Rip Miss You Quotes

I like storms. Thunder torrential rain, puddles, wet shoes. When the clouds roll in, I get filled with this giddy expectation. Everything is more beautiful in the rain. Don't ask me why. But it’s like this whole other realm of opportunity. I used to feel like a superhero, riding my bike over the dangerously slick roads, or maybe an Olympic athlete enduring rough trials to make it to the finish line. On sunny days, as a girl, I could still wake up to that thrilled feeling. You made me giddy with expectation, just like a symphonic rainstorm. You were a tempest in the sun, the thunder in a boring, cloudless sky. I remember I’d shovel in my breakfast as fast as I could, so I could go knock on your door. We’d play all day, only coming back for food and sleep. We played hide and seek, you’d push me on the swing, or we’d climb trees. Being your sidekick gave me a sense of home again. You see, when I was ten, my mom died. She had cancer, and I lost her before I really knew her. My world felt so insecure, and I was scared. You were the person that turned things right again. With you, I became courageous and free. It was like the part of me that died with my mom came back when I met you, and I didn’t hurt if I knew I had you. Then one day, out of the blue, I lost you, too. The hurt returned, and I felt sick when I saw you hating me. My rainstorm was gone, and you became cruel. There was no explanation. You were just gone. And my heart was ripped open. I missed you. I missed my mom. What was worse than losing you, was when you started to hurt me. Your words and actions made me hate coming to school. They made me uncomfortable in my own home. Everything still hurts, but I know none of it is my fault. There are a lot of words that I could use to describe you, but the only one that includes sad, angry, miserable, and pitiful is “coward.” I a year, I’ll be gone, and you’ll be nothing but some washout whose height of existence was in high school. You were my tempest, my thunder cloud, my tree in the downpour. I loved all those things, and I loved you. But now? You’re a fucking drought. I thought that all the assholes drove German cars, but it turns out that pricks in Mustangs can still leave scars.

Feel. Grieve. Let yourself fell the anger at the fact that he was taken from you. Feel the loss of him . Feel the sadness and the missing him. Don't block it out, don't cut so it so stop, don't drink yourself numb. Just sit and let it all rip you apart. And then get up and keep breathing. One breath at a time. One day at a time. Wake up, and be shredded. Cry for a while. Then stop crying and go about your day. You're not okay but you're alive, and you will be okay, someday

To answer your question from before – staying closed off from you is impossible. Having to walk away from you ripped my fucking heart out.

Puck threw Ash a mocking smile. “You look like crap, Prince. Did you miss me?” Ash frowned, stabbing a faery that was clawing at his feet. “What are you doing here, Goodfellow?” he asked coldly, which only caused Puck’s grin to widen. “Rescuing the princess from the Winter Court, of course.” Puck looked down as the wire-fey piled on the squealing boar, ripping and slicing. It exploded into a pile of leaves, and they skittered back in confusion. “Though it appears I’m saving your sorry ass, as well.” “I could’ve handled it.” “Oh, I’m sure.” Puck brandished a pair of curved daggers, the blades clear as glass. His grin turned predatory. “Well, then, shall we get on with it? Try to keep up, Your Highness.” “Just stay out of my way.

can we say goodbye again? i miss the way you rip me open.   i

Once, very long ago, Time fell in love with Fate. This, as you might imagine, proved problematic. Their romance disrupted the flow of time. It tangled the strings of fortune into knots.  The stars watched from the heavens nervously, worrying what might occur. What might happen to the days and nights were time to suffer a broken heart? What catastrophes might result if the same fate awaited Fate itself? The stars conspired and separated the two. For a while they breathed easier in the heavens. Time continued to flow as it always had, or perhaps imperceptibly slower. Fate weaved together the paths that were meant to intertwine, though perhaps a string was missed here and there. But eventually, Fate and Time found each other again.  In the heavens, the stars sighed, twinkling and fretting. They asked the Moon her advice. The Moon in turn called upon the parliament of owls to decide how best to proceed. The parliament of owls convened to discuss the matter amongst themselves night after night. They argued and debated while the world slept around them, and the world continued to turn, unaware that such important matters were under discussion while it slumbered.  The parliament of owls came to the logical conclusion that if the problem was in the combination, one of the elements should be removed. They chose to keep the one they felt more important. The parliament of owls told their decision to the stars and the stars agreed. The Moon did not, but on this night she was dark and could not offer her opinion.  So it was decided, and Fate was pulled apart. Ripped into pieces by beaks and claws. Fate’s screams echoed through the deepest corners and the highest heavens but no one dared to intervene save for a small brave mouse who snuck into the fray, creeping unnoticed through the blood and bone and feathers, and took Fate’s heart and kept it safe. When the furor died down there was nothing else left of Fate.  The owl who consumed Fate’s eyes gained great site, greater site then any that had been granted to a mortal creature before. The Parliament crowned him the Owl King. In the heavens the stars sparkled with relief but the moon was full of sorrow. And so time goes as it should and events that were once fated to happen are left instead to chance, and Chance never falls in love with anything for long. But the world is strange and endings are not truly endings no matter how the stars might wish it so.  Occasionally Fate can pull itself together again.  And Time is always waiting.

Always be with you, you, you, you, you, you. Baby come in be with you, you, you, you, you, you.

To the most inconsiderate asshole of a friend, I’m writing you this letter because I know that if I say what I have to say to your face I will probably punch you. I don’t know you anymore. I don’t see you anymore. All I get is a quick text or a rushed e-mail from you every few days. I know you are busy and I know you have Bethany, but hello? I’m supposed to be your best friend. You have no idea what this summer has been like. Ever since we were kids we pushed away every single person that could possibly have been our friend. We blocked people until there was only me and you. You probably haven’t noticed, because you have never been in the position I am in now. You have always had someone. You always had me. I always had you. Now you have Bethany and I have no one. Now I feel like those other people that used to try to become our friend, that tried to push their way into our circle but were met by turned backs. I know you’re probably not doing it deliberately just as we never did it deliberately. It’s not that we didn’t want anyone else, it’s just that we didn’t need them. Sadly now it looks like you don’t need me anymore. Anyway I’m not moaning on about how much I hate her, I’m just trying to tell you that I miss you. And that well . . . I’m lonely. Whenever you cancel nights out I end up staying home with Mum and Dad watching TV. It’s so depressing. This was supposed to be our summer of fun. What happened? Can’t you be friends with two people at once? I know you have found someone who is extra special, and I know you both have a special “bond,” or whatever, that you and I will never have. But we have another bond, we’re best friends. Or does the best friend bond disappear as soon as you meet somebody else? Maybe it does, maybe I just don’t understand that because I haven’t met that “somebody special.” I’m not in any hurry to, either. I liked things the way they were. So maybe Bethany is now your best friend and I have been relegated to just being your “friend.” At least be that to me, Alex. In a few years time if my name ever comes up you will probably say, “Rosie, now there’s a name I haven’t heard in years. We used to be best friends. I wonder what she’s doingnow; I haven’t seen or thought of her in years!” You will sound like my mum and dad when they have dinner parties with friends and talk about old times. They always mention people I’ve never even heard of when they’re talking about some of the most important days of their lives. Yet where are those people now? How could someone who was your bridesmaid 20 years ago not even be someone who you are on talking terms with now? Or in Dad’s case, how could he not know where his own best friend from college lives? He studied with the man for five years! Anyway, my point is (I know, I know, there is one), I don’t want to be one of those easily forgotten people, so important at the time, so special, so influential, and so treasured, yet years later just a vague face and a distant memory. I want us to be best friends forever, Alex. I’m happy you’re happy, really I am, but I feel like I’ve been left behind. Maybe our time has come and gone. Maybe your time is now meant to be spent with Bethany. And if that’s the case I won’t bother sending you this letter. And if I’m not sending this letter then what am I doing still writing it? OK I’m going now and I’m ripping these muddled thoughts up. Your friend, Rosie

You were the person that turned things right again. With you, I became courageous and free. It was like the part of me that died with my mom came back when I met you, and I didn’t hurt if I knew I had you. Then one day, out of the blue, I lost you, too. The hurt returned, and I felt sick when I saw you hating me. My rainstorm was gone, and you became cruel. There was no explanation. You were just gone. And my heart was ripped open. I missed you.

I’m going to miss him like hell when he’s gone,” she eventually continued. “It’s going to rip half my soul out. If you weren’t here for me, I would fucking give up and die the minute he quit breathing.

You know the way Jesus rips open his shirt to show us his heart, all flaming and thorny, the way he points to it. I’m afraid the way I’ll miss you will be this obvious.

As you know, I have always been curious about our immortality... how it feels to live on and on through time....I need speculate no longer, I have sampled eternity in Miss Campbell's fifth period "social studies" class. Three days on the concept of "manifest destiny," Vasile. THREE DAYS. I yearned to stand up, rip her lecture notes from her pallid hands, and scream, 'Yes, America expanded westward! Is that not logical, given that Europeans settled on the Eastern shore? What else were they to do? Advance vainly into the sea?

Nooooooooooo!" Screaming the word, Amy and Dan moved as one. Time slowed down, which, Dan knew from experience, often happened when you were in midair. By the time they leaped onto the hood of Fiske's car (oops, dents), and Dan had ripped off a windshield wiper to use as a weapon (probably not the best idea, but hey, he was improvising), Scarey Harley Dude had turned around. He strode off in his motorcycle boots, moving swiftly to his bike without seeming to hurry. His helmet back on, sunglasses adjusted, he roared off straight into the road, weaving through the thick traffic like smoke. Amy's face was squashed against the windshield. Dan held the wiper aloft like a club. And Evan Tolliver stood on the sidewalk, blinking at them. Dan waved the windshield wiper at him. "Hey, bro. We didn't want to miss our ride.

I've missed you so much it's felt like missing you is all I am. Like if someone looked inside me, there wouldn't be a skeleton and muscles and blood and nerves. There'd just be memories of you and all the things I've tried to say and ripped out of this notebook, all the things I want to say but can't because I don't have the words.

His rapier was at his belt, glittering as he swung. He reached down, ripped the sword clear. I jumped over a slashing frond of plasm, spun round with the water bottle in my hand. I hurled it across to Lockwood. George threw his rapier to me. Watch this now. Sword and bottle, sailing through the air, twin trajectories, arching beautifully through the mass of swirling tendrils towards Lockwood and me. Lockwood held out his hand. I held out mine. Remember I said there was that moment of sweet precision when we gelled perfectly as a team? Yeah, well. This wasn't it. The rapier shot past, missing me by miles. It skidded halfway across the floor. The bottle struck Lockwood plumb in the centre of his forehead, knocking him through the window. There was a moment's pause. 'Is he dead?' the skulls voice said 'Yay! Oh. No, he's hanging onto the shutters. Shame. Still, this is defiantly the funniest thing I've ever seen. You three really are incompetence on a stick

Why can't you understand that I love you so much, that not being able to touch you hurts? I can't stand the fact that I can't get into your thoughts. Haventon is gone to you, but it's also gone to me. I miss it so much. It feels like my heart's been ripped out from my chest.

Awe. It’s a feeling he misses. He made lists of things he wanted to feel when he was younger, big things, small things, ice, snow, the sand at the beach, someone else’s hands holding his, feeling him feeling them, a feedback loop of feelings, which is what happens when two people make love. He wanted to feel things that made him feel safe and scared and things that ripped his heart out of his chest, things that made him want to go home and things that made him want to travel, things that made him proud and things that made him regret his choices and he, like all people, slowly ticked these things off the list in his head as he lived, as the world turned until soon, there were very few things left to feel. He believed the last thing he would feel, would be nothing, as that was nearly impossible to feel unless you were dead or hadn’t been born yet. He wondered what it’d be like to not be able to wonder. He’d once wanted to know what it felt like to be able to talk to people properly, to be normal but he’d given up on finding that feeling, figuring no one ever really found it.

An old girlfriend is a gun in your belly. It's no longer loaded, so when you see her, all you feel is the hollow mechanical click in your gut, and possibly the ghost of an echo, sense memory from when it used to carry live rounds. Occasionally, though, there's a bullet you missed, lying dormant in its overlooked chamber, and when that trigger gets pulled, the unexpected gunshot is deafening even as the forgotten bullet rips its way through the tissue and muscle of your midsection and out into the light of day. Seeing Carly is like that. Even though we haven't spoken in almost ten years, it's an explosion, and in that one instant every memory, every feeling, comes flooding back as fresh as if it were yesterday.

Forgive me, madam," he said lightly, amused, "but waiting to make love to you again is straining my nerves." She scoffed but she was quite shaken; he could see it in her expression, in the way she nervously toyed with the buttons on her pelisse. "How awfully presumptuous of you to think I'd let you." "You will," he insisted soothingly. She gaped at him. "Please continue," he urged. "I'm aching to hear the rest." "You're as arrogant as usual." "You missed it, though." "I absolutely did not," she asserted. He grinned. "You missed my arrogance almost as much as I missed your impudence, little one." "That's absurd." "I love you, Caroline," he softly, quickly replied, catching her off guard with such tenderness. "Move on before I decide I'm finished with this conversation, rip off your clothes, and show you how much.

I think he's quite aware , as is everyone here, that you don't need to worm your way into my bed, Miss Raven." He stepped away from her. "You need only crook your finger and I would be ripping your clothes off your body.

There is a moment of surface tension when a knife blade presents its demand and the flesh honors it. An instant of pressure before the puncture, the rip before the slide, a small eternity easy to miss but impossible to ignore if you’ve felt it before. I lived in that moment a great while for the small sliver of time it was there.

