Lisabeth Heaberlin

“A scream pierced the sky, a child’s, so loud he dropped his cup, his right hand ready to reach for a weapon that wasn’t there. A survival reflex from another city, another part of the world. He tried to relax, but the scream had been real. Not like the whining wail he loathed, not even the shocked cry of a kid who’d just hurt himself. This scream had mortal fear in it. After three tours in Afghanistan, he knew the difference.”
― Barry Kirwan, When the children come

“And... well, she had done it. Just as she said she would. She felt nothing - which was good - no, which was great. You could get anything you wanted in this world if you didn't feel. It was just a shame that she couldn't feel happy about it. She would've settled for feeling satisfaction at what she'd done, but feeling nothing at all was better than feeling bad. If that was all there was, then that was all she wanted or needed”
― Malorie Blackman, Tell Me No Lies

“You saved me,'" said Seneca softly. "You took a direct hit, and you
survived because of your gift."

Jake was slightly startled when she spoke. Seneca’s voice had changed. It was airy and light. Her spunky, deep voice was gone, as were her golden-blonde locks. Her hair was completely white, with silver streaks highlighting it throughout. He had noticed the beginnings of the change before they teleported. The transformation was now complete. Her eyes were a brilliant, majestic blue with flecks of silver that caught the light. She had approached quietly, and her presence made them all listen intently. Seneca was the Druid of the true prophecy. ”
― C. Toni Graham, Crossroads and the Dominion of Four

“Do you know where Jean de Tournet is?” Jason asked.
“He is dead, Uncle,” Charlotte said flatly.
“How do you know?”
“I killed him in 1943. He was doing business with the Nazis. He tried to rape me” – she stopped and shivered – “but I killed him before he could.”
Jason and Sophie both looked at Charlotte with horror. This was the first time Jason had showed any genuine emotion throughout the evening. It was fear.”
― Hugo Woolley, The Wasp Trap