Freda Warrington > Quotes

“Rosie, maybe I'm a masochist, but I think the world of you. You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen and you've got no idea. You think it's any fun for me to sit here being loathed by you? I'm in love with you.”
― Freda Warrington, Elfland

“I rarely write about magic in the waving wands, Harry Potter sense. Usually “magic” isn’t even mentioned because it isn’t a separate power, it’s part of the natural world.”
― Freda Warrington

“Brutal worlds where females are secondary to the action, mere chattels or bargaining counters, may be realistic, but they’re not for me. I aim to write women who are genuine.”
― Freda Warrington

“The hair beneath was baby blond, the face under the grime so young; too young... yet old enough to die in war.”
― Freda Warrington, A Taste Of Blood Wine

“The dying: he sensed them all around him. Through the stink of mud and smoke rolled the smell of blood, heavy and sweetly enticing. His thirst rose, independent of his horror. Thirst and revulsion. The powerful tang of death and blood congealed in the back of his throat.”
― Freda Warrington, A Taste Of Blood Wine

“The air crystallised in the image of a stained glass angel, stark black and white. Stepping from a hidden dimension, this apparition became flesh and blood: an immense, forbidding man with dark hair and waxen skin. The face, too angular to be handsome, radiated the solid conviction of a born leader. There was a mole on his left cheek, a black singularity against the whiteness.”
― Freda Warrington, A Taste Of Blood Wine

“Eventually the bishop mounted the pulpit and began to speak. He described the virtues of being meek, poor and humble, while the candlelight gleamed on the jewels in his robes and his plump, self-satisfied face .”
― Freda Warrington, Dark Cathedral

“Karl stood up slowly. He was caked with filth, but the dirt was nothing to him. He felt divorced from the squalor. He and Kristian were spectres glimpsed only by the dying.”
― Freda Warrington, A Taste Of Blood Wine

“The skin of the boy’s neck tasted foul, bitter with ingrained filth. The hot pulse of blood laced the foulness, drawing the vampire on until the skin broke and fluid burst onto his tongue. Crystal sweetness. A ruby light that out-dazzled the battle flares, the two-edged ecstasy of feeding: a compulsion so strong that it almost sickened. Wrong to take pleasure in this death, impossible not to... The vampire closed his eyes in bliss as he drank, but the bitter taste remained.”
― Freda Warrington, A Taste Of Blood Wine