He lifted a single eyebrow as he adjusted his pants, zipping his fly. The sound made my back stiffen and I realized how close we’d just been to copulating in the back of a car. “I think you look good just like that.” I stared at him for two seconds before I smacked him on his infuriatingly well-muscled shoulder. “My shirt is ripped open and…” I frantically twisted in my seat and may have shrieked, “Where are my underwear?!” There was no amusement in his voice when he responded, “Someplace safe.” My eyes widened further and, I knew, my mouth hung open dumbly. I was about to lose my mind. “Give them back-” “You don’t need them-” “-to me right now-” “-and you should try new things-” “I am not leaving this limo while commando!” The passenger door on Quinn’s side opened and I yanked the skirt I was wearing back to my midcalf. I didn't miss his dark smile when it was clear that I was not likely to push the underwear issue further until we were in private. And, by then, it likely wouldn't matter.

Instead I walked towards the man, meeting him halfway. “Just miss a train?” I heard myself ask. He shrugged. I could not believe I was engaging this man in conversation. He was disgusting up close, with mottled, pitted skin and a shaggy grown out haircut. “I hate that,” I said. “Especially at night. Especially at night when you’re waiting for a train and there’s someone there. And you never know. I mean, in the city you just never know who you’re dealing with. They might have a knife, or a gun, or whatever. They might, I don’t know, be the kind of person who hates men who hang out in train stations, waiting for women. She might be the kind of person who takes men like that and rips them limb from fucking limb with her bare hands.” The man left the station without a word, and the train took me home safe and sound.

Don’t leave your God-given gifts unopened. Don’t leave this planet having missed the great opportunities God has for you. Rip off the lid of your abilities, tear into that box that is your talents, and use every gift God has given you. Devote yourself to fulfilling the unique purpose that is your destiny.

Someone's at the door! Someone's at the door!!!" they both yelled. "I just told you, it's my—" I called, knowing they couldn't hear. "Hey. Get away from the door, you miserable jack-off," I heard Chuck shout at my dad. "I'll rip your ass in half." "Me too! I'll rip your ass in half, too!!" yelled Johnny Depp. "We hate you. We hate you. We hate you. We hate you." "You guys, knock it off," I said, racing to open the door. "I just told you...it's my—Hi, Daddy," I said, hugging him. "Come on in! Great to see you again!!" screamed Chuck. "Thank God you're finally here!" screamed Johnny Depp. "We missed you. Where you been? Welcome back! Who are you??

I think of the string Rochester described to Jane, tethered to each other’s rib. That he felt like he was going to bleed out by having it ripped off him if she went too far. I didn’t understand that until you. Missing you is painful. Physical and real. Perhaps if I keep tugging on this invisible string, you’ll follow it home. Yours, Matt.

Right now, I want to take care of you. Just you. And then I want to hold you, in my bed. And not sleep a room away from you, wondering if the last man you think about is the same one I have to get along with for the next sixteen games without ripping his head off or wondering if he misses your taste the way I would. If he thinks about you naked like I’m going to. I can’t do that now. Not after tonight. Probably not ever. So don’t analyze this, don’t make this about you. Let it be about me, this man sharing a bed with you, and his jealousy over a past he was never a part of—and the fear he has over the fact that the past could still unfairly dictate his future.

It doesn't get any easier. No matter what they say, time doesn't heal the wound. Time just unravels and shows you new and more painful ways to miss someone. The longer they've been gone, the worse it is. You start to forget their smile or the way they tilted their head when they were confused or the way they looked at you and knew exactly what you were thinking. You can look at them in photos, but it's not even close to the real thing, and pretty soon you feel like your real memories are being replaced by the photo memories - like the only way you can picture them anymore is in one of those photographs. They become two-dimensional, and it rips your heart out whenever you think about it so you really try not to.

don’t b’lieve in ‘evil’ in most ways,” Miz Lottie said. “I believe in the devil, all right, but man don’t need no help from Satan to do what folks call ‘evil.’ Man do evil ev’ry day and call it doin’ their job. Slave drivers was ‘doin’ their job,’ beatin’ the skin off folks. Slave catchers settin’ dogs to rip out eyes and limbs. Don’t nobody know to this day how many Negro men and boys got kilt on McCormack’s land when Isaiah Timmons faced McCormack with a shotgun looking for his missing sons. Back in ’09, that was. I guess the sheriff was jus’ ‘doin’ his job’ when he rounded up men that had nothin’ to do with Timmons and his gun—and nobody saw ’em again. ’Cuz, see, colored folks fighting for what’s theirs is like a virus to white folks—and they kill a virus so it don’t spread. That killing is the work of man, not the devil. And if there’s any such thing as evil on this earth, Gloria, it’s here in Gracetown. In the soil, hear? Gracetown soil remembers. It’s like a mirror that shines yo’ ugly back at you.

Being adopted felt like reading a book that had the first chapter ripped out. You might be enjoying the plot and the characters, but you'd probably also like to read that first line, too. However, when you took the book back to the store to say that the first chapter was missing, they told you they couldn't sell you a replacement copy that was intact. What if you read that first chapter and realized you hated the book, and posted a nasty review on Amazon? What if you hurt the author's feelings? Better just to stick with your partial copy and enjoy the rest of the story.

He braced his elbows on the desk,his brow on his fists. "She came shrieking across the court.I'd just hit a line drive,barely missed beaning her. Cameras rolling, and there I am trying to look my sixth-generational-hotelier best, the athletic yet intelligent, the world-traveled yet dedicated, the dashing yet concerned heir to the Templeton name." "You'd be good at that," Margo murmured, hoping to placate him. He didn't even look at her. "Suddenly I've got my arms full of this half-naked, spitting, swearing, clawing mass who's screaming that my sister, her lesbian companion, and my whore attacked her." He pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to relieve some pressure. "I figured out right away who my sister was. Though I didn't appreciate the term,I deduced you must be my whore.The lesbian companion might have stumped me,but for process of elimination." He lifted his head. "I was tempted to belt her,but I was too busy trying to keep her from ripping off my face." "It's such a nice face too." Hoping to soothe, she walked around the desk and sat on his lap. "I'm sorry she took it out on you." "She sratched me." He turned his head to show her the trio of angry welts on the side of his throat. Dutifully, Margo kissed them. "What am I going to do with you?" he asked wearily and rested his cheek on her head. Then he chuckled. "How the hell did you stuff her into one of those skinny lockers?" "It wasn't easy but it was fun." He narrowed his eyes. "You're not going to do it again,no matter what the provocation-unless you sedate her first." "Deal." Since the crisis seemed to have passed, she slipped a hand under his shirt, stroked it over his chest, watched his brow lift. "I've been waxed and polished.If you're interested." "Well,just so the day isn't a complete loss." He picked her up and carried her to the bed.

He crushed me against the wall, bracing me with his body. I strained, trying to break free. He might have been made of stone for all the good it did me. Except he was made of flesh and he was stark naked. I strained every muscle I had. Nothing. Outmuscling him was beyond me. “Feel better?” he inquired. “Lean over to the left, Your Majesty.” “Want a shot at my jugular with your teeth?” He leaned to the right, exposing his thick neck. “Carotid’s better.” “My teeth are too small. I wouldn’t cause enough damage for you to bleed out. Jugular is better—if I rip it a bit and get air bubbles into the bloodstream, they’ll be in your heart in two breaths. You would pass out at my feet.” A normal human would die, but it took more than an air embolism to bring a shapeshifter down permanently. “Here you go.” He leaned his head to me, his neck so close to my lips, I felt the heat coming off his skin. His breath was warm against my ear. His voice was a ragged snarl. “I miss you.” This wasn’t happening. “I worry about you.” He dipped his head and looked into my eyes “I worry something stupid will happen and I won’t be there and you’ll be gone. I worry we won’t ever get a chance and it’s driving me out of my skull.” No, no, no, no . . . We stared at each other. The tiny space between us felt too hot. Muscles bulged on his naked frame. He looked feral. Mad gold eyes stared into mine. “Do you miss me, Kate?” I closed my eyes, trying to shut him out. I could lie and then we’d be back to square one. Nothing would be resolved. I’d still be alone, hating him and wanting him. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me once. “Do you miss me?” I took the plunge. “Yes.” He kissed me. The taste of him was like an explosion of color in a gray room. It was a fierce, possessive kiss and I melted into it. His tongue brushed mine, eager and hot. I licked at it, tasting him again. My arms slid around his neck. He growled, pulling me to him, and kissed my lips, my cheeks, my neck . . . “Don’t make me leave.

Nick grinned, swooping in for another kiss and then leaning back and scruffing his hair up. “Harriet Manners, I’m about to give you six stamps. Then I’m going to write something on a piece of paper and put it in an envelope with your address on it.” “OK …” “Then I’m going to put the envelope on the floor and spin us as fast as I can. As soon as either of us manage to stick a stamp on it, I’m going to race to the postbox and post it unless you can catch me first. If you win, you can read it.” Nick was obviously faster than me, but he didn’t know where the nearest postbox was. “Deal,” I agreed, yawning and rubbing my eyes. “But why six stamps?” “Just wait and see.” A few seconds later, I understood. As we spun in circles with our hands stretched out, one of my stamps got stuck to the ground at least a metre away from the envelope. Another ended up on a daisy. A third somehow got stuck to the roundabout. One of Nick’s ended up on his nose. And every time we both missed, we laughed harder and harder and our kisses got dizzier and dizzier until the whole world was a giggling, kissing, spinning blur. Finally, when we both had one stamp left, I stopped giggling. I had to win this. So I swallowed, wiped my eyes and took a few deep breaths. Then I reached out my hand. “Too late!” Nick yelled as I opened my eyes again. “Got it, Manners!” And he jumped off the still-spinning roundabout with the envelope held high over his head. So I promptly leapt off too. Straight into a bush. Thanks to a destabilised vestibular system – which is the upper portion of the inner ear – the ground wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Nick, in the meantime, had ended up flat on his back on the grass next to me. With a small shout I leant down and kissed him hard on the lips. “HA!” I shouted, grabbing the envelope off him and trying to rip it open. “I don’t think so,” he grinned, jumping up and wrapping one arm round my waist while he retrieved it again. Then he started running in a zigzag towards the postbox. A few seconds later, I wobbled after him. And we stumbled wonkily down the road, giggling and pulling at each other’s T-shirts and hanging on to tree trunks and kissing as we each fought for the prize. Finally, he picked me up and, without any effort, popped me on top of a high wall. Like Humpty Dumpty. Or some kind of really unathletic cat. “Hey!” I shouted as he whipped the envelope out of my hands and started sprinting towards the postbox at the bottom of the road. “That’s not fair!” “Course it is,” he shouted back. “All’s fair in love and war.” And Nick kissed the envelope then put it in the postbox with a flourish. I had to wait three days. Three days of lingering by the front door. Three days of lifting up the doormat, just in case it had accidentally slipped under there. Finally, the letter arrived: crumpled and stained with grass. Ha. Told you I was faster. LBxx

Did you find anything special?' Blackie asked. T. nodded. 'Come over here,' he said, 'and look.' Out of both pockets he drew bundles of pound notes. 'Old Misery's savings,' he said. 'Mike ripped out the mattress, but he missed them.' 'What are you going to do? Share them?' 'We aren't thieves,' T. said. 'Nobody's going to steal anything from this house. I kept these for you and me - a celebration.' He knelt down on the floor and counted them out - there were seventy in all. 'We'll burn them,' he said, 'one by one,' and taking it in turns they held a note upwards and lit the top corner, so that the flame burnt slowly towards their fingers. The grey ash floated above them and fell on their heads like age. 'I'd like to see Old Misery's face when we are through,' T. said. 'You hate him a lot?' Blackie asked. 'Of course I don't hate him,' T. said. 'There'd be no fun if I hated him.' The last burning note illuminated his brooding face. 'All this hate and love,' he said, 'it's soft, it's hooey. There's only things, Blackie,' and he looked round the room crowded with the unfamiliar shadows of half things, broken things, former things. 'I'll race you home, Blackie,' he said. ("The Destructors")

Emptying Town" I want to erase your footprints from my walls. Each pillow is thick with your reasons. Omens fill the sidewalk below my window: a woman in a party hat, clinging to a tin-foil balloon. Shadows creep slowly across the tar, someone yells, "Stop!" and I close my eyes. I can't watch as this town slowly empties, leaving me strung between bon-voyages, like so many clothes on a line, the white handkerchief stuck in my throat. You know the way Jesus rips open his shirt to show us his heart, all flaming and thorny, the way he points to it. I'm afraid the way I'll miss you will be this obvious. I have a friend who everyone warns me is dangerous, he hides bloody images of Jesus around my house, for me to find when I come home; Jesus behind the cupboard door, Jesus tucked into the mirror. He wants to save me but we disagree from what. My version of hell is someone ripping open his shirt and saying, Look what I did for you.

Gravity has got the best of me. She takes a hold, won’t let me go. She rips me into pieces. Coming home, I’m left alone with nothing but a box of mismatched socks and missing puzzle pieces. I’m lost but never found. I’m riding the wind and coming down until I’m swept away again. You’ve said cut ties. You’ve said count lies. Break your best intentions and leave no trace. All the hurt can be erased if you stay with me on the surface. I’m lost but never found. I’m riding the wind and coming down until I’m swept away again.

Merripen,” Harry said pleasantly. “Did you enjoy the breakfast?” The Rom was in no mood for small talk. He stared at Harry with a gaze promising death. “Something is wrong,” he said. “If you’ve done something to harm Poppy, I will find you and rip your head from your—” “Merripen!” came a cheerful exclamation as Leo suddenly appeared beside them. Harry didn’t miss the way Leo jabbed a warning elbow against the Gypsy’s ribs. “All charm and lightness, as usual. You’re supposed to congratulate the bridegroom, phral. Not threaten to dismember him.” “It’s not a threat,” the Rom muttered. “It’s a promise.” Harry met Merripen’s gaze directly. “I appreciate your concern for her. I assure you, I’ll do everything in my power to make her happy. Poppy will have anything she wants.” “I believe a divorce would top the list,” Leo mused aloud. Harry leveled a cool stare at Merripen. “I’d like to point out that your sister married me voluntarily. Michael Bayning should have had the bollocks to come to the church and carry her out bodily if necessary. But he didn’t. And if he wasn’t willing to fight for her, he didn’t deserve her.” He saw from Merripen’s quick blink that he had scored a point. “Moreover, after going through these exertions to marry Poppy, the last thing I would do is mistreat her.” “What exertions?” the Rom asked suspiciously, and Harry realized that he hadn’t yet been told the entire story. “Never mind that,” Leo told Merripen. “If I told you now, you’d only make an embarrassing scene at Poppy’s wedding. And that’s supposed to be my job.” They exchanged a glance, and Merripen muttered something in Romany. Leo smiled faintly. “I have no idea what you just said. But I suspect it’s something about battering Poppy’s new husband into forest mulch.” He paused. “Later, old fellow,” he said. A look of grim understanding passed between them.

