I could taste my heritage on my tongue like wine, every inch and angle of it; I could see Janetâs ancestors, and my human fatherâs, and see how both those bloodlines still fed into my own, even if the strength had been stripped out of them. Nothing ever truly disappeared. The ghosts were still there, too faded and attenuated to call back to life, but present all the same.
october daye by seanan mcguire


















