Venom Sayings And Quotes

How long have you been with Raphael?” “You ask a lot of questions for a dead woman.” “What can I say? I prefer to die well-informed.

Was I interrupting? I thought it was over." Rhys gave me a smile dripping with venom. He knew-through that bond, through whatever magic was between us, he'd known I was about to say no. "At least Feyre seemed to think so.

The taipan is the one to watch out for. It is the most poisonous snake on Earth, with a lunge so swift and a venom so potent that your last mortal utterance is likely to be: "I say, is that a sn--

For the first time, I want to let people in. I didn't want to hang up on Nick. I had to. Because, for the first time, I wanted to say yes.

The glorification of hatred is predicated on a foundation of fear-induced ignorance venomous to haters and those they believe they hate.

My mother always says that love is like a snakebite, a venom slowly spreading through your veins.

I don’t know what you’re referencing, madam,” the chairman says, his voice raised over mine. “I’m talking about menstruation, sir!” I shout in return. It’s like I set the hall on fire, manifested a venomous snake from thin air, also set that snake on fire, and then threw it at the board. The men all erupt into protestations and a fair number of horrified gasps. I swear one of them actually swoons at the mention of womanly bleeding.

Come on," Falco said. "I'll see you safely home to your fancy sheets. I'd say you need your beauty sleep, but it looks like you've been getting plenty.

I’m not gay,” she says quietly, and I have to strain to hear her over the rain. “I’m just in love with you.

They say love is ten percent falling and ninety percent picking yourself back up. What they never tell you is how quick that ten percent passes and how long that ninety percent lasts.

Hot weather brings out snakes and slaveholders, and I like one class of the venomous creatures as little as I do the other. What a comfort it is, to be free to say so!

Who says I would have?" I knew he meant it cruelly, that it was a weak moment and all he wanted was for me to feel as much pain as he did, but there wasn't enough venom in his words for them to sting. He just wasn't capable of it.

Have you ever wondered, perhaps, why opinions which the majority of people quite naturally hold are, if anyone dares express them publicly, denounced as 'controversial, 'extremist', 'explosive', 'disgraceful', and overwhelmed with a violence and venom quite unknown to debate on mere political issues? It is because the whole power of the aggressor depends upon preventing people from seeing what is happening and from saying what they see.

Johanna glances over at Finnick, to be sure, then turns to me. “How’d you lose Mags?” “In the fog. Finnick had Peeta. I had Mags for a while. Then I couldn’t lift her. Finnick said he couldn’t take them both. She kissed him and walked right into the poison,” I say. “She was Finnick’s mentor, you know,” Johanna says accusingly. “No, I didn’t,” I say. “She was half his family,” she says a few moments later, but there’s less venom behind it.

In my own professional work I have touched on a variety of different fields. I’ve done work in mathematical linguistics, for example, without any professional credentials in mathematics; in this subject I am completely self-taught, and not very well taught. But I’ve often been invited by universities to speak on mathematical linguistics at mathematics seminars and colloquia. No one has ever asked me whether I have the appropriate credentials to speak on these subjects; the mathematicians couldn’t care less. What they want to know is what I have to say. No one has ever objected to my right to speak, asking whether I have a doctor’s degree in mathematics, or whether I have taken advanced courses in the subject. That would never have entered their minds. They want to know whether I am right or wrong, whether the subject is interesting or not, whether better approaches are possible… the discussion dealt with the subject, not with my right to discuss it. But on the other hand, in discussion or debate concerning social issues or American foreign policy…. The issue is constantly raised, often with considerable venom. I’ve repeatedly been challenged on grounds of credentials, or asked, what special training do I have that entitles you to speak on these matters. The assumption is that people like me, who are outsiders from a professional viewpoint, are not entitled to speak on such things. Compare mathematics and the political sciences… it’s quite striking. In mathematics, in physics, people are concerned with what you say, not with your certification. But in order to speak about social reality, you must have the proper credentials, particularly if you depart from the accepted framework of thinking. Generally speaking, it seems fair to say that the richer the intellectual substance of a field, the less there is a concern for credentials, and the greater is the concern for content.