Merripen,” Harry said pleasantly. “Did you enjoy the breakfast?” The Rom was in no mood for small talk. He stared at Harry with a gaze promising death. “Something is wrong,” he said. “If you’ve done something to harm Poppy, I will find you and rip your head from your—” “Merripen!” came a cheerful exclamation as Leo suddenly appeared beside them. Harry didn’t miss the way Leo jabbed a warning elbow against the Gypsy’s ribs. “All charm and lightness, as usual. You’re supposed to congratulate the bridegroom, phral. Not threaten to dismember him.” “It’s not a threat,” the Rom muttered. “It’s a promise.” Harry met Merripen’s gaze directly. “I appreciate your concern for her. I assure you, I’ll do everything in my power to make her happy. Poppy will have anything she wants.” “I believe a divorce would top the list,” Leo mused aloud. Harry leveled a cool stare at Merripen. “I’d like to point out that your sister married me voluntarily. Michael Bayning should have had the bollocks to come to the church and carry her out bodily if necessary. But he didn’t. And if he wasn’t willing to fight for her, he didn’t deserve her.” He saw from Merripen’s quick blink that he had scored a point. “Moreover, after going through these exertions to marry Poppy, the last thing I would do is mistreat her.

When you lose someone you love, there is a tear in the fabric of the universe. It’s the scar you feel for, the flaw you can’t stop seeing. It’s the tender place that won’t bear weight. It’s a void. But the universe tends toward Ma’at, toward order, so even though there’s a rip, it gets camouflaged. The edges overlap, and after time, you might even forget that this is the spot where something went missing, the spot where—if you push—you’ll fall through. And then there’s a scent or a thought or a heartbeat and suddenly it’s clear as day: the light behind that ragged tear, so blinding that you cannot imagine how you ever mistakenly believed it had woven itself back together.

Taggart finally broke the pattern. "Can you at least explain why?" Jane growled. God, she hated being outnumbered. This was like riding herd on her little brothers, only worse because "I'll beat you if you do" wasn't an acceptable answer. "First rule of shooting a show on Elfhome." She grabbed Hal and made him face each of the two newbies so there was no way they could miss the mask of dark purple bruises across Hal's face. "Avoid getting 'The Face' damaged. Viewers don't like raccoon boys. Hal is out of production until the bruising can be covered with makeup. We've got fifty days and a grocery list of face-chewing monsters to film. We have to think about damage control." "Second rule!" She let Hal go and held up two fingers. "Get as much footage as possible of the monster before you kill it. People don't like looking at dead monsters if you don't give them lots of time seeing it alive. Right now we have got something dark moving at night in water. No one has ever seen this before, so we can't use stock footage to pad. We blow the whistle and it will come out of the water and try to rip your face off – violating rule one – and then we'll have to kill it and thus break rule two." "Sounds reasonable," Taggart said. "Would we really have to kill it?" Nigel's tone suggested he equated it to torturing kittens. "If it's trying its damnest to eat you? Yes!" Jane cried.

Now Snape was head to head with Mundungus in an unfamiliar tavern, Mundungus’s face looking curiously blank, Snape frowning in concentration. “You will suggest to the Order of the Phoenix,” Snape murmured, “that they use decoys. Polyjuice Potion. Identical Potters. It is the only thing that might work. You will forget that I have suggested this. You will present it as your own idea. You understand?” “I understand,” murmured Mundungus, his eyes unfocused… Now Harry was flying alongside Snape on a broomstick through a clear dark night: He was accompanied by other hooded Death Eaters, and ahead were Lupin and a Harry who was really George…A Death Eater moved ahead of Snape and raised his wand, pointing it directly at Lupin’s back-- “Sectumsempra!” shouted Snape. But the spell, intended for the Death Eater’s wand hand, missed and hit George instead-- And next, Snape was kneeling in Sirius’s old bedroom. Tears were dripping from the end of his hooked nose as he read the old letter from Lily. The second page carried only a few words: could ever have been friends with Gellert Grindelwald. I think her mind’s going, personally! Lots of love, Lily Snape took the page bearing Lily’s signature, and her love, and tucked it inside his robes. Then he ripped in two the photograph he was also holding, so that he kept the part from which Lily laughed, throwing the portion showing James and Harry back onto the floor, under the chest of drawers…

Oh, Teddy Bear, dear Teddy, though you're gone these many years, I recall with deep affection how I nibbled on your ears, I can hardly keep from smiling, and my heart beats fast and glows, when I think about the morning that I twisted off your nose. Teddy Bear, you didn't whimper, Teddy Bear, you didn't pout, when I reached in with my fingers and I tore your tummy out, and you didn't even mumble or emit the faintest cries, when I pulled your little paws off, when I bit your button eyes. Yes, you sat beside me calmly, and you didn't once protest, when I ripped apart the stuffing that was packed inside your chest, and you didn't seem to notice when I yanked out all your hair— it's been ages since I've seen you, but I miss you, Teddy Bear.

You can see self-pity every day if you live near a playground like I do. Little kids trip or get shoved and they fall over all the time. Usually, they don’t appear to be hurt. They look surprised to see that what was just an instant ago beneath their shoes is now pressed up against their nose. Little kids also know that injuries are an opportunity for extra affection. So whenever you see a little kid take a spill, they’ll look around to verify a nearby adult presence and then they’ll let it rip. This Wail of Death causes all the adults in the area to converge on the kid and one of them scoops the kid up and begins the medicinal kisses. Self-pity isn’t the most accurate description for this feeling because it describes only half of it: sad for me, I’m hurt. What’s missing is the other half: and you need to do something about it.

Will you never forgive me for what I did so long ago, Jane?” The soft question caught her off guard. “Would you do it again if you had the chance?” She could hardly breathe, awaiting his answer. With a low oath, he glanced away. Then his features hardened into those of the rigid and arrogant Dom he had become. “Yes. I did the only thing I could to keep you happy.” Her breath turned to ice in her throat. “That’s the problem. You still really believe that.” His gaze swung to her again, but before he could say anything more, noises in the hall arrested them both. “It’s gone very quiet in there.” It was the duke’s voice, remarkably clear, sounding as if it came from right outside the door. “Perhaps we should knock first.” Oh no! As Jane frantically set her gown to rights, she heard Lisette say, “Don’t you dare bother them, Max. I’m sure everything’s fine. Let’s come back later.” With panic growing in her belly, Jane glanced around for her tucker. Wordlessly, Dom plucked it from the back of a chair and handed it to her. Without meeting his gaze, she pinned it into her bodice, hoping to hide the tiny holes where Dom had unwittingly ripped it free of its pins. “Besides,” drawled Tristan, “it’s not as if Dom will seduce her or anything. That’s not his vice.” Sweet Lord, were they all right outside the door? “I’m not worried about that,” Max answered. “Miss Vernon isn’t the sort to let him seduce her.” As Jane tensed, Dom hissed under his breath, “Do the blasted idiots not realize we can hear them?” “Apparently not.” Dom furtively adjusted his trousers, which seemed to be rather…oddly protruding just now. Ohhh. Right. This was one time she wished Nancy hadn’t been so forthcoming about what happened to a man’s body when he was aroused. So that, not his pistol, had been the odd bulge digging into her. Definitely not a pistol. Her cheeks positively flamed. Faith, how could she even face his family after this and not give away what she and Dom had been doing? Mortified, she hurried to the looking glass to fix her hair. While she stuffed tendrils back into place and repinned drooping curls, Dom came up behind her to meet her gaze in the mirror. “Before we let them in, I want an answer to my question about Blakeborough.” Curse the stubborn man. How could she tell Dom she was so pathetic that she hadn’t even managed to find another man to love in all the years they’d spent apart? That she’d been foolish enough to wait around for Dom all this time, when he’d happily gone on living his life without her? Her pride couldn’t endure having him know that. To her relief, Tristan said, “Well, whatever they’re up to, we have to get moving.” A knock sounded at the door. “Dom? Jane? Are you done talking?” She met Dom’s gaze with a certain defiance, and he arched one eyebrow in question. So she took matters into her own hands and strode for the door. Caught off guard, Dom swore behind her and snatched up his greatcoat just as she opened the door and said, “Please come in. We’re quite finished.” In more ways than one. Their companions trooped in, casting her and Dom wary glances. Jane looked over to see Dom holding his greatcoat looped over his arm as if to shield the front of him. That brought the blushes back to her cheeks. She caught Lisette furtively watching her, and she cursed herself for wearing her emotions on her sleeve. Better shift her attention elsewhere before Lisette guessed just how shameless she’d been.

I took a step back and appraised the sight of the naked torso in front of me. He’d always had an amazing body, but Christ. Trip had gotten freaking ripped. I put my hands to my hips and asked, “Are you kidding me? What the hell is this?” My anger probably missed its mark, considering I was standing there totally nude. It’s hard to be taken seriously when you’re not wearing any clothes. He knew exactly what I was talking about and was trying to contain a smile as he asked, “What?” I rolled my eyes. “When did this happen? Jesus. Look at you! Give a girl a heads up about such a thing, huh?” That made the smile crack his features. “What? So I’ve been hitting it a little harder lately. I just came off a gladiator film and I’m starting a hockey flick in a few weeks. Occupational hazard, I guess.” “Yeah. A hazard to me, maybe! Here I am with my saggy ass and you’re standing there looking like Michelangelo’s David, you jagweed!” He stepped closer, grabbing my butt and pulling me into direct contact with what was assuredly going to be revealed as his perfect dick. He probably lifted weights with that thing, too. His cock probably possessed its own set of washboard abs.

What the hell was that?” Joss turned on him the moment Gabriel cleared the last of the china. “What the hell was what?” Gray pulled a flask from his breast pocket and offered it to his brother. Joss waved it away. “You know damn well what I mean. Something’s going on between you and Miss Turner, I know it.” Gray uncapped the flask and took a sip. “What makes you say that?” He circled the table, discreetly examining the angle of the tablecloth and the perspective from the captain’s chair. Surely Joss couldn’t have seen what had taken place under the table. Even if his brother had noticed, he could demand all the answers he wished. Gray had no desire-or words-to explain it. For the first time since he’d left England, Gray gave thanks for the thin, impractical leather of those dandified Hessians. The feel of her lithe, shapely leg against his…She’d accepted the contact so readily, blushed so attractively. Beneath that table, they’d formed some sort of alliance. And then she had extended a clear verbal invitation. If he went to her berth right now, she would be expecting him. At last, he could solve the mystery of what held together that damned striped frock. Or…he could simply rip it from her body. Gray shoved the image aside before his groin could react further.

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?

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.

Helen wriggled in protest as his hand stole to the back of her skirts. She was wearing a ready-made traveling dress, which fit nicely after a few minor alterations made by one of Mrs. Allenby’s assistants. It was a simple design of light blue silk and cashmere, with a smart little waist-jacket. There was no bustle, and the skirts had been drawn back snugly to reveal the shape of her body. The skirts descended in a pretty fall of folds and pleats, with a large decorative bow placed high on her posterior. To her vexation, Rhys wouldn’t leave the bow alone. He was positively mesmerized by it. Every time she turned her back to him, she could feel him playing with it. “Rhys, don’t!” “I can’t help it. It calls to me.” “You’ve seen bows on dresses before.” “But not there. And not on you.” Reluctantly Rhys let go of her and pulled out his pocket watch. “The train should have departed by now. We’re five minutes late.” “What are you in a rush for?” she asked. “Bed,” came his succinct reply. Helen smiled. She stood on her toes and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “We have a lifetime of nights together.” “Aye, and we’ve already missed too many of them.” Helen turned and bent to pick up her small valise, which had been set on the floor. At the same time, she heard the sound of fabric ripping. Before Helen had straightened and twisted to look at the back of her skirts, she already knew what had happened. The bow hung limply, at least half of its stitches torn. Meeting her indignant glance, Rhys looked as sheepish as a schoolboy caught with a stolen apple. “I didn’t know you were going to bend over.” “What am I going to say to the lady’s maid when she sees this?” He considered that for a moment. “Alas?” he suggested. Helen’s lips quivered with unwilling amusement.

Flowers. Lots of women say they don’t want them. But every woman is happy when they get them. Which is why I’ve arranged to have them delivered to Kate’s office, every hour on the hour. Seven dozen at a time. That’s one dozen for every day we were apart. Romantic, right? I thought so too. And although I know Kate’s favorite are white daisies, I specifically told the florist to avoid them. Instead, I’ve chosen exotics—bouquets with brightly colored petals and strange shapes. The kinds of flowers Kate has probably never seen in her life, from places she’s never been. Places I want to take her to. At first I kept the notes simple and generic. Take a look: Kate, I'm sorry. Drew Kate, Let me make it up to you. Drew Kate, I miss you. Please forgive me. Drew. But after a few hours I figured I needed to step it up a notch. Get more creative. What do you think? Kate, You're turning me into a stalker. Drew Kate, Go out with me on Saturday and I'll give you all of my clients. Every. Single. One. Drew Kate, If I throw myself in front of a bus, will you come visit me at the hospital? Drew PS - Try not to feel too guilty if I don't survive. Really. That last batch was delivered forty-five minutes ago. Now I’m just sitting at my desk, waiting. Waiting for what, you ask? You’ll see. Kate may be stubborn, but she’s not made of stone. My office door slams open, leaving a dent in the drywall. Here we go. “You are driving me crazy!” Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing’s fast, and she’s got murder in her eyes. Beautiful. I raise my brows hopefully. “Crazy? Like you want to rip my shirt open again?” “No. Crazy like the itch of a yeast infection that just won’t go away.” I flinch. Can’t help it. I mean—Christ. Kate steps toward my desk. “I am trying to work. I need to focus. And you’ve got Manny, Moe, and Jack playing every cheesy eighties song ever written outside my office door!” “Cheesy? Really? Huh. I so had you pegged for an eighties kind of girl.” Well, you live and learn.

