Something wet was soaking Amy’s shoulder. She sprang up and looked around, swiping at the liquid with her hand. Her head hurt and her whole body was numb but the translucent puddle was not coming from her, it was not blood.
“What’s it like?”
“What is ‘what’ like?”
“Being dead,” she asked him. Her eyes were huge this close; staring into the deep wells, he felt he could see to the bottom of her essence.
‘You must never tell anyone, Moirhan.’ She always called me that daft name. Everyone else called me Marianne. ‘You and I are Bean Sidhe: women of the Sidhe, daughters of the Goddess,’ she glanced again at the statue, ‘whatever men choose to call her.’
Did I lie when I told Jacqui and her flatmate Scotty I could surf? I imagined it as clear as a glassy Balinese reef break: dropping down that glistening face, springing to my feet, a sweeping bottom turn, surfing into the endless nirvana pipeline.
“You piece o’ shit! That’s my Sunday dress!” Nadine punched the clumsy football thrower on the nose, kicked him in the gut, and raced home to scrub out the offensive stain.
Pearl felt herself fall in slow motion. She saw the floor getting closer, felt the rush of air against her skin like a breeze. She saw her own hand, almost as a separate object, grasping toward the edge of the nearest table. When she hit the floor, the pain was a dull ache in her hip that cracked and oozed like egg white through her nerves.