I’m in love with you, Clay,” I tell her. The car falls silent, like my brothers are afraid to breathe because they might miss something. Her lips open a little, and God, the softness that hits her eyes makes her look like she’d blow over in a light breeze. I swear I see a smile desperate to get out, and I want to say it again. “Just kidding.” I force a scoff. “Just wanted you to see how fucking gay you are.

I'm speechless.I think at the rooftops of Paris. he touches my cheek,pulling my gaze back to him.I suck in my breath. "Anna.I'm sorry for what happened in Luxembourg Gardens.Not because of the kiss-I've never had a kiss like that in my life-but because I didn't tell you why I was running away.I chased after Meredith because of you." Touch me again. Please,touch me again. "All I could think about was what that bastard did to you last Christmas. Toph never tried to explain or apologize. How could I do that to Mer? And I ought to have called you before I went to Ellie's,but I was so anxious to just end it,once and for all,that I wasn't thinking straight." I reach for him. "St. Clair-" He pulls back. "And that.Why don't you call me Etienne anymore?" "But...no one else calls you that.It was weird.Right?" "No.It wasn't." His expression saddens. "And every time you say 'St. Clair,' it's like you're rejecting me again." "I have never rejected you." "But you have.And for Dave." His tone is venomous. "And you rejected me for Ellie on my birthday. I don't understand.If you liked me so much,why didn't you break up with her?" He gazes at the river. "I've been confused. I've been so stupid." "Yes.You have." "I deserve that." "Yes.You do." I pause. "But I've been stupid,too.You were right.About...the alone thing.

Bitterness is venom that consumes its host.

I'm full of thorns," I say softly. "But there are things about me that I hope are worth it.

Hot weather brings out snakes and slaveholders, and I like one class of the venomous creatures as little as I do the other. What a comfort it is, to be free to say so!

There is no such thing as constructive criticism,” says John Gottman. “All criticism is painful.” He is correct. We never like to hear that there is something “wrong” with us, or that something needs changing, especially if this message is coming from the loved one we most depend on. Psychologist Jill Hooley’s work at Harvard measures the impact of critical, hostile comments made by loved ones and shows just how venomous disparagement by those we rely on can be. This censure may even trigger relapse of mental illness, such as depression.

There are some who say that Time is itself a hammer; that each slow second marks another tap that makes big rocks into little rocks, waterfalls into canyons, cliffs into beaches. There are some who say that Time is instead a blade. They see the dance of its razored tip, poised like a venomous snake, forever ready to slay faster than the eye can see. And there are some who say that Time is both hammer and blade. They say the hammer is a sculptor's mallet, and the blade is a sculptor's chisel: that each stroke is a refinement, a perfecting, a discovery of truth and beauty within what would otherwise be blank and lifeless stone. And I name this saying wisdom.

A contented Christian does not seek to choose his cross but leaves God to choose for him. He is content with both for the kind and the duration. A contented spirit says, 'let God apply what medicine he pleases and let it remain as long as it will, I know that when it has done it's cure and eaten the venom of sin out of my heart, God will take it off again.

I’ve only ever loved you.” Her breath warms me from head to toe, and I’ve never felt happier. “My heart is yours,” she says.

I don’t like women who chase me anyway,” she says. “When I want them, they know.

They say time dulls the pain. They lie.

She answers it, holding it to her ear. “Mom,” she says, breathless.

Hate carries venom, and is therefore destroyed by its own poison. Love carries virtue, and is therefore rewarded by its own goodness.

A Lemon Gingertini," the dark-haired girl says. She curls her hands neatly under her chin and watches me mix the ginger syrup. "Oh, could you go light on the ice, too?" "Sure thing," I say. Damn. I can't place her face. "And make sure to add a slice of 'I'll kick your ass myself if you ever f*** over my best friend again'?" Her sweet voice changes to venom-laced.