I like storms. Thunder, torrential rain, puddles, wet shoes. When the clouds roll in, I get filled with this giddy expectation. Everything is more beautiful in the rain. Don't ask me why. But it’s like this whole other realm of opportunity. I used to feel like a superhero, riding my bike over the dangerously slick roads, or maybe an Olympic athlete enduring rough trials to make it to the finish line. On sunny days, as a girl, I could still wake up to that thrilled feeling. You made me giddy with expectation, just like a symphonic rainstorm. You were a tempest in the sun, the thunder in a boring, cloudless sky. I remember I’d shovel in my breakfast as fast as I could, so I could go knock on your door. We’d play all day, only coming back for food and sleep. We played hide and seek, you’d push me on the swing, or we’d climb trees. Being your sidekick gave me a sense of home again. You see, when I was ten, my mom died. She had cancer, and I lost her before I really knew her. My world felt so insecure, and I was scared. You were the person that turned things right again. With you, I became courageous and free. It was like the part of me that died with my mom came back when I met you, and I didn’t hurt if I knew I had you. Then one day, out of the blue, I lost you, too. The hurt returned, and I felt sick when I saw you hating me. My rainstorm was gone, and you became cruel. There was no explanation. You were just gone. And my heart was ripped open. I missed you. I missed my mom. What was worse than losing you, was when you started to hurt me. Your words and actions made me hate coming to school. They made me uncomfortable in my own home. Everything still hurts, but I know none of it is my fault. There are a lot of words that I could use to describe you, but the only one that includes sad, angry, miserable, and pitiful is “coward.” I a year, I’ll be gone, and you’ll be nothing but some washout whose height of existence was in high school. You were my tempest, my thunder cloud, my tree in the downpour. I loved all those things, and I loved you. But now? You’re a fucking drought.

Curtis Bane screamed and though I came around fast and fired in the same motion, he’d already pulled a heater and begun pumping metal at me. We both missed and I was empty, that drum clicking uselessly. I went straight at him. Happily, he too was out of bullets and I closed the gap and slammed the butt of the rifle into his chest. Should’ve knocked him down, but no. The bastard was squat and powerful as a wild animal, thanks to being a coke fiend, no doubt. He ripped the rifle from my grasp and flung it aside. He locked his fists and swung them up into my chin, and it was like getting clobbered with a hammer, and I sprawled into a row of trash cans. Stars zipped through my vision. A leather cosh dropped from his sleeve into his hand and he knew what to do with it all right. He swung it in a short chopping blow at my face and I got my left hand up and the blow snapped my two smallest fingers, and he swung again and I turned my head just enough that it only squashed my ear and you better believe that hurt, but now I’d drawn the sawback bayonet I kept strapped to my hip, a fourteen-inch grooved steel blade with notched and pitted edges—Jesus-fuck who knew how many Yankee boys the Kraut who’d owned it gashed before I did for him—and stabbed it to the guard into Bane’s groin. Took a couple of seconds for Bane to register it was curtains. His face whitened and his mouth slackened, breath steaming in the chill, his evil soul coming untethered. He had lots of gold fillings. He lurched away and I clutched his sleeve awkwardly with my broken hand and rose, twisting the handle of the blade side to side, turning it like a car crank into his guts and bladder, putting my shoulder and hip into it for leverage. He moaned in panic and dropped the cosh and pried at my wrist, but the strength was draining from him and I slammed him against the wall and worked the handle with murderous joy. The cords of his neck went taut and he looked away, as if embarrassed, eyes milky, a doomed petitioner gaping at Hell in all its fiery majesty. I freed the blade with a cork-like pop and blood spurted down his leg in a nice thick stream and he collapsed, folding into himself like a bug does when it dies.

Drat. Daisy pulled back with a frown. She felt guilty that she had enjoyed the kiss so little. And it made her feel even worse when it appeared Llandrindon had enjoyed it quite a lot. “My dear Miss Bowman,” Llandrindon murmured flirtatiously. “You didn’t tell me you tasted so sweet.” He reached for her again, and Daisy danced backward with a little yelp. “My lord, control yourself!” “I cannot.” He pursued her slowly around the fountain until they resembled a pair of circling cats. Suddenly he made a dash for her, catching at the sleeve of her gown. Daisy pushed hard at him and twisted away, feeling the soft white muslin rip an inch or two at the shoulder seam. There was a loud splash and a splatter of water drops. Daisy stood blinking at the empty spot where Llandrindon had been, and then covered her eyes with her hands as if that would somehow make the entire situation go away. “My lord?” she asked gingerly. “Did you… did you just fall into the fountain?” “No,” came his sour reply. “You pushed me into the fountain.” “It was entirely unintentional, I assure you.” Daisy forced herself to look at him. Llandrindon rose to his feet, water streaming from his hair and clothes, his coat pockets filled to the brim. It appeared the dip in the fountain had cooled his passions considerably. He glowered at her in affronted silence. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he reached into one of his water-laden coat pockets. A tiny frog leaped from the pocket and returned to the fountain with a quiet plunk. Daisy tried to choke back her amusement, but the harder she tried the worse it became, until she finally burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth, while irrepressible giggles slipped out. “I’m so— oh dear—” And she bent over laughing until tears came to her eyes. The tension between them disappeared as Llandrin don began to smile reluctantly. He stepped from the fountain, dripping from every surface. “I believe when you kiss the toad,” he said dryly, “he is supposed to turn into a prince. Unfortunately in my case it doesn’t seem to have worked.” Daisy felt a rush of sympathy and kindness, even as she snorted with a few last giggles. Approaching him carefully, she placed her small hands on either side of his wet face and pressed a friendly, fleeting kiss on his lips. His eyes widened at the gesture. “You are someone’s handsome prince,” Daisy said, smiling at him apologetically. “Just not mine. But when the right woman finds you… how lucky she’ll be.

(I scream) 'Do you see my teardrops, that splash out of my blue eyes? Do you see everything I do? Do you see my brown hair that covers them and hides my true emotions in class? Do you even care? Do you feel what I felt right now? Can you feel my hurting insides? Nope, no one can feel that unless they exist!' 'Have you ever had to feel just like I do? Can you see my makeup mixing with my teardrops, as it all falls to the ground like my emotions, passions, and caring? If not you're just as heartless as them!' 'No one is born condemning another soul because of the sensuality of or skin or their background or their faith, it just seems that everything in my life is like trickling down my body, and away from me in every way imaginable.' 'As a result, the only thing I can do is get up and raise my hands to the heavens in the rain. While shouting the question- 'Why did you let this happen to me?' 'I hear that small voice in my head again it's a small whisper saying: 'End it! End it! As I was looking into the glow of the light of the envisioned angel of death.'' 'I have nothing but my split thoughts rushing in my head. Like a screaming bolt of lightning cracking in the sky above me.' ''Hum, should I just end it all?' I mean I'm only fourteen years old. Though there is not one person around here for me. Not one which is going to miss me at all.' 'I proceeded to that gloomy conclusion a long time ago. I would not be remembered. Would anyone remember me? Would anyone care? I should end it all right now?' 'I reminisce about me clutching my uniform, and how I would achieve my departure. The same awful uniform that I tugged, unsnapped, and ripped off myself, an hour ago, I see it over there like it's staring me down with a glint of evil.' 'Calling out as it's lying in the mud. I crawl over on my hands and knees, grabbing my minor skirt away from the button-down top, pulling the tie out of the collar. To do what must be fulfilled obeyed.' 'Holding the tie in my small hands. I pause and glance at my fingernails, which are painted lime green with pink straps, knowing this would be the last time I will.' ''Curse them all!' I say, will make the undone dark blue tie into a noose, looping, twisting, and coiling it through itself making it snugger around my neck.' 'Notwithstanding that pain is nothing like what they put me through. Just like chivalry is dead, just like everything I do is mainly felonies attached, by trying to live.' 'Notwithstanding that pain is nothing like what they put me through. Just like chivalry is dead, just like everything I do is mainly felonies attached, by trying to live.

The stench of the pigpens made him take shallow breaths. Michael desperately wanted another drink to drown his sorrows…or, more aptly, his angers. He promised himself that once he found the source of the problem, he’d head to Rigsby’s and let alcohol smooth the edge off his ire. Maybe with a few drinks in him, he could better handle Prudence. Nothing else I’ve tried has worked. “Michael!” At the sound of his wife’s voice, he stiffened. Speak of the devil. Is there a word for female devil? He couldn’t think of one. He nodded good-bye to Hong and was stepping away when--- “Michael, I want to talk to you!” Her voice rose until the timbre was almost a shriek. She ploughed pell-mell for him, her face red with anger. Hong ducked into his tent. Out of sight, maybe, but not out of earshot. The Guans’ should stuff cotton in their ears to block out the worst of Prudence’s screeches. “I need a drink,” he said, beginning to turn away. “Oh, dear Lord. Don’t tell me you’re a drunkard like that Obadiah Kettering. Is that another thing you omitted to tell me about your character?” He swung back. She was inches away, arms flung wide. “You omitted telling me I’d be marrying a shrew,” he said. “You should have written the word at the top of your fancy stationary in big block letters.” He sketched the word in the air and stated each letter. “S-H-R-E-W.” “Why…why I never!” Her mouth opened and closed as if she sought just the right words to hurl at him. “As for being a drunkard. Up until today, I only occasionally sought refuge in the bottle. But I think being married to you, my dear wife, will make me a frequent patron of Rigsbys Saloon. In fact, I might as well take up residence in the place.” Stepping forward, she brought up her hand to slap him. He leaped out of the way. Prudence missed, and her hand sailed past, making her off balance. Sure she was going to try again, Michael moved away, putting more space between them. Prudence slipped on a slimy rock and lost her balance, rotating and stepping sideways only to catch her heel in the hem of her skirt. She teetered backward toward the pigpen. Her legs hit the low fence, catching her at knee-height. Oh, no! Michael leaped to catch her. With a horrified expression, Prudence windmilled her arms in an effort to right herself. Michael missed, grabbing only a fold of her skirt. He yanked back, hoping to pull her upright, but instead, with a ripping sound, the fabric tore. The momentum toppled Prudence backwards into the pigpen, where she landed on her rump in the mire. “Grrrrrr!” She scooped up two handfuls of mud and flung them at him. Shocked, Michael didn’t dodge until the last minute, and the stinking mud went splat against his chest and face.

It was getting difficult to see exactly what was going on in the pool and a fourth officer jumped in as one came up with the unconscious form of the first cop. While others pulled the half-drowned man from the pool, three more wrestled Skorzeny to the surface and dragged him to the steps at the shallow end of the pool. He wasn't struggling any longer. Nor was he breathing with any apparent difficulty. The biggest of the three cops later admitted to punching him as hard as he could in the stomach and Skorzey doubled over. Another half-dragged him, still on his feet, shirt torn, jacket ripped, out of the pool and put a handcuff on his left wrist. Skorzeny pulled his arm away from the cop and, suddenly straightening, elbow-jabbed him in the gut, sending him sprawling and rolling back into the pool. Skorzeny turned toward the back fence and was now between the pool and a small palm tree. Before him were two advancing officers, pistols leveled. Behind him two more circled the pool. Skorzeny lunged forward and all fired simultaneously. The noise was deafening. Lights in neighboring houses began to go on. Skorzeny's body twitched and bucked as the heavy slugs ripped through his body. His forward momentum carried him into the officers ahead of him and he half-crawled, half-staggered to the southeast corner of the yard where another gate was set into the fiberglass fencing. Two more officers, across the pool, cut loose with their pistols, emptying them into this writing body which danced like a puppet. Another cop fired two shots from his pump-action shotgun and Skorzeny was lifted clean off his feet and slammed against the gate, sagging to the ground. En masse from both ends of the pool they advanced, when he gave out with a terrible hissing snarl and started to rise once more. All movement ceased as the cops, to a man, stood frozen in their tracks. Skorzeny stood there like some hideous caricature, his shredding clothing and skin hanging like limp rags from his scarecrow form. His flesh was ripped in several places and he was oozing something that looked like watered-down blood. It was pinkish and transparent. He stood there like a living nightmare. Then he straightened and raised his fist with the cuff still dangling from it like a charm bracelet. 'Fools!' he shrieked. 'You can't kill me. You can't even hurt me.' Overhead, the copter hovered, the copilot giving a blow-by-blow description of the fight over the radio. The police on the ground were paralyzed. Nearly thirty shots had been fired (the bullets later tallied in reports turned in by the participating officers) and their quarry was still as strong as ever. He'd been hit repeatedly in the head and legs, so a bulletproof vest wasn't the answer. And at distances sometimes as little as five feet, they could hardly have missed. They'd seen him hit. They stood frozen in an eerie tableau as the still roiling pool water threw weird reflections all over the yard. Then Skorzeny did the most frightening thing of all. He smiled. A red-rimmed, hideous grin revealing fangs that 'would have done justice to a Doberman Pinscher.

