3 Years Rip Quotes

Aidan’s hands itched to strangle the woman. He had known Marie from the moment of her birth—sixty two years ago—and they had never exchanged a cross word. And he suddenly wanted to strangle her. He should have ripped Ivan’s throat out. Flowers. Why hadn’t he thought of flowers? Why hadn’t Marie mentioned it to him first? Why had she accepted them? Whose side was she on, anyway? Flowers! He had the urge to rip those petals off one by one. “Look,” Marie cooed, “he even had the thorns removed so you wouldn’t hurt yourself. What a thoughtful man.” “What time did you tell the police we would see them?” Aidan interrupted, afraid that if he didn’t he would erupt into violence. He detested the way Alexandria kept caressing the petals of one of the white roses.

Life is a fragile thing. You hold it in your hand for but a moment. Each heartbeat is a victory over death’s questing fingers and an escape from his skeletal grip. I’d felt him a time or two run a frozen finger down my back or across my cheek, a seductive caresses promising surcease from the pain of life. I’d welcomed him with open arms on occasion over the past few years, but he always teased me, toyed with me, moving on with the promise to return another day. Other times I’d fought him off, clinging onto the last vestiges of life with ripped fingernails.

Until that moment Elizabeth wouldn’t have believed she could feel more humiliated than she already did. Robbed of even the defense of righteous indignation, she faced the fact that she was the unwanted gest of someone who’d made a fool of her not once but twice. “How did you get here? I didn’t hear any horses, and a carriage sure as well can’t make the climb.” “A wheeled conveyance brought us most of the way,” she prevaricated, seizing on Lucinda’s earlier explanation, “and it’s gone on now.” She saw his eyes narrow with angry disgust as he realized he was stuck with them unless he wanted to spend several days escorting them back to the inn. Terrified that the tears burning the backs of her eyes were going to fall, Elizabeth tipped her head back and turned it, pretending to be inspecting the ceiling, the staircase, the walls, anything. Through the haze of tears she noticed for the first time that the place looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in a year. Beside her Lucinda glanced around through narrowed eyes and arrived at the same conclusion. Jake, anticipating that the old woman was about to make some disparaging comment about Ian’s house, leapt into the breach with forced joviality. “Well, now,” he burst out, rubbing his hands together and striding forward to the fire. “Now that’s all settled, shall we all be properly introduced? Then we’ll see about supper.” He looked expectantly at Ian, waiting for him to handle the introductions, but instead of doing the thing properly he merely nodded curtly to the beautiful blond girl and said, “Elizabeth Cameron-Jake Wiley.” “How do you do, Mr. Wiley,” Elizabeth said. “Call me Jake,” he said cheerfully, then he turned expectantly to the scowling duenna. “And you are?” Fearing that Lucinda was about to rip up at Ian for his cavalier handling of the introductions, Elizabeth hastily said, “This is my companion, Miss Lucinda Throckmorton-Jones.” “Good heavens! Two names. Well, no need to stand on formality, since we’re going to be cooped up together for at least a few days! Just call me Jake. What shall I call you?” “You may call me Miss Throckmorton-Jones,” she informed him, looking down the length of her beaklike nose. “Er-very well,” he replied, casting an anxious look of appeal to Ian, who seemed to be momentarily enjoying Jake’s futile efforts to create an atmosphere of conviviality. Disconcerted, Jake ran his hands through his disheveled hair and arranged a forced smile on her face. Nervously, he gestured about the untidy room. “Well, now, if we’d known we were going to have such…ah…gra…that is, illustrious company, we’d have-“ “Swept off the chairs?” Lucinda suggested acidly. “Shoveled off the floor?

It was his fault.She could put the blame for this entirely on Brian Donnelly's shoudlers.If he hadn't been so insufferable,if he hadn't been there being insufferable when Chad had called, she wouldn't have agreed to go out to dinner.And she wouldn't have spent nearly four hours being bored brainless when she could've been doing something more useful. Like watching paint dry. There was nothing wrong with Chad, really.If you only had,say,half a brain, no real interest outside of the cut of this year's designer jacket and were thrilled by a rip-roaring debate over the proper way to serve a triple latte,he was the perfect companion. Unfortunately,she didn't gualify on any of those levels. Right now he was droning on about the painting he'd bought at a recent art show. No,not the painting,Keeley thought wearily. A discussion of the painting,of art,might have been the medical miracle that prevented her from slipping into a coma.But Chad was discoursing-no other word for it-on The Investment. He had the windows up and the air conditioning clasting as they drove. It was a perfectly beautiful night, she mused, but putting the windows down meant Chad's hair would be mussed. Couldn't have that. At least she didn't have to attempt conversation. Chad preferred monologues. What he wanted was an attractive companion of the right family and tax bracket who dressed well and would sit quietly while he pontificated on the narrow areas of his interest. Keeley was fully aware he'd decided she fit the bill,and now she'd only encouraged him by agreeing to this endlessly tedious date.

