Damon Snow And The Nocturnal Lessons - Plot & Excerpts
My hands opened and closed as I forced them from pressing against my temple, but I couldn’t stop them from releasing the book I held to fall into my lap. “Damon,” my cull of the evening said. “Damon, what’s wrong?” I felt his hand hover over me like a brand. I slapped it away, and he didn’t have the strength to keep it from falling back into his lap. “I’m fine,” I said. Byrne lowered his eyes to the book in my lap, as if dragged there by the yellow-tinged skin around them. He’d be annoyed if he knew I thought he didn’t control each and every one of his own movements. Even so, underneath, I could see the strength of the man Byrne used to be. The kind of man who would sell his own friend to the workhouse. Byrne was all about a good deal. He understood the value of money. It was the only thing I liked about him. The maids whispered consumption, although we knew it couldn’t be. He did look like something devoured him, and it hadn’t been me. Only Death. Death had made an example out of Byrne, a demonstration that Death follows every man, however great his prowess.
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