Of the computer people the only one who had impressed Robert as an engineer was Clark himself. "Take Lance," Robert said, when Steve popped upstairs. I'd missed Lance on this trip, and his attempt to infuse computer programming with the romantic spirit. "Lance is an unusually intelligent man," said Robert. "Yet the guy can't remember where he left his shoes. And when he goes to Amsterdam for a visit, he gets ripped off. What you need to be a good engineer is a set of skills, in addition to a logical process. Some people have an aptitude for it; some people never will." p231

You’ve been spending a lot of time in Belter bars, Colonel. Someone might think you were looking for something.” “Dawes?” “Fred?” “I’ve been through better interrogation training than you’ll ever see. You want to build rapport? Go for it. Talk for a while, take my shackles off, start telling me that you can save me if I just tell you what I know. And then I’ll rip your eyes out and skull-fuck you. You understand?” “I do,” Dawes said, not missing a beat. “So tell me, Fred. What happened to you on Anderson Station?

He has a very strong sense of beauty, he has. You're to dress entirely in black and white and silver." "Why?" "Ask him yourself, miss. He'll be here in a minute." "He certainly won't!" Emma cried, leaping for the black dress and pulling it over her head, slapping away Mrs. Rumson's clumsy attempts to assist her. The gown was barely around her shoulders when the door opened, without so much as a knock. Beneath the yards of filmy material, Emma allowed herself a quiet snarl. "Arguing with Mrs. Rumson again, my angel?" Emma yanked the gown down, half hoping it would rip. It didn't, and the clinging black silk gauze settled around her curves perfectly. "I'm not used to dressing in front of an audience," she said sternly. Killoran had already availed himself of the most comfortable chair and seemed prepared to enjoy himself. "Accustom yourself, Emma," he said. "It is quite the fashion. Great beauties have their cicisbeis to guide their choices of jewelry and maquillage. Think of me as merely a servant to your exquisite loveliness." She scowled. "I am not a great beauty," she said, advancing on him as Mrs. Rumson struggled behind her, trying to fasten the myriad of tiny black buttons. "I don't wear maquillage, and I have no jewelry." She halted, her anger carrying her so far and no farther. She was already dangerously close to him, and he simply looked up at her, that cool, assessing expression on his face. He said nothing for a long moment, merely let his eyelids droop as he surveyed the length of her. "Perhaps you're right," he said finally. "You are no common beauty. You are, however, quite... magnificent." There was an undercurrent of heat in his words that terrified her, but a moment later it had vanished, and he was leaning back, watching her with detached interest.

He had moved closer to the fire and was turning his laced sleeves back when he saw her. Her red hair was a blaze across the white ermine lap throw in which she was wrapped. She was sound asleep, lying on the settee, and he could see the pinched white misery of her face, the paleness of her lips, the faint spattering of freckles against her skin. He wondered if he could redden those lips. Would she pay the logical price for rescue? She was in his house, in his power, and if she were even the slightest bit knowledgeable about the way the world worked, she'd know what was expected of her. She was probably lying naked beneath that soft white fur, expecting him. A sudden rush of desire washed over him, and he examined it, surprised. It had been a very long time since the thought of a soft, sweet body had aroused his interest, not to mention another, more demanding part of him. But Emma Brown, with her murderous ways, her soft, shy mouth, and her astonishing bravery, had done just that. He moved to stand over her. He considered unfastening his breeches and taking her there on the sofa. After all, she must be a doxy, despite that innocence. No one could look as she did, find herself in the situations she did untouched, and remain untouched. He reached out a hand, tugging the fur down, hoping to see exposed skin. Instead he saw that miserable gray serge that he'd wanted to rip off her when he'd unfastened it earlier. She wasn't made for gray serge. She was made for silks and satins and furs. And the pristine whiteness of bed linen and smooth skin. "What are you doing?" His damnable guest, Nathaniel, appeared in the doorway, his brown hair ruffled from sleep, a glowering expression on his face. "Admiring Miss Brown," Killoran said lazily, turning his gaze back to the sleeping woman.

Oh,” he said, stopping in the doorway. “I should probably warn you. Your beds might take a little getting used to.” “Why?” Tesla asked. “What’s wrong with them?” When Uncle Newt had shown them their room earlier, the beds had looked normal enough. Not that Nick and Tesla had paid much attention to them. They’d been distracted—and horrified—by the posters haphazardly stapled to the wall: Teletubbies, Elmo, Smurfs, Albert Einstein, and the periodic table. (Nick and Tesla had quickly agreed that the first three would “fall down” and “accidentally” “get ripped” at the first opportunity.) “There’s nothing wrong with your beds, and everything right!” Uncle Newt declared. “I’m telling you, kids. You haven’t slept till you’ve slept on compost!” “What?” Nick and Tesla said together. Even Uncle Newt couldn’t miss the disgust on their faces. “Maybe I’d better come up and explain,” he said. Uncle Newt pulled the comforter off Nick’s bed and revealed something that didn’t look like a bed at all. It was more like a lumpy black sleeping bag with tubes and wires poking out of one end. “Behold!” Uncle Newt said. “The biomass thermal conversion station!” Nick reluctantly gave it a test-sit. It felt like he was lowering himself onto a garbage bag stuffed with rotten old food. Because he was. “As you sleep,” Uncle Newt explained, “your body heat will help decompose food scraps pumped into the unit, which will in turn produce more heat that the convertor will turn into electricity. So, by the time you wake up in the morning, you’ll have enough power to—ta da!” Uncle Newt waved his hands at a coffeemaker sitting on the floor nearby. “Brew coffee?” Tesla said. Uncle Newt gave her a gleeful nod. “We don’t drink coffee,” said Nick. “Then you can have a hot cup of invigorating fresh-brewed water.” “Great,” Nick said. He experimented with a little bounce on his “bed.” He could feel slimy things squishing and squashing beneath his butt. “Comfy?” Uncle Newt asked. “Uhh … kind of,” Nick said. Uncle Newt beamed at his invention. “Patent pending,” he said. Uncle Newt was a gangly man with graying hair, but at that moment he looked like a five-year-old thinking about Christmas. Tesla gave the room a tentative sniff. “Shouldn’t the compost stink?” “Oh, no, no, no, no, no! Each biomass thermal conversion station is completely airtight!” Uncle Newt’s smile wavered just the teeniest bit. “In theory.” Nick opened his mouth to ask another question, but Uncle Newt didn’t seem to notice. “Well,” he said, slapping his hands together, “I guess you two should wash your teeth and brush your faces and all that. Good night!

So after I got Jamie’s address, I wrote to her every day. Every night after I put the kids to bed, I would write. I would tell her about everything that had happened--what I did, what the kids did, something funny one of them said. I just wrote as much as I could for several pages. Every night I wrote her novels and every morning I mailed them to her. That was all well and good until I found out I’d addressed all of the envelopes incorrectly! I’d left out one digit of the zip code on every single letter I’d written. I was devastated. Even though I had put a return address on them, I was sure they were stuck in post office limbo. I had this realization the same day I got my first letter from Jamie. I ripped it open and read it through gripped fingers. She told me all about her first few days in basic training, and at the bottom she added the most heartbreaking line, “I wish you’d write me. I know you’re busy and I know you don’t like to write, but I wish you would.” I couldn’t believe it. She thought I hadn’t written at all. I called a buddy of mine who is now Command Sergeant Major Phil Blaisdell, a battalion sergeant major at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. “Phil, I’m in trouble. Man, I’ve been sending her letters and I was putting the wrong zip code on them and I got a letter from her and she thinks I’m not sending her letters and I know she needs that.” “All right, let me call you back.” A little while later my phone rang. “I’m Command Sergeant Major Duncan. I am the battalion sergeant major of Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. First of all, I’d like to tell you that I know who you are and I appreciate your service and what you’ve done. I’ve seen your Men’s Health issue and you are an inspiration. I understand you know a Specialist Boyd,” she said. “Yes, Sergeant Major, I do.” “Well, I’ve got her standing in front of me right now. Would you like to talk to her?” “Yes, Sergeant Major, I would.” So she handed the phone to Jamie. Jamie was a little stressed out because she had been called to the sergeant major’s office and thought, What have I done? The conversation was rushed and she was speaking in a hushed tone. “Hey, I miss you, I love you.” “Hey, me, too, baby. Let me tell you real quick, I’ve been sending you letters--” “I got them all today. Thank you.” “I miss you, and I hope that you can tell.” “Look, I want to keep talking but they’re watching me.” “Okay, we’re good. Just wanted to make sure you got the letters. I love you and we’ll talk later.

Dear Madeline, I miss you. I never got to meet you. I never heard your voice and I never saw your smile. Though I imagine it's a lot like mine. And yet I miss you so much. Every time I see another set of twins just like us, I miss you even more. Seeing other twins, seeing the life I could have had with you, just rips another hole through my heart. I never met you, but I still feel the hole where you're supposed to be. Its' unfair. It's too hard. And it's so many things it shouldn't be. I should be sharing a room with you. I should be telling you all the things I can't tell anyone .But it's not like that. One day we'll be together again, but until then you have left a hole in me that cannot be filled by anyone else. And I'm left missiing you. All the love in the world from your other half, K

I just wrote as much as I could for several pages. Every night I wrote her novels and every morning I mailed them to her. That was all well and good until I found out I’d addressed all of the envelopes incorrectly! I’d left out one digit of the zip code on every single letter I’d written. I was devastated. Even though I had put a return address on them, I was sure they were stuck in post office limbo. I had this realization the same day I got my first letter from Jamie. I ripped it open and read it through gripped fingers. She told me all about her first few days in basic training, and at the bottom she added the most heartbreaking line, “I wish you’d write me. I know you’re busy and I know you don’t like to write, but I wish you would.” I couldn’t believe it. She thought I hadn’t written at all. I called a buddy of mine who is now Command Sergeant Major Phil Blaisdell, a battalion sergeant major at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. “Phil, I’m in trouble. Man, I’ve been sending her letters and I was putting the wrong zip code on them and I got a letter from her and she thinks I’m not sending her letters and I know she needs that.” “All right, let me call you back.” A little while later my phone rang. “I’m Command Sergeant Major Duncan. I am the battalion sergeant major of Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. First of all, I’d like to tell you that I know who you are and I appreciate your service and what you’ve done. I’ve seen your Men’s Health issue and you are an inspiration. I understand you know a Specialist Boyd,” she said. “Yes, Sergeant Major, I do.” “Well, I’ve got her standing in front of me right now. Would you like to talk to her?” “Yes, Sergeant Major, I would.” So she handed the phone to Jamie. Jamie was a little stressed out because she had been called to the sergeant major’s office and thought, What have I done? The conversation was rushed and she was speaking in a hushed tone. “Hey, I miss you, I love you.” “Hey, me too, baby. Let me tell you real quick, I’ve been sending you letters—” “I got them all today. Thank you.” “I miss you, and I hope that you can tell.” “Look, I want to keep talking but they’re watching me.” “Okay, we’re good. Just wanted to make sure you got the letters. I love you and we’ll talk later.

What did you say?” Henry grated. “I said shut up, Henry.” Rachel’s voice was still soft, but the glint in her eyes was fighting mean. “I’ve put up with your cussedness for nigh on nine years. No more. You apologize to Loretta Jane this instant.” “Or you’ll do what?” Rachel lifted a challenging brow. “Well, I reckon you’re too big for me to grab you by the heels and bash your brains. Guess I’ll have to blow them out. Now apologize. I won’t have that kind of talk in my house.” “Your house?” “That’s right.” Henry did an admirable job of trying to appear amused. Placing his hands on his hips, he bent one knee and eyed the rifle. “Rachel, darlin’, you have a gun right now. Here shortly, you’re gonna have to put it down and cook. And when you do, I’m gonna beat the sass plumb out of you. Now I suggest you be the one to apologize. If you do it convincin’ enough, maybe I’ll forgit this ever happened.” Loretta figured the bluff would probably work. Aunt Rachel had never been long on guts, and Loretta didn’t see her getting a goodly supply in the space of ten minutes. Rachel surprised her, though. Instead of apologizing, she set her jaw and raised her chin. “Henry, if you touch me when I’m cookin’, I’ll rip you from stem to bow with my butcher knife. I’ve had it up to my gullet with you.” “Give me that gun!” Henry stomped toward her. Rachel took quick aim. The explosion of noise nearly scared Loretta out of her skin. Henry jumped straight up, clearing the floor by several inches. “Holy Mother, you near shot my foot off, you damned fool woman!” “Next time, I won’t miss.” Henry sputtered, so mad he looked fit to bust. “Rachel, I swear, I’ll give you the hidin’ of your life for this.” “Touch her, Uncle Henry, and I’ll knock you senseless with a chunk of firewood,” Loretta inserted. “And if she don’t do a good job of it, I’ll finish it for her!” Amy yelled from the loft ladder. “Good for you, Ma! Give the old wart toad what for!” Rachel returned the Spencer to the rack. “Well, Henry? It sounds like three to one. You gonna apologize to Loretta Jane or not?

So do I, Rip,” Stoker put in. “You were rat-arsed and no doubt made some highly vulgar observations which so inflamed Merry that he came round at the first opportunity to see Miss Speedwell for himself. He as much as insinuated she was my mistress,” he said flatly.