Punk was just a single, venomous one-syllable, two-syllable phrase of anger—which was necessary to reignite rock & roll. But sooner or later, someone was going to want to say more than fuck you.

I wanted to tell Ren the truth. I wanted to say that he was the best friend I’d ever had. That I was sorry about the way I had treated him. I wanted to tell him…that I loved him. But I couldn’t say anything. My throat was closed up, probably swollen from snake venom. All I could do was look at him as he knelt over me. That’s okay. Looking at his gorgeous face one last time is enough for me. I’ll die a happy woman. I was so tired. My eyelids were too heavy to keep open. I closed my eyes and waited for death to come. Ren cleared a space and sat down near me. Pillowing my head on his arm, he pulled me onto his lap and into his arms. I smiled. Even better. I can’t open my eyes to see him anymore, but I can feel his arms around me. My warrior angel can carry me in his arms up to heaven. He squeezed my closer to his body and whispered something in my ear that I couldn’t make out. Then darkness overtook me.

Falco wagged her journal in front of her. "This is yours, I presume." A slow smile spread across his face. "Let's find out exactly what you've been doing, shall we?" "Give it back!" Cass reached for the journal, but Falco easily dodged her. He opened the leather-bound book to a random page and cleared his throat. Clutching a hand to his chest, he pretended to read aloud in a high-pitched voice. "Oh, how I love the way his fingers explore my soft flesh. The way his eyes see into my very soul." This time, Cass managed to snatch the book out of his hands. "That is not what it says." "I guess that means you won't be keeping me warm tonight?

Her eyes heated with the anger and hurt that had been held inside her for too long. "Your trips to the village have not gone unnoticed." A look of confusion crossed his too-handsome face. "What does my going to the village have to do with us?" "I know there are women--" He swore and gripped her arm, jerked her up against his chest. "Who put such nonsense in your head?" She didn't say anything, her throat hot and tight from the ball of tears constricting it. "Finlay," he said flatly. She looked at him in surprise. " 'Tis no secret that he despises me, but I am surprised that you listened to his venom." "It's not too difficult to believe. You are a man." "Aye," he said softly. "But I've not had another woman, Elizabeth." Her heart faltered. Her eyes shot to his, not daring to believe ... He cradled her cheek tenderly in his big hand. "How can I when I want someone else?" He hasn't been with a woman ... he wants me.

You don't know shit," Ronan said. There was the very briefest of pauses. It was true that this sort of venom was not unusual from Ronan. But it had been a very long while since it had been used so forcefully on Blue. She drew herself up, everything prickling. Then, Gansey said, very slowly, "Ronan, you're never going to talk to Jane like that again." Both Adam and Blue stared at Gansey, who concentrated his gaze on his napkin. It wasn't what he said but how he looked at no one when he said it that made the moment strange. Blue, feeling oddly warm around the cheeks, told Gansey, "I don't need you to stand up for me. Don't you" - this was directed at Ronan - "think I'll let you talk to me like that. Especially not just because you're mad I'm right." As she whirled towards the front, she heard Adam say, "You're such a dick," and Noah laugh.

He shrugged. “It’s a good saying. Not if. When. That’s life. Not if you die. When. Not if you fall in love. When. Not if you get your heart broken. When.

They say time dulls the pain. They lie. Guilt is pain’s fuel, and it rekindles it every time the flame fades.

Nor have you well taken heed of the words of Ovid, who says, ‘Under the honeyed enticements of the flesh is hidden the venom that slays the soul.

Adisa says the word assimilation with so much venom that you’d think anyone who chooses it—like I did—is swallowing poison. It

The hardest choices were never choices to begin with,” he finally says. “That’s life.

I think the best people to help us say goodbye are the ones who’ve had to do it themselves.

