a rather long way to experience life within the beating heart of London. Now, stalking the streets of the Chapel, experimenting with how much such a heart can take before it stops beating altogether.

He isn’t descended from foreigners. He is the very first outsider. A forbearer people would rather keep hush about being descended from, and I am honoured to know him.

Her blood. Gushing out, it darkens her lovely hair until each strand is as heavy as the shadows of my mind.

Her velvet red locks pour out of either side of her hood, hanging over her chest like blood.

Humans are untouchable in the eyes of the October House. Humankind is to be protected, at all costs. Anything or anyone who chooses to deviate from it is the enemy. Always.

I am not like other men and I never have been.

I ignore him and continue walking. I ignore the light drizzle that falls from the smog-filled sky and I ignore the mass of men who stand outside the public-house attempting to light their pipes with matchsticks that burn out as fast as they are struck alight. I ignore their thunderous cackles and cajoling as one of their friends gets sick on another's boots and I ignore my pseudo-name as my mentor yells it behind me.

I know I make you uneasy. I don’t need to be psychic to notice that,” Madame Luna says. “Being around magic is never comfortable for those who don’t dabble in it.” “And rightfully so,” Gwen says as she drops the cigarette into an empty bottle. “It’s unnatural. No two ways about it.

I swivel my back to her, my eyes gluttonous and eager to get their fill of this intimate piece of what has come to be her puzzle.

It is me. He knows it. The dollymop knows it. I know it. I am the problem. Soon I will be discovered and destroyed. I am in constant danger and yet, I am the danger...

It’s the tale of one ominous Dextra Hyde, who spent her childhood in the cold confines of the Happy Forest Orphanage just outside of Sceaux.

It was a myth, a fantastical portrayal of my mentor himself, his legend forever anchoring itself to history in a way mine will never be. Spring Heeled Jack, the boogeyman with eyes like fireballs who could jump unnaturally high. Breathing blue flames he'd ravage women with his claws.

Like a kelpie the sunlight feigns innocence until it meets my skin, transforming into a sharp-toothed monster that tears away at my cold dead flesh.

My companion first explained my curse to me on the night we chanced to meet, spinning delicious words into prose that ignited a desire within my soul. Words that left me with a yearning to devour every taboo known to man.

My mind is blank. Yet, one word rides the Ferris wheel of my psyche, whirling around and leaving me dizzy - monster. It is unavoidable. I am a monster.

My mind… It is a delicate veil, torn by genetics, made worse by my maker thinking his curse could mend me.

My ravenous gaze devouring every inch of her visage, from the gentle branching of lines that wing from her sunken eyes to a paltry splattering of freckles that mottle her bottom lip. She smiles.

My soul has been severed in two...One, a disease, hysteria, if I must give it a name, gifted to me by my dearly departed mother. The other, a curse, not necessarily gifted to me, rather donated - an egomaniacal act of philanthropy by a long toothed stranger in the dead of night.

Perhaps her parents are still with her, even after all these years. Carving a celestial path for her which she follows blindly. Whispering encouragement in her ears and reminding her why she chose the life she now leads. Avenge us.

Perhaps I am overly sensitive to his actions, after all, he is a man before he is a monster, yet I cannot help feeling perturbed by the ivory points of his fangs which are on the verge of peaking past his fleshy lips.

She is a corpse, the kind brought back to life to consume the living and wreak satanic havoc like in the Penny Dreadfuls she used to read as a child.

She knows I am a beast. She knows that I will be the one to rip her heart from her chest!

The coppers, thinking I must be hacked to bits at the bottom of the Thames, now blame both murders on the Ripper. The theory is so ironic I cannot help but snort out a tirade of titters.

The effluvium of smoke from self-rolled cigarettes and burnt out cigars add to the gloomy ambience. Perhaps, this dinginess is one of the reasons I frequent the place as I do, though I doubt it. I am much too sinister for such simple reasoning.

The haybag is exposing me with each flick of her curled lashes. She knows, and she wants the others to know too! Each flutter is Morse code to those that surround us, each one tapping away the message - ‘Here he is! Here is the monster that slits the throats of whores and sips on their blood!

The idea of eternal life should have removed the chokehold from my neck. I could be anyone, do anything. Yet the idea somehow made it worse...

The lushery, much like myself, is covered in a layer of grime that succeeds in filling the area with a miserable kind of murkiness, much like the soot that swathes over the city I call home.

The old crone smiles crookedly and sighs. “There is more to magic than darkness, my dear.

The remaining half of my gin stands before me, and yet, no amount of drink can quench this thirst.

The sturdy murmur of the Ten Bells patrons amplifies, and with it rises another cadence - a legion of steady thumps that compel my teeth to bristle and my mouth to salivate.

The taste of victory, knowing she’ll be responsible for the predator’s demise.

The wind picks up as if to match his mood, it twists my coat so that for a moment it resembles a saw-toothed cape flying out behind me. All I need now is a garish top hat and they can call me Count Dracula.

This place is worse than hell.

Throwing her head back she laughs, the sound falling around Gwen like stardust.