To make matters worse, the Starlight Captain, Quentin, got to them before we could and he offered them a teasing bow and a smile which made me want to knock his teeth out. Which I intended to do as soon as the second half started. The girls both laughed at something he said, smiling like he was the funniest fucking dipshit they’d ever met. Roxy’s dark eyes moved to mine and I felt a lurch right in the centre of my gut for a half a second as it seemed almost like she was directing that smile at me. She’d made a dress out of an oversized Pitball shirt which skimmed her thighs and made her look like she'd just crawled out of my bed and pulled it on. The idea of that excited me way more than it should have but as she turned to whisper something to her sister, I saw the name printed across the back of her shirt wasn’t Acrux, it was Grus. Of course it is. Stop thinking with your dick and get your head back in the game! The Starlight Captain noticed us approaching and made himself scarce but I noted the lingering looks the twins gave him as he jogged away. “Enjoying the game, sweetheart?” Caleb asked as we drew close enough to speak with them. I didn’t miss the way Roxy’s eyes trailed over him and the fact that there was considerably less hatred in her gaze when she looked his way than what she directed at me. I guessed he hadn’t half drowned her but it still pissed me off. “We are,” she admitted with a wide smile. “Isn’t Geraldine amazing?” “Yeah she’s the fucking cat's pyjamas,” I growled, wishing I could actually aim an insult the Cerberus’s way but that girl was single handedly saving our asses from total annihilation at this point so I couldn’t even pretend to do it. Without her we would have been royally screwed. “Maybe she should be the Captain,” Gwendalina suggested with a taunting smile. “Maybe she should,” Lance agreed loudly and I scowled at my friend. There was no way he’d offer me any loyalty when it came to Pitball. If I wasn’t the best then he’d say it to my face. I just wished he’d hold his opinion back in front of the Vegas. “I just need a quick top up,” Caleb said and Roxy didn’t even fucking flinch at that. She sighed like him biting her was a goddamn inconvenience and pulled her long hair over her shoulder to offer him access to her neck. “You’d better hurry up,” she added. “Only two minutes of half time left.” I glanced around at the board to confirm what she’d said and by the time I looked back, Caleb had her in his arms and his teeth were in her throat. She didn’t even have the decency to look horrified, her fingers twisting into his hair as he held her in place. His fucking hand was on her thigh, skimming the hem of that shirt and for a moment I actually wanted to rip his arm off. I shook my head and turned away from them. This anger with Milton was spilling into everything I did today. I just couldn’t believe that he’d done such a thing to me. He was one of my most loyal followers, I’d never even sensed an inch of defiance in him let alone a betrayal of this magnitude and I couldn’t get it out of my head. If I couldn’t trust someone as devoted as him then who the hell could I trust? My gaze skimmed over the box above the twins where my parents were sitting but I didn’t let it linger there. If I saw the look of frustration and disappointment I knew would be on my father’s face then I really would lose the plot. Caleb released Roxy, leaning close to whisper something in her ear which made her fucking laugh while I ground my teeth. He spared a moment to heal the bite on her neck and we turned back to the pitch. “I hope you do better this half!” Gwen called after us. “You can’t do any worse, right?” Roxy added and I clenched my fists to stop myself from rounding on them. (Darius POV)

He says the bite marks on the torso aren’t consistent with sobek teeth. This person was already dead when they were dumped into the Istros. The sobek must have seen an easy meal and hauled it down to its lair to eat later.” She swallowed the dryness in her mouth and again looked at the body. A dryad female. Her chest cavity had been ripped open, heart and internal organs removed, and bite marks peppered— “These wounds look like the ones you got from the kristallos. And the mer’s lab figured this body was probably five days old, judging by the level of decay.” “The night we were attacked.” Bryce studied the analysis. “There was clear venom in the wounds. Tharion says he could feel it inside the corpse even before the mer did tests on it.” Most of those in the House of Many Waters could sense what flowed in someone’s body—illnesses and weaknesses and, apparently, venom. “But when they tested it …” She blew out a breath. “It negated magic.” It had to be the kristallos. Bryce cringed, reading on, “He looked into records of all unidentified bodies the mer found in the past couple years. They found two with identical wounds and this clear venom right around the time of …” She swallowed. “Around when Danika and the pack died. A dryad and a fox shifter male. Both reported missing. This month, they’ve found five with these marks and the venom. All reported missing, but a few weeks after the fact.” “So they’re people who might not have had many close friends or family,” Hunt said. “Maybe.” Bryce again studied the photograph. Made herself look at the wounds. Silence fell, interrupted only by the distant sounds of Lehabah’s show downstairs. She said quietly, “That’s not the creature that killed Danika.” Hunt ran a hand through his hair. “There might have been multiple kristallos—” “No,” she insisted, setting down the papers. “The kristallos isn’t what killed Danika.” Hunt’s brow furrowed. “You were on the scene, though. You saw it.” “I saw it in the hall, not in the apartment. Danika, the pack, and the other three recent victims were in piles.” She could barely stand to say it, to think about it again.

No one here wants to acknowledge that there might just be chaos and that some things happen because they can, like cars running people over, like bullets ripping through a skull or tearing open a heart, like blood clots filling lungs so you can’t get air, or cancer consuming what is left of the body. A pre-mapped-out lifetime doesn’t make the death of someone you actually love any less devastating. I am tired of hearing there is a reason for your death, for my heartbreak, and that when we get to the other side it will all make sense. It will never make sense, even when my heart stops hurting so much. I miss you. I wish you had never died. [...] Excerpt from: "It's OK That You're Not OK: Meeting Grief and Loss in a Culture That Doesn't Understand" by Megan Devine. Scribd. This material may be protected by copyright.

Tell me what you’re hiding, what you’re harboring, what you don’t want the world to know about yourself for fear that it will be cast into light. Tell me about the times you couldn’t save yourself. Give me your broken parts, your fractured pieces, everything that’s weighed too heavily on the floor of your heart for you to ever reach down and reassemble. Tell me where you went the first time that you lost yourself. Tell me the ways in which you never came back. Give me a map with coordinates that lead into the deepest, most twisted corner of your soul where all of your unconquered demons still lurk. Let me see them. Let me reach out and touch them with my own trembling fingers, because I still can’t bear to face my own. Give me your shortcomings. Tell me the story of the first person you never became and all the ways in which you let him die. Tell me which regrets tear on your heartstrings and which unfulfilled dreams still take up residence under your skin. Show me the mountains you never conquered, the roads you never traversed, the battles you surrendered before ever setting foot upon enemy soil. Show me the things you never measured up to because there’s no war more wounding than the one we never waged and there’s no road more daunting than the one that we never walked down. Give me your struggles and impurities. Tell me about the worst thing you have ever done. Tell me about the regret that slithered under your skin and beat through your bloodstream like an unwelcome disease after you made the biggest mistake of your life. Tell me how it ripped straight into to your soul and took you over. Talk to me about the times you couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror or fall asleep at night because the malevolence and madness of your own mind kept you reeling. Give me your vices and misjudgments because I can match each one with my own. Tell me all the ways in which you’re scarred by your own capacity for darkness. Let me fall in love with your human parts – the battles you can’t fight, the wounds you can’t heal, all the ways in which you are not enough for yourself. Give me your joys and your pain in equal measure because you are the most brilliant and terrible mixture of both. I don’t want your good intentions and your well wishes. I want the whole of you, the depth of you, the breadth of all you are and the light that shines in between your broken parts. Let me fall in love with what you’re missing, what you’ve lost and what you’re still holding onto, through and despite all of it. Show me the things you haven’t lost along the way. And I will show you your own greatest strengths.

Stumbling to my feet, I glanced at my mom who still sat at the table. She looked at me then Larry then lowered her gaze and returned to her coupons. The logical choice for me was to run from the house. I was so much smaller than these three battling men and the smart thing was to run. Yet, Larry and his bullshit family were why Raven left. They were always telling me what to do and making me feel like shit. Now, he’d hit me and I wasn’t running. Grabbing a chair from the table, I swung it at Glenn and hit him at the back of the neck. As he went flying forward, the bastard tripped over Dylan and toppled hard to the ground. Before I could celebrate, Larry ripped the chair out of my hand then came at me. I backed away and grabbed one of the millions of bear figurines. Throwing it at him, I nailed Larry in the chest with the first one. The second one caught him over the eye, leaving a gash. As Larry chased me around the room, I grabbed more bears and flung them over my shoulders at him. While most missed, a few made contact and he finally hollered in frustration. Having recovered from the blow, Glenn tried to block me in. However, Dylan shoved the older man outside then locked the door. Unfortunately for Glenn, Larry’s stupid fluffy dog hated him and proceeded to attack his leg. “Dylan, this is your last chance,” Larry said, his face red and blood dripping down his face. “Give me that girl or you’re done.” “Fuck you. I was done the minute you put your fucking hand on her.” Watching the two men glare at one another, I exchanged the bears in my hands for heavier ones. “I’m leaving,” I said more to Mom than Larry. “If anyone messes with me, I’m cracking their heads open with Picnic Bear.

Here I am!” Captain East was cantering his mount toward them. He rode beautifully, confidently. Molly’s family spent their summers in the country, and she used to say that the way a man rides a horse could give you a pretty good idea how he would do something else. Jane eyed Mr. Nobley on his mount, noted that he was a smooth, gentle rider. The surprise of thinking this while wearing a bonnet made Jane choke. Her breath snarled in her throat, and she laughed. Mr. Nobley’s eyes widened. “What’s funny? You often have some secret laugh, Miss Erstwhile.” “The way you have some secret displeasure?” “No, not displeasure,” he said, and she realized he was right. Sadness, or heartbreak, or grief that there was nothing to give him hope, perhaps. She was pretty sure now that he was Henry Jenkins, poor sop. Captain East reined in beside Jane. “Miss Heartwright had a headache and went inside. So sorry to neglect you, Miss Erstwhile. You must tell me what I missed.” “I’ve discovered that Miss Erstwhile is an artist,” Mr. Nobley said. “Is that so?” “It’s been years since I picked up a paintbrush.” She glared at Mr. Nobley, and zing, there was his smile again, brief, urgent. When his lips relaxed she wanted it to come back. “That is a shame,” said Captain East. That evening when Jane retired from the drawing room, she found a large package on her side table wrapped in brown paper. She ripped open the paper and out tumbled neat little tubes of oil paints and three paintbrushes. She saw now that an easel waited by the window with two small canvases. She felt very Jane Eyre as she smelled the paints and ticked her palm with the largest brush. Who was her benefactor? It could be Captain East. Maybe he still liked her best, even after his tete-a-tete with Miss Heartwright. It could happen. Even so, she found herself hoping it was Mr. Nobley. Instinct urged her to stomp on the hope. She ignored it. She was firmly in Austenland now, she reminded herself, where hoping was allowed. Did Austen herself feel this way? Was she hopeful? Jane wondered if the unmarried writer had lived inside Austenland with close to Jane’s own sensibility--amused, horrified, but in very real danger of being swept away. Ten days to go.

You need to let me go, Dmitri, and move on. I am not going to marry you.” “I will have you.” Such conviction, and he’d brought some muscle to try and prove his statement. A pair of brutes exited the car. Dmitri’s order of, “Don’t hurt her,” made her tsk aloud. Please. If he thought to subdue her, he should have brought more guys. As the one gorilla— and seriously, despite his obvious humanity, she had to wonder at his ancestry— grabbed for her arm, she sidestepped, causing him to snare only air. She, on the other hand, didn’t miss. Her foot swung out and cracked goon number one in the knee. He let out a yelp of pain, but before she could take him out fully, the second guy lunged for her. She ducked under his grasping hands and thrust, her fist connecting with his diaphragm. He gasped for breath. She took no mercy and kneed him in the groin, just as goon number one made his next move. With a tinkle of bells, the door to the coffee shop opened, and a very calm-sounding Leo said, “Lay a finger on her, and I will rip your arm off and beat you with it.” As threats went, it was adorable. Especially since, given his size and mien, Leo probably could. The idiot didn’t listen. The thug went to grab Meena’s arm, and curiosity made her let him instead of breaking his fingers. Why exert herself when Pookie seemed determined to come to her rescue? While outwardly he appeared cool and composed, a wild storm brewed in his eyes as Leo growled, “I said don’t touch.” Crack. Yup. There was one guy who wouldn’t be touching anything with that arm for a while, and he’d probably end up hoarse with the way he was screaming. Pussy. In the distance, sirens wailed to life, and it didn’t take Dmitri’s barked, “Get in the car, you idiots,” for the thugs to realize their attempt at a coerced kidnapping had failed. Meena didn’t bother watching the car speed off, not when she had something much more important to attend to. Like a man who thought she needed saving. How her dad would laugh when he heard about it. Her sister, Teena, would sigh about how romantic it was. Her mom, on the other hand, would chastise Meena for causing chaos once again. Turning to Leo, who wore a formidable glower, she threw herself at him. Apparently, he half expected it because his arms opened wide, and he caught her— without even a tiny stagger! She latched her legs around his waist, draped her arms around his neck, and exclaimed, “Pookie, you were awesome. You saved me from those big, bad men. You’re like a knight in Under Armour.” Not entirely true. He wore a plain black Fruit of the Loom T-shirt. But she could totally picture him in one of those form-fitting tees that Under Armour specialized in that would mold his perfect chest. On second thought, given how it would show off his impressive musculature, perhaps she should leave his wardrobe alone. No use taunting the female public with what they couldn’t have. It would also mean less blood for her to rinse if they dared to touch. “I’d hardly say I saved you. You seemed to be doing all right on your own.” She planted a big smooch on his lips and declared him, “My hero.

Do you remember how your mom would wrap the presents so well it’d take at least five minutes to find where you could rip the paper?” I snorted. “Yes, and they were wrapped so much it was like unwrapping a hundred packages from morning ‘til lunch. It was Mom’s way of extending Christmas.” “I loved that—it always built the excitement. Just when you thought you had it, you had to unroll it. I miss her—she was like a second mother to me.