I'm sorry.' It was those two words that shattered me. Shattered me in a way I didn't know I could still be broken, a rending of every tether and leash. Stay with the High Lord. The Suriel's last warning. Stay... and live to see everything righted. A lie. A lie, as Rhys had lied to me. Stay with the High Lord. Stay. For there... the torn scraps of the mating bond. Floating on a phantom wind inside me. I grasped at them- tugged at them, as if he'd answer. Stay. Stay, stay, stay. I clung to those scraps and remnants, clawing at the voice that lurked beyond. Stay. I looked up at Tarquin, lip curling back from my teeth. Looked at Helion. And Thesan. And Beon and Kallias, Viviane weeping at his side. And I snarkled, 'Bring him back.' Blank faces. I screamed at them, 'BRING HIM BACK.' Nothing. 'You did it for me,' I said, breathing hard. 'Now do it for him.' 'You were human,' Helion said carefully. 'It is not the same-' 'I don't care. Do it.' When they didn't move, I rallied the dregs of my power, readying to rip into their minds and force them, not caring what rules or laws it broke. I wouldn't care, only if- Tarquin stepped forward. He slowly extended his hand toward me. 'For what he gave,' Tarquin said quietly. 'Today and for many years before.' And as the seed of light appeared in his palm... I began crying again. Watched it drop onto Rhys's bare throat and vanish onto the skin beneath, an echo of light flaring once. Helion stepped forward. That kernel of light in his hand flickered as it fell onto Rhys's skin. Then Kallias. And Thesan. Until only Beron stood there. Mor drew her sword and laid it on his throat. He jerked, having not seen her move. 'I do not mind making one more kill today,' she said. Beron gave her a withering glare, but shoved off the sword and strode forward. He practically chucked that fleck of light onto Rhys. I didn't care about that, either. I didn't know the spell, the power it came from. But I was High Lady. I held out my palm. Willing the spark of life to appear. Nothing happened. I took a steadying breath, remembering how it had looked. 'Tell me how,' I growled to no one. Thesan coughed and stepped forward. Explaining the core of power and on and on and I didn't care, but I listened, until- There. Small as a sunflower seed, it appeared in my palm. A bit of me- my life. I laid it gently on Rhys's blood-crusted throat. And I realised, just as he appeared, what was missing. Tamlin stood there, summoned by either the death of a fellow High Lord or one of the others around me. He was splattered in mud and gore, his new bandolier of knives mostly empty. He studied Rhys, lifeless before me. Studied all of us- the palms still out. There was no kindness on his face. No mercy. 'Please,' was all I said to him. Then Tamlin glanced between us- me and my mate. His face did not change. 'Please,' I wept. 'I will- I will give you anything-' Something shifted in his eyes at that. But not kindness. No emotion at all. I laid my head on Rhysand's chest, listening for any kind of heartbeat through that armour. 'Anything,' I breathed to no one in particular. 'Anything.' Steps scuffed on the rocky ground. I braced myself for another set of hands trying to pull me away, and dug my fingers in harder. The steps remained behind me for long enough that I looked. Tamlin stood there. Staring down at me. Those green eyes swimming with some emotion I couldn't place. 'Be happy, Feyre,' he said quietly. And dropped that final kernel of light onto Rhysand.