I’m white, rich, and male. I’ll succeed no matter what.” “You’re male,” I say. “You’ll succeed no matter what.

There was nothing to say. The final crack to the mirror had been dealt. We couldn’t fix it. We were irreparably damaged.

But if you don’t believe me, you can go for it and I can say ‘I told you so’ while your insides liquefy from the venom.

It’s a good saying. Not if. When. That’s life. Not if you die. When. Not if you fall in love. When. Not if you get your heart broken. When.

There’s a saying about that: when you meet an asshole, you just met an asshole. When everyone you meet is an asshole, you might be the asshole.

How’d you lose Mags?” “In the fog. Finnick had Peeta. I had Mags for a while. Then I couldn’t lift her. Finnick said he couldn’t take them both. She kissed him and walked right into the poison,” I say. “She was Finnick’s mentor, you know,” Johanna says accusingly. “No, I didn’t,” I say. “She was half his family,” she says a few moments later, but there’s less venom behind it.

The two halves of my barely whole being rioted, chained in place and snarling in protest of the other’s presence. The bondage allowed them just close enough to drive each other to venomous rebellion, yet never permitting the chance to make contact; to fight. There would be no battle, no resolution. The end result sounded more and more like insanity. So this is love? It truly is mad…

Don’t let them see,” she says in a low tone. “Who?” “Everyone who is waiting with bated breath to see you unhappy.” She releases me and tips her chin up, straightening her back. “Don’t give that to them.

How do you know me, girl?” He asked, his voice caked with venom. There was movement from the curtains and the throng of vamps seemed to cry out as one, in a sound of pure surprise. My head turned towards the figure of a young man. He looked like an angel, dressed in white and gold, but whether that was because he caused Petrel to stop or the flickering candlelight from the sconces above us, I couldn’t say.

You say that word with such venom, cunt. It's a fairly harmless insult in the UK, you realize. Only in this country could a euphemism for female genitalia be considered the ultimate obscenity. The word is actually quite beautiful, related to Cunina, the Roman goddess who protects sleeping infants. It means, all-knowing, all-powerful. Of course, men attempted to rob us of cunts ancient magic by making the word taboo.

It’s because she doesn’t have eyelashes,” Daisy said. Iris turned to her with complete calm and said, “I hate you.” “That’s a terrible thing to say, Daisy,” Honoria said, turning on her with a stern expression. It was true that Iris was extraordinarily pale, with the kind of strawberry blond hair that seemed to render her lashes and brows almost invisible. But she’d always thought Iris was absolutely gorgeous, almost ethereal-looking. “If she didn’t have eyelashes, she’d be dead,” Sarah said. Honoria turned to her, unable to believe the direction of the conversation. Well, no, that was not completely accurate. She believed it (unfortunately). She just didn’t understand it. “Well, it’s true,” Sarah said defensively. “Or at the very least, blind. Lashes keep all the dust from our eyes.” “Why are we having this conversation?” Honoria wondered aloud. Daisy immediately answered, “It’s because Sarah said she didn’t think Iris could look venomous, and then I said—" “I know,” Honoria cut in, and then, when she realized Daisy still had her mouth open, looking as if she was only waiting for the right moment to complete her sentence, she said it again. “I know. It was a hypothetical question.” “It still had a perfectly valid answer,” Daisy said with a sniff.

MADAME PERNELLE. For slanderers abound in calumnies . . . ORGON. Mother, you'd make me damn my soul. I tell you I saw with my own eyes his shamelessness. MADAME PERNELLE. Their tongues for spitting venom never lack, There's nothing here below they'll not attack. ORGON. Your speech has not a single grain of sense. I saw it, harkee, saw it, with these eyes I saw—d'ye know what saw means?—must I say it A hundred times, and din it in your ears?

I’ve had a pretty shitty week. I keep running into assholes.” He tilts his head to the side. “There’s a saying about that: when you meet an asshole, you just met an asshole. When everyone you meet is an asshole, you might be the asshole.