Might you introduce me to these two lovely ladies?” I smirk. The guy just called me a lady. I guess he was giving me the benefit of the doubt. “Certainly. Might I introduce you to Lady Everson and Miss Rebecca Vaughn.” It’s hard not to scowl at his continued snub. “So lovely to meet you, Lady Everson, Miss Vaughn. Do you suppose you might like to dance?” When I come up from my curtsy, I realize he’s looking at me. I think I stop breathing for a second, because every muscle in my body freezes. I don’t even blink. This guy wants to dance with me instead of this “lady.” It’s exactly what I wanted, and yet I’m paralyzed with terror. I don’t know how. I’ve never even been asked to dance. Ever. Equal parts of anxiety and elation race through me. “Wouldn’t you prefer to dance with Lady Everson?” Alex says. And then before I know what he’s doing, he’s gently pushing Lady Everson forward and stepping in front of me, blocking my view of Brimmon. “She is a peer, after all.” I’m so stunned; the two disappear before I can even more. When Alex turns to me, I come unleashed. “You are the rudest, most ridiculously arrogant person I have ever met in my life!” I say, and then spin on my heel and stomp away. I’ve gone less than two yards before he stops me, a hand on my shoulder. “Miss Vaughn. As you are my guest, it is expected that the two of us shall dance.” I snort. “Oh, no, that’s not necessary. I won’t be your charity case. Wouldn’t you rather--“ But he grabs my hand, places it on his elbow, and starts pulling me toward the floor just as the music transitions. Half the guests are looking at us. I can hardly rip my arm away and stomp on his foot without looking like a total freak. Not if I want a nice guy to ask me to dance later. Besides, if Emily’s right, I can’t decline the first guy to ask me, or it will signal that I don’t want to dance all night. I hadn’t imagined the first guy would be Alex. Argh. We take our places in the middle of the line up. He bows, and so I curtsy, and then follow his lead as we walk forward and back a few times, standing on our toes when we’re close, and bowing down a bit as we step away. Everything I do is a half step behind him, but we’re managing. My anger still simmers below the surface. This is preposterous. He’ll dance with me because he has to, but he thinks I’m not actually good enough for him--or for anyone with a title. I knew my first impression of him would prove correct. I knew he wasn’t worth the ground I spit on! Talk about insulting! He holds his hand up, palms facing me, so I push my hand against his and we sort of walk in a circle, our gloved hands palm to palm. Thank God we’re wearing gloves; I don’t want to touch this jerk.

I’m a rare fox-human, with the souls of witches inside me. Can you imagine what a certain mindset would like to do with me? I’ll give you a clue; it’s not to re-create a cherished Roald Dahl novel.” I could imagine. It wasn’t a pleasant thought. “And to make matters worse, there was a movie with a talking fucking raccoon in it. Did you know that Camelot has a cinema? That they import movies from Earth? Well, they fucking well do. For months all I heard was how maybe for the sequel they could have me be his stunt double, or that they should paint me brown and make me a star. I began to get angry with the rabid little fucker. And he’s not even real! I was angry at a fucking comic book character.” I didn’t really know what else to say. “Good film though.” Remy stared at me. “You’re sort of missing the point of my anger, here.” “No, I get it. You know, even for my life it’s a little weird that I’m talking to a fox about how unhappy he is that people compared him to a raccoon in a science fiction film about a bunch of comic book characters saving the galaxy.” “When you put it like that, I sound downright silly.” “Yeah, wording, that’s the issue here.” Remy chuckled for a moment,

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.

Day had fucked up big time. This was all his fault, all because he couldn’t keep his nosy ass out of other peoples private business. Day rushed to God’s side. “I’ll help you ba—” Day didn’t know how, but God had found enough strength after that beating to push him so hard that he flew into the dresser, knocking it and all of the items that were on top of it to the floor, including the television. Day rolled a few feet, the dresser just missing falling on top of him. “Cash, what the fuck!” Day cursed. He rolled to his side and winced at the sharp pain in his ribs from coming into contact with the dresser. “I was trying to help you get into bed.” “Get the fuck out, Leo.” God’s face was an unyielding mask. For the first time in four long years, Day couldn’t read what the hell was going through God’s mind. Day stood slowly. “God, I only called him because I needed to go—” “It doesn’t matter why you did it! You had no right! You have no clue what you just did!” God yelled. “Now get out!” “Cashel, please. Just hear me out,” Day pleaded. His eyes begged for God to see the sincerity in them. He really didn’t mean for any of this to happen. “Baby, I swear. I didn’t know any of this was happening between you and your family. You should’ve told me. Why was he calling you a murderer?” No matter what, Day couldn’t turn off his detective side. Day watched God squeeze his eyes shut. He went down on one knee and clutched his chest when the hard coughing started again. God’s eyes were full of water and pain. Day timidly eased over to God’s side but God cut his eyes at him, daring him to come any closer. Day had to fight the moisture in his own eyes. “I just want to help you into bed.” “Day, if you don’t get the fuck out of my house, I’m going to show you why he called me a murderer,” God said through clenched teeth. Day couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped his lips, or the pain that radiated through his chest, as if his rib cage had been torn open and his heart ripped out and thrown underneath the bed. Day kept his eyes on God as he knelt to pick up the dresser, then the television. God watched him as well. Day didn’t say anything as the rogue tear fell down his face without his permission. Day went around to the opposite side of the bed and pulled a pen and piece of scrap paper from the drawer, still watching God carefully. He really didn’t like the look on his best friend’s face. He’d seen the look before, but he’d never had it leveled on him. Day scribbled a couple of phone numbers on the paper.

Early May 2012 Andy’s E-mail reply caught me by surprise as I was starting the daily writing of my memoirs. He wrote: Dear Young, I am saddened to hear that our separation caused you so much pain. I would have come running if I knew. Like you, I was equally unsettled. I missed you significantly. Your childlike phantasm continues to haunt me wherever I go. At times, memories of you have thrown me into unfathomable melancholy and at times into paralytic states, from which I have been unable to rise to perform the simplest of task. My daily rowing saved me from falling into depression during those early days of our parting. The natural beauty of New Zealand nurtured me, helping me to recover. No one in my life has had this effect on me. We must have been inseparable in our past lives and our alienation in this life has ripped a gaping perforation through my heart.

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

Preacher was working on his second tray when he glanced up and saw that little blond head, peeking at him from the bottom of the stairs. “Hi,” Preacher said. “You sleep?” Christopher nodded. “Good,” he said. “Feel better?” Chris nodded again. Watching the boy’s face, Preacher slowly pushed a fresh-baked cookie across the counter with one finger until it was at the edge. It was a good minute before Chris took one step toward the cookie. Almost another full minute before his little hand touched it, but he didn’t take it. Just touched it, looking up at Preacher. “Go ahead. Tell me if it’s any good.” Chris slowly pulled the cookie off the counter and to his mouth, taking a very small, careful bite. “Good?” Preacher asked. And he nodded. So Preacher set him up a glass of milk right where the cookie had been. The boy nibbled that cookie in tiny bites; it took him so long to finish it that Preacher was pulling out the second cookie sheet and taking off the cookies before he was done. There was a stool on the other side of the counter near the milk and eventually Chris started trying to get up. But he had some stuffed toy in his grip and couldn’t make the climb, so Preacher went around and lifted him up. Then he went back to his side of the counter and pushed another cookie toward him. “Don’t pick it up yet,” Preacher said. “It’s kind of hot. Try the milk.” Preacher started rolling peanut butter dough into balls, placing them on the cookie sheet. “Who you got there?” he asked, nodding toward the stuffed toy. “Bear,” Christopher said. He reached his hand toward the cookie. Preacher said, “Make sure it’s not too hot for your mouth. So—his name’s just Bear?” Christopher nodded. “Seems like maybe he’s missing a leg, there.” Again the boy nodded. “Doesn’t hurt him, though.” “That’s a break. He ought to have one, anyway. I mean, it wouldn’t be the same as his own, but it would help him get by. When he has to go for a long walk.” The kid laughed. “He don’t walk. I walk.” “He doesn’t, huh? He should have one for looks, then.” He lifted one of his bushy black brows. “Think so?” Christopher lifted the small, worn brown bear. “Hmm,” he replied thoughtfully. He bit the cookie and immediately opened his mouth wide and let the sloppy mouthful fall onto the counter. For a second his look was stricken. Maybe terrified. “Hot, huh?” Preacher asked, not reacting. He reached behind him, ripped off a paper towel and whisked away the spit-out. “Might want to give it about one more minute. Have a drink of milk there. Cool down the mouth.” They communed in silence for a while—Preacher, Chris, the three-legged bear. When Preacher had all his little balls rolled, he began mashing them with his fork, perfect lines left, then right. “What’s that yer doing?” Christopher asked him. “Making cookies. First you mix the dough, then you roll the balls, then you smash them with the fork, nice and easy. Then they go in the oven.” He peered at Chris from underneath the heavy brows. “I bet you could do this part. If you were careful and went nice and slow.” “I could.” “You’d have to come around here, let me lift you up.” “’Kay,” he said, putting his bear on the counter, getting off his stool and coming to Preacher. Preacher lifted him up to sit on the edge of the counter. He helped him hold the fork and showed him how to press down. His first solo attempt was a little messy, so Preacher helped him again. Then he did it pretty well. Preacher let him finish the tray, then put it in the oven. “John?” the boy asked. “How many of them we gotta do?” Preacher smiled. “Tell you what, pardner. We’ll do as many as you want,” he said. Christopher smiled. “’Kay,” he said. *

Precisely three days after Christopher and Audrey had left for London, Beatrix went to the Phelans’ house to ask after Albert. As she had expected, the dog had set the household into chaos, having barked and howled incessantly, ripped carpeting and upholstery to shreds, and bitten footman’s hand. “And in addition,” the housekeeper, Mrs. Clocker, told Beatrix, “he won’t eat. One can already see his ribs. And the master will be furious if we let anything happen to him. Oh, this is the most trying dog, the most detestable creature I’ve ever encountered.” A housemaid who was busy polishing the banister couldn’t seem to resist commenting, “He scares me witless. I can’t sleep at night, because he howls fit to wake the dead.” The housekeeper looked aggrieved. “So he does. However, the master said we mustn’t let anyone take Albert. And as much as I long to be rid of the vicious beast, I fear the master’s displeasure even more.” “I can help him,” Beatrix said softly. “I know I can.” “The master or the dog?” Mrs. Clocker asked, as if she couldn’t help herself. Her tone was wry and despairing. “I can start with the dog,” Beatrix said in a low undertone. They exchanged a glance. “I wish you could be given the chance,” Mrs. Clocker murmured. “This household doesn’t seem like a place where anyone could get better. It feels like a place where things wane and are extinguished.” This, more than anything, spurred Beatrix into a decision. “Mrs. Clocker, I would never ask you to disobey Captain Phelan’s instructions. However…if I were to overhear you telling one of the housemaids where Albert is being kept at the moment, that’s hardly your fault, is it? And if Albert manages to escape and run off…and if some unknown person were to take Albert in and care for him but did not tell you about it immediately, you could not be blamed, could you?” Mrs. Clocker beamed at her. “You are devious, Miss Hathaway.” Beatrix smiled. “Yes, I know.” The housekeeper turned to the housemaid. “Nellie,” she said clearly and distinctly. “I want to remind you that we’re keeping Albert in the little blue shed next to the kitchen garden.” “Yes, mum.” The housemaid didn’t even glance at Beatrix. “And I should remind you, mum, that his leash is on the half-moon table in the entrance hall.” “Very good, Nellie. Perhaps you should run and tell the other servants and the gardener not to notice if anyone goes out to visit the blue shed.” “Yes, mum.” As the housemaid hurried away, Mrs. Clocker gave Beatrix a grateful glance. “I’ve heard that you work miracles with animals, Miss Hathaway. And that’s indeed what it will take, to tame that flea-ridden fiend.” “I offer no miracles,” Beatrix said with a smile. “Merely persistence.” “God bless you, miss. He’s a savage creature. If dog is man’s best friend, I worry for Captain Phelan.” “So do I,” Beatrix said sincerely.

I will miss you, Stephany.” His eyes narrowed and he sighed. “Very much.” He slid his lips over hers. “I’ll miss you too.” What she didn’t realize in that instant was that he would rip out a piece of her soul, taking it with him as he left. He didn’t turn back, just closed the door behind him.

Steven grinned as though he could see right through her. He was finely dressed, but she could see the bulge of his .45 beneath his suitcoat. “Hello, Miss Emma,” he said, taking off his new beaver hat. “Mr. Fairfax,” Emma replied, stepping back to admit him. There in the shadowed light of the entryway, he brought a very small box from the pocket of his vest and held it out. “This is for you.” Emma fairly lunged for the package, before remembering it wasn’t polite to go grasping at things in other people’s hands. “You shouldn’t have,” she said. Steven’s eyes glittered with silent laughter. “But I did,” he reasoned. “That’s true,” Emma replied, snatching it from his fingers and ripping off the paper. The package contained a tiny bottle of real French perfume, and Emma’s eyes went round at the sight of it. Uncorking the little crystal lid, she held the splendid stuff to her nose and sniffed. Surely heaven didn’t smell any better. “Thank you,” she breathed, amazed that a cowboy could give such an elegant, costly gift. Even Fulton, with all his money, had never presented her with anything so dazzlingly extravagant. Steven smiled. “You’re welcome, Miss Emma. Now, are we going on that picnic or not?” Emma led the way back through the house. “Daisy’s fixed us a grand basket.” “We’ll have plenty to eat then, darlin’, because I just picked up a full meal from the hotel.” Emma turned and looked at him in surprise. “But the lady always provides the food,” she said. “That doesn’t seem quite fair, since it was the gentleman who did the asking,” Steven replied in a mischievous whisper. Daisy

Well, why doesn’t Thomas play the part?” Nigel said, eyeing the strapping young man. “He’s certainly imposing enough for it.” “That’s entirely the problem,” Lucy said. “He’s too big. When he tried on the robe, it started to rip across the shoulders.” “Surely there’s someone else…” Nigel trailed off at the look on Lucy’s face. “Good Gad, no,” he exclaimed. “You cannot begin to think—” “Of course!” Amelia’s face lit up as she grabbed his arm. With the small portion of his mind not taken up with the horror of Lucy’s plan to make a complete fool out of him, he noted that Amelia did seem to be touching him rather a lot this evening. Now she was also bouncing up and down in her pretty white and gold spangled shoes. “You’d make a splendid Father Christmas, Mr. Dash, because you have such an easy way with children. I’m sure the robe will fit, and we can adjust the wreath in an instant.” “The wreath?” Nigel repeated in a hollow voice. He fastened his appalled gaze on Philbert, who nodded in masculine sympathy “Well, Father Christmas must wear his crown of mistletoe, Nigel,” Lucy said in coaxing voice. “He wouldn’t look authentic without it.” “Surely, there must be someone else,” Nigel said, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. “One of the other servants, perhaps.” Lucy shook her head. “The footmen are too big and the scullery boy is too small.” When the corner of her mouth quirked up, Nigel had the sneaking suspicion she was beginning to enjoy the absurdity of the situation. Lucy knew he disdained costume balls and masquerades as undignified romps and refused to step foot in them. “I know it’s a lot to ask, Nigel, my dear, but you are certainly the best candidate to replace Philbert.” Amelia was still clutching his sleeve, but now she brought her pleading gaze to bear on him as well. “Please, Mr. Dash, it would mean so much to the children. I would be enormously grateful if you would be so kind as to play the part of Father Christmas.” Her beautiful brown eyes, full of concern for her younger siblings, pleaded with him. Blast it, the young ones had probably been looking forward to the treat for days, and would be sorely disappointed if it failed to materialize. And he had a feeling Amelia had been looking forward to it too, if for no other reason than to see the excitement on the children’s faces. With a mental sigh, Nigel consigned his dashing new persona to the dust heap. Life, it would seem, had consigned him to play only one role—that of dependable old Nigel Dash, always ready to take on whatever necessary task fate and the ladies of the beau monde decreed for him. “Of course, Miss Easton,” he said. “I am only too happy to help.