I had this book when I was a little kid," Eddie said at last. He spoke in the flat tones of utter surety. "Then we moved from Queens to Brooklyn--I wasn't even four years old--and I lost it. But I remember the picture on the cover. And I felt the same way you do, Jake. I didn't like it. I didn't trust it." Susannah raised her eyes to look at Eddie. "I had it, too--how could I ever forget the little girl with my name...although of course it was my middle name back in those days. And I felt the same way about the train. I didn't like it and I didn't trust it." She tapped the front of the book with her finger before passing it on to Roland. "I thought that smile was a great big fake." Roland gave it only a cursory glance before returning his eyes to Susannah. "Did you lose yours, too?" "Yes." "And I'll bet I know when," Eddie said. Susannah nodded. "I'll bet you do. It was after that man dropped the brick on my head. I had it when we went north to my Aunt Blue's wedding. I had it on the train. I remember, because I kept asking my dad if Charlie the Choo-Choo was pulling us. I didn't WANT it to be Charlie, because we were supposed to go to Elizabeth, New Jersey, and I thought Charlie might take us anywhere. Didn't he end up pulling folks around a toy village or something like that, Jake?" "An amusement park." "Yes, of course it was. There's a picture of him hauling kids around that place at the end, isn't there? They're all smiling and laughing, except I always thought they looked like they were screaming to be let off." "Yes!" Jake cried. "Yes, that's right! That's JUST right!" "I thought Charlie might take us to HIS place--wherever he lived--instead of to my aunt's wedding, and never let us go home again." "You can't go home again," Eddie muttered, and ran his hands nervously through his hair. "All the time we were on that train I wouldn't let go of the book. I even remember thinking, 'If he tries to steal us, I'll rip out his pages until he quits.' But of course we arrived right where we were supposed to, and on time, too. Daddy even took me up front, so I could see the engine. It was a diesel, not a steam engine, and I remember that made me happy. Then, after the wedding, that man Mort dropped the brick on me and I was in a coma for a long time. I never saw Charlie the Choo-Choo after that. Not until now." She hesitated, then added: "This could be my copy, for all I know--or Eddie's." "Yeah, and probably is," Eddie said.

INTERNATIONAL LAW WAS CREATED DURING THE BUSH ADMINISTRATION BECAUSE a group of Mexicans—and one African American—gang-raped and murdered two teenaged girls in Houston, Texas.1 The crime made history in another way: It led to the most death sentences handed out for a single crime in Texas since 1949.2 Do you even know about this case? The only reason the media eventually admitted that the lead rapist, Jose Ernesto Medellin, was an illegal alien from Mexico was to try to overturn his conviction on the grounds that he had not been informed of his right, as a Mexican citizen, to confer with the Mexican consulate. Journalists have an irritating tendency to skimp on detail when reporting crimes by immigrants, a practice that will not be followed here. One summer night in June 1993, fourteen-year-old Jennifer Ertman and Elizabeth Peña, who had just turned sixteen, were returning from a pool party, and decided to take a shortcut through a park to make their 11:30 p.m. curfew. They encountered a group of Hispanic men, who were in the process of discussing “gang etiquette,” such as not complaining if other members talked about having sex with your mother.3 The girls ran away, but Medellin grabbed Jennifer and began ripping her clothes off. Hearing her screams, Elizabeth came back to help her friend. For more than an hour, the five Hispanics and one black man raped the teens, vaginally, anally, and orally—“every way you can assault a human being,” as the prosecutor put it.4 The girls were beaten, kicked, and stomped, their teeth knocked out and their ribs broken. One of the Hispanic men told Medellin’s fourteen-year-old brother to “get some,” so he raped one of the girls, too. But when it was time to kill the girls, Medellin said his brother was “too small to watch” and dragged the girls into the woods.5 There, the girls were forced to kneel on the ground and a belt or shoelace was looped around their necks. Then a man on each side pulled on the cord as hard as he could. The men strangling Jennifer pulled so hard they broke the belt. Medellin later complained that “the bitch wouldn’t die.” When it was done, he repeatedly stomped on the girls’ necks, to make sure they were dead.6 At trial, Medellin’s sister-in-law testified that shortly after the gruesome murders, Medellin was laughing about it, saying they’d “had some fun with some girls” and boasting that he had “virgin blood” on his underpants.7 It’s difficult to understand a culture where such an orgy of cruelty is bragged about at all, but especially in front of women.