How malicious philosophers can be! I know of nothing more venomous than the joke Epicurus permitted himself against Plato and the Platonists; he called them Dionysiokolakes. That means literally—and this is the foreground meaning—“flatterers of Dionysius,” in other words, tyrant’s baggage and lickspittles; but in addition to this he also wants to say, “they are all actors, there is nothing genuine about them” (for Dionysokolax was a popular name for an actor).8 And the latter is really the malice that Epicurus aimed at Plato: he was peeved by the grandiose manner, the mise en scène9 at which Plato and his disciples were so expert—at which Epicurus was not an expert—he, that old schoolmaster from Samos, who sat, hidden away, in his little garden at Athens and wrote three hundred books—who knows? perhaps from rage and ambition against Plato? It took a hundred years until Greece found out who this garden god, Epicurus, had been.—Did they find out?— 8

The venom clamours of a jealous woman, Poisons more deadly than a mad dog’s tooth. It seems his sleeps were hinder’d by thy railing: And thereof comes it that his head is light. Thou say’st his meat was sauced with thy upbraidings: Unquiet meals make ill digestions; Thereof the raging fire of fever bred; And what’s a fever but a fit of madness? Thou say’st his sports were hinder’d by thy brawls: Sweet recreation barr’d, what doth ensue But moody and dull melancholy, Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair; And at her heels a huge infectious troop Of pale distemperatures and foes to life? In food, in sport, and life-preserving rest To be disturb’d, would mad or man or beast: The consequence is, then, thy jealous fits Have scared thy husband from the use of wits.

then glared at the thing venomously. “I realize that you, as an inanimate object, are not to be blamed for anything that has occurred,” I informed it icily, “but I will still take great delight in seeing Warner dismantle you.” It, of course, had nothing to say to that.

He said, Remick, I could say things to you in the night that you would never fucking recover from. They lived together for a while in the district of Gràcia. They drank too much and too late. They fought with venom and skill. They smoked rock cocaine. They fought like drunk gorillas.

You miss the idea of him. There you go. Was that so hard? “That goes away, too,” says your friend. Through the magic of the biological imperative, his brain has been reprogrammed. He has been forced to gloss over his own romantic carnage so that he might once again start down that road of procreation. He has nineteen layers of skin; you have three-fourths of a layer. They’re all like this, the recovered. Sometimes you want to hop across the table, curl up in their laps, and beg to be made one of them. How does it work? Hypnosis? A chip in the neck? A radioactive spider with Xanax venom?

Terence, this is stupid stuff: You eat your victuals fast enough; There can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear, To see the rate you drink your beer. But oh, good Lord, the verse you make, It gives a chap the belly-ache. The cow, the old cow, she is dead; It sleeps well, the horned head: We poor lads, ’tis our turn now To hear such tunes as killed the cow. Pretty friendship ’tis to rhyme Your friends to death before their time Moping melancholy mad: Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.’ Why, if ’tis dancing you would be, There’s brisker pipes than poetry. Say, for what were hop-yards meant, Or why was Burton built on Trent? Oh many a peer of England brews Livelier liquor than the Muse, And malt does more than Milton can To justify God’s ways to man. Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink For fellows whom it hurts to think: Look into the pewter pot To see the world as the world’s not. And faith, ’tis pleasant till ’tis past: The mischief is that ’twill not last. Oh I have been to Ludlow fair And left my necktie God knows where, And carried half way home, or near, Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer: Then the world seemed none so bad, And I myself a sterling lad; And down in lovely muck I’ve lain, Happy till I woke again. Then I saw the morning sky: Heigho, the tale was all a lie; The world, it was the old world yet, I was I, my things were wet, And nothing now remained to do But begin the game anew. Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endure Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure, I’d face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good. ’Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale Is not so brisk a brew as ale: Out of a stem that scored the hand I wrung it in a weary land. But take it: if the smack is sour, The better for the embittered hour; It should do good to heart and head When your soul is in my soul’s stead; And I will friend you, if I may, In the dark and cloudy day. There was a king reigned in the East: There, when kings will sit to feast, They get their fill before they think With poisoned meat and poisoned drink. He gathered all that springs to birth From the many-venomed earth; First a little, thence to more, He sampled all her killing store; And easy, smiling, seasoned sound, Sate the king when healths went round. They put arsenic in his meat And stared aghast to watch him eat; They poured strychnine in his cup And shook to see him drink it up: They shook, they stared as white’s their shirt: Them it was their poison hurt. —I tell the tale that I heard told. Mithridates, he died old.