While Nigel helped her rearrange the contents of the basket, the door to the drawing room opened and Lord Broadmore came charging out. “Amelia, I must insist that you remain with me in the drawing room. You’re making a cake of yourself and I don’t like it one blasted bit.” Nigel’s eyes narrowed in warning as he took a step forward. Amelia shot out a hand to stop him. “I do not appreciate your tone of voice, my lord, nor your ungenerous implication,” she said. “I have my aunt’s approval. I certainly do not need yours.” Broadmore drew himself up to his full, outraged height. For once, Amelia didn’t care if she offended him. She was tired of his rudeness and resented his assumption that they were already engaged. “Amelia,” Broadmore said through clenched teeth, “I will not countenance this sort of behavior from the woman I expect to marry. Everyone will think you prefer Dash’s company to mine, which is bloody ridiculous. Even you can’t be that much of a birdwit.” Amelia sucked in a harsh breath, dumbfounded by the vile insult. She darted a quick glance at Nigel, expecting to find a seething male. Nigel’s blue eyes had gone so cold and flinty it made her shiver, but instead of ripping up at Broadmore he seemed to be waiting for her to respond. His eyebrows arched in polite inquiry as if to say to her, well, what are you going to do about that? It took Amelia a few moments to realize Nigel was deferring to her judgment instead of simply assuming the right to defend her regardless of her feelings. Good for you, dear Mr. Dash. She handed Nigel the sweets basket, then faced Broadmore. “My lord, I have had quite enough of your outrageously rude behavior. Rest assured that I will be escorting Mr. Dash upstairs to see my sister, and you are not to say another word about it.” Then, giving into an impulse that had been building within her for a long time, she jabbed Broadmore sharply in the chest with her index finger. “Please go back into the drawing room and do not dare to pass judgment on my behavior to anyone. In fact, if you say another word about this I will never speak to you again.” Then she whirled around, her anger propelling her like a cannonball up the staircase. Nigel caught up to her outside the nursery. “Well done, Miss Easton.” It sounded like he was choking back laughter. “You routed the enemy with commendable aplomb.” Amelia let her forehead thunk against the thick oak panel of the door. Now that her anger was cooling, her display of temper mortified her. “You must think me completely mad, Mr. Dash. I apologize for acting so disgracefully.” When he leaned in to whisper in her ear, she shivered at the exhalation of his breath on her neck. “Actually, I thought you quite splendid, Miss Easton. I was hard-pressed not to give a resounding cheer.” She tilted her head sideways to look at him. His eyes, tender and amused, smiled back at her. “Shall we?” he asked. Reaching around her, he opened the door. Amelia

Harper became a little distracted watching her. This morning she wore a soft t-shirt he didn’t recognize and a pair of blue jeans he seemed to remember ripping off her a time or two. His anger faded away as he watched her lean body move. There was no wasted motion with her. It was one of the things that had drawn his eye when he first met her. She hadn’t been through the training he had, but she had a natural grace to her that was spellbinding. Cat was competent and controlled in all things, body, mind and spirit. Even at twenty-two when he’d first met her, he knew he’d been none of those things. His body had been maturing faster than his mind. His spirit had never caught up. The most complete his spirit had ever been had been when he was living with her. All of the fucked up shit he’d grown up with had faded away. There were a couple of brief, shining moments he remembered being completely content with everything in his life. Stupid things like watching her cook him a monster dinner after being deployed for months. Real food made with loving hands after living on government supplied freeze-dried crap made by machines. Playing in the snow on a trip up north, Cat pregnant with Dillon at the time. Watching her tinker under the hood of the truck with him, grease streaked on her cheek. Cat had been at the center of all of those. The past year and a half had been hard. Remembering those brilliant moments had kept him moving through his monotonous life. “I miss watching you,” he admitted. She paused long enough to smile at him, hand propped on her hip. “And I miss feeling the weight of your gaze on me.” Arousal

One more word, Destrier, and I’ll finish what began on Market Day and rip your face so far open not even the Spirit will recognize you. If you touch Miss Hawthorn again, by the fucking trees, I’ll end you.” He ran his gaze over Linden’s scars. “Do you understand?

With a snarl of pain, she forced herself to sit up, her head spinning with the sudden movement. One hand touched her temple, sticky with dried blood. She winced, feeling a gash along her eyebrow. It was long but shallow, and already scabbing over. She clenched her jaw, teeth grinding, as she surveyed the beach with squinting eyes. The ocean stared back at her, empty and endless, a wall of iron blue. Then she noticed shapes along the beach, some half-buried in the sand, others caught in the rhythmic pull of the tide. She narrowed her eyes and the shapes solidified. A torn length of sail floated, tangled up with rope. A shattered piece of the mast angled out of the sand like a pike. Smashed crates littered the beach, along with other debris from the ship. Bits of hull. Rigging. Oars snapped in half. The bodies moved with the waves. Her steady breathing lost its rhythm, coming in shorter and shorter gasps until she feared her throat might close. Her thoughts scattered, impossible to grasp. All thoughts but one. “DOMACRIDHAN!” Her shout echoed, desperate and ragged. “DOMACRIDHAN!” Only the waves answered, crashing endless against the shore. She forgot her training and forced herself to stand, nearly falling over with dizziness. Her limbs aches but she ignored it, lunging toward the waterline. Her lips moved, her voice shouting his name again, though she couldn’t hear it above the pummel of her own heart. Sorasa Sarn was no stranger to corpses. She splashed into the waves with abandon, even as her head spun. Sailor, sailor, sailor, she noted, her desperation rising with every Tyri uniform and head of black hair. One of them looked ripped in half, missing everything from the waist down. His entrails floated with the rear of him, like a length of bleached rope. She suspected a shark got the best of him. Then her memories returned with a crash like the waves. The Tyri ship. Nightfall. The sea serpent slithering up out of the deep. The breaking of a lantern. Fire across the deck, slick scales running over my hands. The swing of a greatsword, Elder-made. Dom silhouetted against a sky awash with lightning. And then the cold, drowning darkness of the ocean. A wave splashed up against her and Sorasa stumbled back to the shore, shivering. She had not waded more than waist deep, but her face felt wet, water she could not understand streaking her cheeks. Her knees buckled and she fell, exhausted. She heaved a breath, then two. And screamed. Somehow the pain in her head paled in comparison to the pain in her heart. It dismayed and destroyed her in equal measure. The wind blew, stirring salt-crusted hair across her face, sending a chill down to her soul. It was like the wilderness all over again, the bodies of her Amhara kin splayed around her. No, she realized, her throat raw. This is worse. There is not even a body to mourn. She contemplated the emptiness for awhile, the beach and the waves, and the bodies gently pressing into the shore. If she squinted, they could only be debris from the ship, bits of wood instead of bloated flesh and bone. The sun glimmered on the water. Sorasa hated it. Nothing but clouds since Orisi, and now you choose to shine.

He thinks you’re a con. He thinks you’re ripping us off. He looked up people in your line of work. He wants to know why you charge so much.

That’ll be forty thousand coins.” “Roadside robbery. I’ll give you twenty thousand,” Riven replied without missing a beat. “Thirty thousand.” “Twenty-five thousand, and even that’s a rip-off, you greedy fuck.

Rebel, I knew you leaving would hurt. That much was obvious. What I didn’t know was how lonely I’d feel without you. From spending almost every second with you over the summer to not seeing you at all is like ripping off the most painful Band-Aid to ever exist. I want to come home and tell you how practice went. I miss walking through the doors and hearing you belting out lyrics to a boy band song I’ve never heard of. I just miss the little things with you. Yours, Preston

When my mama died," he said, without looking up, "the adults were always saying it would get easier." Beatrice knew that James's mother was dead, but he never talked about her, and she was surprised to hear him do so now. "That was a while ago," he went on, "And it's still ... well, I miss her. And I hate that she's not here. I feel like there's a big central piece that's been ripped out of me. I think the grown-ups lie to try to make you feel better, but it isn't true. It doesn't get easier. But you do get stronger, and that's ... well. It's something.

already missed her. That is a harsh place to be: missing someone who is dying when they are still living. You feel like you’re on the edge of a cliff, and when you fall off the cliff you’re falling into jagged, ripping pain. You know it’s coming. You can’t stop it. You can only be as brave as you possibly can be.

Near You" Man I miss the way you laugh Setting my head straight again Our walks haven't changed, the barn's still there The gate still sticks Guess I just didn't know what to expect I'm glad you finally got your car out of the mud Now we can make plans for the bar Man I missed getting you to dance Getting you drunk enough to dance I'm not asking for the moon, or even the whole truth I don't need to know everything about you I don't need the purest spring, You can have eyes for anyone in the room I just want, just want to be near you Your cigarette was lit inside You were ready to go, ready for anything Ready for all those lonely nights I was ready to rip the ticket up Throw it in the street, so I didn't have to leave Drive your damn car back in the mud I'm not asking for the moon, or even the whole truth I don't need to know everything about you I don't need the purest spring, You can have eyes for anyone in the room I just want, just want to be near you Courtney Marie Andrews, Leuven Letters (2014)

Don’t lose sight of what’s important, while you out here ripping and running these streets.

And here we encounter perhaps the coolest thing about being human: we never outgrow our neoteny. However long we live, our true nature retains the features that wilder apes have only as babies: relatively flat faces, small nose, small teeth. The anthropologist Lee Berger, who discovered the richest deposit of “missing link” hominid bones in scientific history, told me that the egalitarianism of a human-like species can be judged by fang size. Baboons, who are brutally hierarchical, have huge canine teeth, while our canines aren’t any bigger than our molars. Like humans and unlike any other apes, small-toothed, peace-loving bonobos bare their teeth in friendship rather than aggression, peeling back their lips in a bright smile that says, “Look! I still have baby teeth! I couldn’t rip out your throat with my jaws even if I wanted to! But I don’t even want to! Hah-hah!

My smile reaches higher, deeper. I’ll stick to throttling your cock in one of our two beds. Speaking of cocks, shall we go retrieve yours, mo khrà? Retrieve my cock, he mutters right before popping my ass cheek. Did you just spank me? Well, you did just call me dickless. He spins me around, his hands kneading the skin he tapped, and then he tilts my hips, and I flail forward, my fingers locking around the edge of the chest of drawers that sits like an island in the middle of his dressing chamber. My cock may not be made of flesh, Fallon, but it can fill you up just the same. Allow me to demonstrate. When he slams home, I wheeze. Can you feel me, my love? I can feel nothing else. To punish me once again for having alluded to his missing manhood, he rubs my ass, then gives it a brisk smack. A dizzying current whizzes through my body, zapping a throaty mewl from my lungs. Oh, Gods, Lore. Oh—I choke as Lore pounds into me, stretching me with his shadows—Gods—my climax roars through my body, jostling both my skin and marrow—Lore! He keeps rocking his shadow-hips. Reassured? I didn’t mean to make you feel like less of a man. He doesn’t respond, merely recalls his shadows. When a translucent trail of wetness dribbles down my inner thighs, he rips a fresh tunic off a hanger and cleans my skin. I hook up an eyebrow. Was any of that yours? His gaze remains locked on the fabric absorbing my pleasure. No. Because he cannot come in this form . . . If I need to come, I’ll penetrate your mind before I penetrate your body. Now get dressed and meet me in the war room. His gruff timbre makes me glance over my shoulder at where he stands, delineated in dark wisps. How do I reach the war room? Use the door beside my fireplace. It’ll lead to a sitting room, which will lead you to the war room. His tone is laced with so much frost that it ices my heart. “Lore, I’m sorry. I . . .” He leaves before I can finish speaking.

How? How do you pull the sun from her sky? Watch her spiral into darkness as planets shake and cry How do you separate a star from her moon? And ponder why nights are restless, blackened skies filled with an eerie doom How do you contain the rain that aches to pour and play? A summer’s day is lesser than she is because you took her rain away How? How can lovers so profound end in such shock and dismay, Ripped from each other, Just as love felt she'd found the one to stay, How?

What was the last thing he’d said to her? It’s on the tip of her tongue, She can’t remember what she’d heard, Vowels ripped and consonants undone, Stuck in the space between words, Muted language that refuses to come