Clary held her hands up. 'I do get it. I know you don’t like me, Isabelle. Because I’m a mundane to you.' 'You think that’s why—' Isabelle broke off, her eyes bright; not just with anger, Clary saw with surprise, but with tears. “God, you don’t understand anything, do you? You’ve known Jace what, a month? I’ve known him for seven years. And all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him fall in love, never seen him even like anyone. He’d hook up with girls, sure. Girls always fell in love with him, but he never cared. I think that’s why Alec thought—” Isabelle stopped for a moment, holding herself very still. She’s trying not to cry, Clary thought in wonder—Isabelle, who seemed like she never cried. “It always worried me, and my mom, too—I mean, what kind of teenage boy never even gets a crush on anyone? It was like he was always half-awake where other people were concerned. I thought maybe what had happened with his father had done some sort of permanent damage to him, like maybe he never really could love anyone. If I’d only known what had really happened with his father—but then I probably would have thought the same thing, wouldn’t I? I mean, who wouldn’t have been damaged by that?' 'And then we met you, and it was like he woke up. You couldn’t see it, because you’d never known him any different. But I saw it. Hodge saw it. Alec saw it—why do you think he hated you so much? It was like that from the second we met you. You thought it was amazing that you could see us, and it was, but what was amazing to me was that Jace could see you, too. He kept talking about you all the way back to the Institute; he made Hodge send him out to get you; and once he brought you back, he didn’t want you to leave again. Wherever you were in the room, he watched you…. He was even jealous of Simon. I’m not sure he realized it himself, but he was. I could tell. Jealous of a mundane. And then after what happened to Simon at the party, he was willing to go with you to the Dumort, to break Clave Law, just to save a mundane he didn’t even like. He did it for you. Because if anything had happened to Simon, you would have been hurt. You were the first person outside our family whose happiness I’d ever seen him take into consideration. Because he loved you.' Clary made a noise in the back of her throat. 'But that was before—' 'Before he found out you were his sister. I know. And I don’t blame you for that. You couldn’t have known. And I guess you couldn’t have helped that you just went right on ahead and dated Simon afterward like you didn’t even care. I thought once Jace knew you were his sister, he’d give up and get over it, but he didn’t, and he couldn’t. I don’t know what Valentine did to him when he was a child. I don’t know if that’s why he is the way he is, or if it’s just the way he’s made, but he won’t get over you, Clary. He can’t. I started to hate seeing you. I hated for Jace to see you. It’s like an injury you get from demon poison—you have to leave it alone and let it heal. Every time you rip the bandages off, you just open the wound up again. Every time he sees you, it’s like tearing off the bandages.' 'I know,' Clary whispered. “How do you think it is for me?” 'I don’t know. I can’t tell what you’re feeling. You’re not my sister. I don’t hate you, Clary. I even like you. If it were possible, there isn’t anyone I’d rather Jace be with. But I hope you can understand when I say that if by some miracle we all get through this, I hope my family moves itself somewhere so far away that we never see you again.

From Rotting [God will] bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the LORD for the display of his splendor. ISAIAH 61:3 NIV Sometime in August, after weeks of busy work schedules by day (and sometimes night) and a bathroom tiling project by night (and into the wee morning hours), Mary walked down her front porch steps and took a deep breath. When she looked around, she was shocked to realize how neglected her landscaping was. There were massive broad-leaf weeds taking over the ground. A closer look revealed that the “weeds” were actually pumpkin plants that last year’s rotting pumpkin display had inadvertently provided. She thought about ripping out the vines, since there wasn’t much growing on them yet, but she decided to let what was alive and well continue to grow. Before long, three large, bright orange volunteer pumpkins had pushed past red (now barely visible) mums. Mary started thinking how many things volunteer themselves right into her life—and end up being beautiful additions to her days. God, thank You for taking the rotten things of life and turning them into bountiful blessings. Amen.

A moment later, Silas was standing before Bram, rage evident in his eyes as Stanley and Ernie kept firm holds on him. Summoning up what Bram hoped would come across as a pleasant smile, even though what he really wanted to do was rip the man limb from limb, Bram nodded to where Lucetta was standing next to Mr. Skukman. “Before we see you off to jail, though, Silas,” Bram said, “I do think I’m going to have to insist you extend Miss Plum an apology for . . . well . . . everything you’ve put her through over the past few days, and for all the bother you’ve caused her over the past few years as well.” Silas considered Bram for the briefest of seconds before he spat on the floor. “That’s the only apology she’ll ever—” Before Silas could finish the sentence, Bram’s fist firmly connected with the man’s jaw. All of the fear, fury, and frustration of the past three days was behind the punch, the strength of it sending Silas straight to the floor, where he remained . . . not stirring a single muscle. “Impressive,” Mr. Skukman said as he moved forward and, with Ernie and Stanley’s help, hefted Silas’s unconscious form straight off the floor and carted him from the room. In the doorway Mr. Skukman stopped for just a second to catch Bram’s eye. “I’ll help Ernie and Stanley get him into a carriage and off to jail. Then I’ll meet you at your carriage.” As he continued through the doorway, he was less than careful with Silas’s head, allowing it to connect with a piece of what might have been part of the doorframe before Ernie’s dynamite tore it apart. “Shall I follow you down, Mr. Haverstein?” Tilda asked. “Just in case we run into unexpected trouble?” “That would be greatly appreciated, Tilda,” Bram said. He walked back to join Lucetta, offering her his arm. “I’m sure you’ve had all the trouble you want to experience for years to come.” “Indeed,” Lucetta said, taking his arm. “We’ll