For the guard with the scar over her heart: I’ve been watching you. You’re not like the other guards — the bowing, scraping, mindlessly loyal lizards who live for your queen. You have your own thoughts, don’t you? You’re smarter than the average SandWing. And I think I know your secret. Let’s talk about it. Third cell down, the one with two NightWings in it. I’m the one who doesn’t snore. I HAVE NO INTEREST IN DISCUSSING ANYTHING WITH A NIGHTWING PRISONER. WHOSE IDEA WAS IT TO LET YOU HAVE PAPER AND INK? You should be interested. You’re going to need allies for what you’re planning … and when I get out of here, I’m going to be a very useful ally indeed. AMUSING ASSUMPTIONS. MY QUEEN BELIEVES YOU’RE GOING TO BE IN HERE FOR A LONG, LONG TIME. True … but she also believes she’s going to be queen for a long, long time … doesn’t she. An interesting silence after my last note. Perhaps it would reassure you to know I set your notes on fire as soon as I’ve read them. You can tell me anything, my new, venomous-tailed friend. Believe me, Night-Wings are exceptionally skilled at keeping secrets. WE ARE NOT FRIENDS. I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT YOU, OTHER THAN WHAT IT SAYS IN YOUR PRISONER FILE. FIERCETEETH: TRAITOR. KIDNAPPER. RINGLEADER OF ASSASSINATION PLOT. TO BE HELD INDEFINITELY WITH FELLOW TRAITOR STRONGWINGS, ON BEHALF OF THE NIGHTWING QUEEN. OH, YES, CERTAINLY SOUNDS LIKE A DRAGON ANYONE CAN TRUST. She’s not my queen. You can’t be a traitor to someone who shouldn’t be ruling over you in the first place. Which might be a thought you’ve had lately yourself, isn’t it? I know some things about you, even without a file. Saguaro: Prison guard. Schemer. Connected to great secret plans. We’re not so different, you and I. Particularly when it comes to trustworthiness. Just think, if my alleged “assassination plot” had worked, the NightWings would have a different queen right now. Perhaps it would even be me. Well, if at first you don’t succeed … I could tell you my story, if you get me more paper to write on. Or you could stop by one midnight and listen to it instead. But I’ve noticed you don’t like spending too much time in the dungeon. Is it the tip-tap of little scorpion claws scrabbling everywhere? The stench rising from the holes in the floor? The gibbering mad SandWing a few cages down who never shuts up, all night long? (What is her story? Has she really been here since the rule of Queen Oasis?) Or is it that you can too easily picture yourself behind these bars … and you know how close you are to joining us? ALL RIGHT, NIGHTWING, HERE’S A BLANK SCROLL. GO AHEAD AND TRY TO CONVINCE ME THAT YOU’RE A DRAGON WHO EVEN DESERVES TO LIVE, LET ALONE ONE I SHOULD WASTE MY TIME ON. I DO ENJOY BEING AMUSED.