Is there a problem? I mean, I wasn't expecting you, or anyone, tonight." Drew held out a hand to help her from the car, snatching it back when she got out on her own. "There is a problem." "What?" He tensed. "Did M.J. come back? Is he giving you trouble?" "I can handle my brother." Tyler moved closer. Drew stepped back, his eyes suddenly wary. Sighing she grabbed the front of his t-shirt, the fingers of her other hand threading through his thick, dark hair. Soft. She remembered the feel like it was yesterday. Her hope had been that he would as eager as she was. The attraction was still there, it was time to do something about it. Apparently he wasn't going to make this easy. So she did what she had all those years ago when he wouldn't make the first move—she kissed him first. Prime rib to a starving man. Ten years without even a taste, Drew couldn't help but devour her. The kiss was primal, out of control. Mouths seeking the angle after angle, tongues duelings. And the way Tyler tasted. Sweet and spicy and utterly delicious. In his dreams, he imagined this differently. Slower. He would show her how a man kissed as opposed to the boy he had been. One touch of her lips on his and all those grand plans flew out the window along with any common sense he ever possessed. Tyler was in his arms. Familiar yet new. He needed her and he was never letting go. Drew's hands went under the hem of her shirt slowly sliding up her smooth, hot skin. He could feel the erotic combination of vulnerability and strength in the subtle muscles of her back. She had filled out, they both had. He wanted to spend days discovering all the differences then start all over again, just in case he missed something the first time. The kiss was neverending though the desperation, instead of lessening, scaled higher. He could lift her into his arms, carry her into the house, rip every scrap of clothing from her delicious body and fuck for hours. Fuck. Well, fuck. The word wasn't exactly a bucket of cold water, the desperate heat running through his veins needed more than that. But it did lift the haze. If he didn't stop this right now, there would be no turning back. "Tyler." The word sounded foreign, all guttural. His voice was hoarse with passion and his body was calling every swear word known to man. Why are you stopping? Beautiful woman. Willing. Her hands all over you. Right now she was reaching between his legs. The first caress was almost his undoing. It felt so good, so right. No could touch him like Tyler. The sexual haze enveloped him again. Don't fight it, his body urged. Feel her lips on your jaw, your neck. God. Her teeth biting your earlobe. That alone brought him close to going over the top. Damn his good intentions. Talking was way overrated. Pulling her in until their bodies were flush and he could feel every long, luscious inch of her—plastered against him. Drew was going in for another kiss when her words did what his own reasoning couldn't. It wasn't a bucket of cold water, it was a fire hose—turned on full blast. "Fuck me, Drew. Right here, up against my car. Let's get this thing done, once and for all.

January 9 READ Psalm 7:1–5. 1 LORD my God, I take refuge in you; save and deliver me from all who pursue me, 2 or they will tear me apart like a lion and rip me to pieces with no one to rescue me. 3 LORD my God, if I have done this and there is guilt on my hands— 4 if I have repaid my ally with evil or without cause have robbed my foe— 5 then let my enemy pursue and overtake me; let him trample my life to the ground and make me sleep in the dust. SMEAR CAMPAIGN. How do we deal with gossip and slander and the loss of our reputation? David shows us straightaway. He doesn’t say, “I will take refuge in God,” but rather shows that he already has, that he is already safe. How can he feel that way before he knows whether the smear campaign will be thwarted? The answer: if we trust in God’s wisdom and will, then we have peace regardless of the immediate outcome. It is only God’s opinion of us that counts, and that will prevail. Prayer: Lord, some criticisms are terribly unfair. My deepest comfort is knowing that you see all things and will in the end set all things right. So I will not desperately defend myself or strike out at my accusers and insinuators. You know the truth, and that suffices for me. I leave this all in your hands. Amen.

The temperature in the glade plummeted, and I realized she was right behind me. Her jaws, blackened with tar-hardened ice, ripped into my thigh, and then her silvery whorled horns bucked me into the swamp. I whirled around, scrambling to get a grip on the slippery weeds. Sun Bin roared. My challenge was met. She wanted to destroy the vampyre tombs, but she would make sure I was defeated first. I braced myself as the Winter Dragon lowered her head and charged.

Oh, I can use whatever tone I want. And you can taunt and snarl at me and make me chop wood all day, but short of ripping out my tongue, you can’t—” Faster than lightning, his hand shot out and she gagged, jolting as he grabbed her tongue between his fingers. She bit down, hard, but he didn’t let go. “Say that again,” he purred. She choked as he kept pinching her tongue, and she went for his daggers, simultaneously slamming her knee up between his legs, but he shoved his body against hers, a wall of hard muscle and several hundred years of lethal training trapping her against a tree. She was a joke by comparison—a joke—and her tongue— He released her tongue, and she gasped for breath. She swore at him, a filthy, foul name, and spat at his feet. And that’s when he bit her.

This is ridiculous. He was a thirty-two-year-old man who felt like a schoolboy on his first real date. One on which he was going to get really, really lucky. Better to go back topside, he figured, and get them back to the half-falling-half-climbing-down-the-galley-stairs, ripping-their-clothes-off scenario he’d initially envisioned. He’d do well enough in that instance. He turned around and bumped straight into Kerry, who stood just behind him, wrapped once again in the blanket. He took one look at it, then lifted his gaze to hers and grinned. “We’re quite a pair, we are, Starfish. One minute all but tearing each other’s clothes off with our teeth, the next, with five seconds to actually plan something, you’d think neither of us had ever done the horizontal folk dance.

five years ago, I loved who you would become. I love you, but I’m terrified, and I think right now I’ll just take this, my head on your shoulder, your breath in my ear, and tell myself that this is all I can hope for, it’s more than I deserve, it’s more than some people get in a lifetime. I love you, but I’m going to tuck it up in my chest for a little while more, until I’m stronger, until I’m braver, until I’m sure I won’t hurt you with the jagged parts of myself that are still catching on my own heart and ripping little holes in it.

Jared felt as though he hadn't seen Kota in years. His cousin had neatened his haircut to better show his neck tattoo and wore strategically ripped jeans and a T-shirt that indicated how much workouts meant to him.

Helium-3 is made under extreme pressure and extreme heat. It was made when the moon ripped out of the Earth and flew into orbit around it, and continues to be made by solar winds down countless millions of years. Scientists can make only minuscule amounts, at a cost of billions of dollars, in the accelerator at Cern. Getting it from the moon – where it would be ‘mined’ from the dust and then heated to release the gas itself – would not be wildly expensive, nor beyond our ability. Helium-3 could supply all of the Earth’s energy needs way into the future by using fusion, which is both clean and safe.

Conspiracy theories have been multiplying insanely for years now, ever more ridiculous and far-fetched. Chemicals in contrails. Anti-vaxxers. Climate-change deniers. And all those are almost precious compared to the toxic horror of the 9/11 and school-shooting truthers who reduce the worst nightmare of any parent’s life to fakery, and rip the survivors’ lives apart.

Did he see?” I wondered because, if they fought, then Apollo would have had to see the cowardly thief Artemis talked about. “He did,” she said now, sipping on her tea slowly. “He saw. And once we get to him down there, we’ll know exactly who’s behind all of this. I’ll know exactly whom to hunt down.” The grin on her face was downright scary. Easy to see that she was a predator, even with a soft beauty like hers. So easy to see how she would rip you apart piece by piece—not only without hesitation or an ounce of guilt, but she would enjoy it, too. “Why haven’t you gotten him out yet?” I wondered. If this had happened a thousand years ago—give or take a couple hundred, she said—why was Apollo not out of the portal yet? At that, Artemis flinched, then put the cup down on the table. “Because we can’t get through the daemons,” she told me.

But Mor replied smoothly, “You still certainly like to hear yourself talk, Eris. Good to know some things don’t change over the centuries.” Eris’s mouth curled into a smile at the words, the careful game of pretending that they had not seen each other in years. “Good to know that after five hundred years, you still dress like a slut.” One moment, Azriel was seated. The next, he’d blasted through Eris’s shield with a flare of blue light and tackled him backward, wood shattering beneath them. “Shit,” Cassian spat, and was instantly there— And met a wall of blue. Azriel had sealed them in, and as his scarred hands wrapped around Eris’s throat, Rhys said, “Enough.” Azriel squeezed, Eris thrashing beneath him. No physical brawling—there had been a rule against that, but Azriel, with whatever power those shadows gave him … “Enough, Azriel,” Rhys ordered. Perhaps those shadows that now slid and eddied around the shadowsinger hid him from the wrath of the binding magic. The others made no move to interfere, as if wondering the same. Azriel dug his knee—and all his weight—into Eris’s gut. He was silent, utterly silent as he ripped the air from Eris’s body.

The lies are of a scale and of a nature that in modern political life I think you can only compare to Donald Trump. I don't think anybody has lied or can lie as casually and as cooly and as completely as Boris Johnson does - accept Boris Johnson. We have learned over the last few weeks that his closest colleagues thought he was diabolical. The cabinet secretary that Boris Johnson appointed because he would prove to be, or he was believed to be, a soft touch has described Boris Johnson as being utterly unfit for the job. The advisor that he brought in as a sort of mastermind - having overseen Brexit - Dominick Cummings has described Johnson in terms that you would reserve for your worst enemies. These are the people working closest by him. The only person who's had anything vaguely warm to say about him is Matt Hancock and let me tell you why. They've shaken hands on it. I'd bet my house on some sort of gentleman's... let's rephrase that... I'd bet my house on some sort of charlatan’s agreement behind the scenes that they won't slag each other off because everybody else is telling the truth about them - about Johnson and about Hancock. Hancock's uselessness facilitated and enabled by Johnson's uselessness, by Johnson's moral corruption effectively. And now the lies begin. 5,000 WhatsApp messages. ‘No idea. No, no, no, no idea. Don't know. Don't know technical people. Uh... factory reset. Don't know. Bleep, bleep.’ And then the classic: the flooding of the Zone. With so much manure that it's hard to know where to start. ‘We may have made mistakes’ is one of the latest statements to come out. Turns up 3 hours early so that he doesn't have to walk the gamut of people congregating to remember their lost loved ones and to share their feelings with the man that they consider to be partly responsible for their death. Absolutely extraordinary scenes, truly extraordinary scenes. How does he get away with it? Hugo Keith is a much tougher inquisitor than Lindsay flipping Hoyle, the Speaker of the House of Commons. He's a much tougher inquisitor than any of the interviewers that Boris Johnson deigns to have his toes tickled by on a regular basis. He's a much tougher interviewer or scrutineer than the newspaper editors who have given him half a million pounds a year to write columns or already published articles about why he's the real victim in this story. Philip Johnston in the Daily Telegraph today writing an article before Boris Johnson has given a single syllable of evidence, claiming that Boris Johnson is the real victim of this. I'd love him to go and read that out to the Covid families assembled outside the inquiry. And remember it was Daily Telegraph columnists and former editors that convened at the Club with Jacob Rees-Mogg and others to launch the Save Owen Paterson Society after another one of these charlatans was found to have breached parliamentary standards. Their response of course was not to advise their ally to accept the punishment that was coming his way but to attempt to get him off the hook and rip up the rule book under which he'd been found to be guilty.

Mor shook her head, still not looking anywhere but at Rhys. 'If Amarantha were alive...' The word slithered through the room, darkening the corners. 'If she were alive and I offered to work with her- even if it was to save us all- how would you feel?' Never- they had never come this close to discussing what had happened to him. I approached Rhys's side, brushing my fingers against his. His own curled around mine. 'If Amarantha offered us a slim shot at survival,' Rhys said, his gaze unflinching, 'then I would not give a shit that she made me fuck her for all those years.' Cassian flinched. The entire room flinched. 'If Amarantha showed up at that door right now,' Rhys snarled, pointing toward the foyer entry, 'and said she could buy us a chance at defeating Hybern, at keeping all f you alive, I would thank the fucking Cauldron.' Mor shok her head, tears slipping free again. 'You don't mean that.' 'I do.' Rhys. But the bond, the bridge between us... it was a howling void. A raging, dark tempest. Too far- this was pushing them both too far. I tried to catch Cassian's gaze, but he was monitoring them closely, his golden-brown skin unnaturally pale. Azriel's shadows gathered close, half veiling him from view. And Amren- Amren stepped between Rhys and Mor. They both towered over her. 'I kept this unit from breaking for forty-nine years,' Amren said, eyes flaring bright as lightning. 'I am not going to let you rip it to shreds now.' She faced Mor. 'Working with Keir and Eris is not forgiving them. and when this war is over, I will hunt them down and butcher them with you, if that is what you wish.

I've made my thoughts clear enough on what I want from you.' He'd never met someone able to imply so much in so few words, in placing so much emphasis on you as to make it an outright insult. Cassian clenched his jaw. And didn't bother to restrain himself when he said, 'I'm tired of playing these bullshit games.' She kept her chin high, the portrait of queenly arrogance. 'I'm not.' 'Well, everyone else is. Perhaps you can find it in yourself to try a little harder this year.' Those striking eyes slid toward him, and it was an effort to stand his ground. 'Try?' 'I know that's a foreign word to you.' Nesta stopped at the bottom of the street, right along the icy Sidra. 'Why should I have to try to do anything?' Her teeth flashed. 'I was dragged into this world of yours, this court.' 'Then go somewhere else.' Her mouth formed a tight line at the challenge. 'Perhaps I will.' But he knew there was no other place to go. Not when she had no money, no family beyond this territory. 'Be sure to write.' She launched into a walk again, keeping along the river's edge. Cassian followed, hating himself for it. 'You could at least come live at the House,' he began, and she whirled on him. 'Stop,' she snarled. He halted in his tracks, wings spreading slightly to balance him. 'Stop following me. Stop trying to haul me into your happy little circle. Stop doing all of it.' He knew a wounded animal when he saw one. Knew the teeth they could bare, the viciousness they displayed. But it couldn't keep him from saying, 'Your sisters love you. I can't for the live of me understand why, but they do. If you can't be bothered to try for my happy little circle's sake, then at least try for them.' A void seemed to enter those eyes. An endless, depthless void. She only said, 'Go home, Cassian.' He could count on one hand the number of times she'd used his name. Called him anything other than you or that one. She turned away- toward her apartment, her grimy part of the city. It was instinct to lunge for her free hand. Her gloved fingers scraped against his calluses, but he held firm. 'Talk to me, Nesta. Tell me-' She ripped her hand out of his grip. Stared him down. A mighty vengeful queen. He waited, panting, for the verbal lashing to begin. For her to shred him into ribbons. But Nesta only stared at him, her nose crinkling. Stared, then snorted- and walked away. As if he were nothing. As if he weren't worth her time. The effort. A low-born Illyrian bastard. This time, when she continued onward, Cassian didn't follow. He watched her until she was a shadow against the darkness- and then she vanished completely. He remained staring after her, that present in his hands. Cassian's fingertips dug into the soft wood of the small box. He was grateful the streets were empty when he hurled the box into the Sidra. Hurled it hard enough that the splash echoed off the buildings flanking the river, ice cracking from the impact. Ice instantly re-formed over the hole he'd blown over. As if it, and the present, had never been.

He shook his head as he set the spatula down, took her hips in his hands, and pulled her close. “No, just one surfer in particular. I guess he didn’t like that he came in second at WSL for two years.” “What’s his name?” He smiled. “Why? Are you going to go and beat him up?” She chuckled. “Maybe.

You don’t need as much iron as you think. According to the CDC, a man like me (between 19 and 50 years old) needs 8 milligrams (mg) of iron per day. However, since I don’t eat meat, and I will be absorbing less of the non-heme iron entering my body, that number rises slightly to 14 mg. Seem like a lot? Nope. A cup of soybeans contains 8.8 mg, a cup of lentils 6.6 mg, and a tablespoon of blackstrap molasses 3.5 mg. (Remember, you can also boost the amount you absorb of these numbers by 30 percent if you are consuming some form of vitamin C with your meal.)

I know,” I said, thinking of the slayers my family had lost over the years. “I’ve lost family, too. And even in my short human days I’ve wondered if the pain is worth it. But on those rough days, when it feels like your heart is ripped in half, I want you to know you walk in love—and that will stay with you forever.