Sin is like a poison, which corrupts the blood, infects the heart, and without a sovereign Antidote, brings death. Such is the venomous nature of sin, it is deadly and damning. Sin is worse than hell, but yet God, by His mighty overruling power, makes sin in the issue turn to the good of His people. Hence the golden saying of Augustine, ‘God would never permit evil, if He could not bring good out of evil.’” - Thomas Watson

Who" said Candide, "is that fat pig who was telling me so many bad things about the play at which I wept so much and about the actors who gave me such pleasure?" "He is a living disease," replied the abbé, "who makes his makes his living saying bad things about all plays and all books; he hates anyone who succeeds, as eunuchs hate those who enjoy sex; he is one of those serpents of literature who feed on filth and venom; he is a foliferous pamphleteer...

You really don’t believe that anything can have a value of its own beyond what function it serves for human beings?” Resaint said. “Value to who?” Resaint asked Halyard to imagine a planet in some remote galaxy—a lush, seething, glittering planet covered with stratospheric waterfalls, great land-sponges bouncing through the valleys, corals budding in perfect niveous hexagons, humming lichens glued to pink crystals, prismatic jellyfish breaching from the rivers, titanic lilies relying on tornadoes to spread their pollen—a planet full of complex, interconnected life but devoid of consciousness. “Are you telling me that, if an asteroid smashed into this planet and reduced every inch of its surface to dust, nothing would be lost? Because nobody in particular would miss it?” “But the universe is bloody huge—stuff like that must happen every minute. You can’t go on strike over it. Honestly it sounds to me to like your real enemy isn’t climate change or habitat loss, it’s entropy. You don’t like the idea that everything eventually crumbles. Well, it does. If you’re this worried about species extinction, wait until you hear about the heat death of the universe.” “I would be upset about the heat death of the universe too if human beings were accelerating the rate of it by a hundred times or more.” “And if a species’ position with respect to us doesn’t matter— you know, those amoebae they found that live at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, if they’re just as important as Chiu Chiu or my parents’ dog, even though nobody ever gets anywhere near them—if distance in space doesn’t matter, why should distance in time? If we don’t care about whether their lives overlap with our lives, why even worry about whether they exist simultaneously with us? Your favorite wasp—Adelo-midgy-midgy—” “Adelognathus marginatum—” “It did exist. It always will have existed. Extinction can’t take that away. It went through its nasty little routine over and over again for millions and millions of years. The show was a big success. So why is it important that it’s still running at the same time you are? Isn’t that centering the whole thing on human beings, which is exactly what we’re not supposed to be doing? I mean, for that matter—reality is all just numbers anyway, right? I mean underneath? That’s what people say now. So why are you so down on the scans? Hacks aside. Why is it so crucial that these animals exist right now in an ostensibly meat-based format, just because we do? My point is you talk about extinction as if you’re taking this enlightened post-human View from Nowhere but if we really get down to it you’re definitely taking a View from Karin Resaint two arms two legs one head born Basel Switzerland year of our lord two-thousand-and-when-ever.” But Resaint wasn’t listening anymore.

You have so many great people in your life, people who are willing to do anything for you.” His voice begins to take on heat. “They bend over backwards for you, and all you can do is push them away. How long is it going to be until you push me away?” My eyes snap shut. “I would never—” “You say that now,” he shouts at me, spitting venom, surprising me with his anger, “but I would’ve thought you would never push anyone else close to us away, either! How can I be expected to take care of you if you won’t even take care of yourself?

—I cannot, at this place, avoid a sigh. There are days when I am visited by a feeling blacker than the blackest melancholy—contempt of man. Let me leave no doubt as to what I despise, whom I despise: it is the man of today, the man with whom I am unhappily contemporaneous. The man of today—I am suffocated by his foul breath!… Toward the past, like all who understand, I am full of tolerance, which is to say, generous self-control: with gloomy caution I pass through whole millenniums of this madhouse of a world, call it “Christianity,” “Christian faith” or the “Christian church,” as you will—I take care not to hold mankind responsible for its lunacies. But my feeling changes and breaks out irresistibly the moment I enter modern times, our times. Our age knows better… . What was formerly merely sickly now becomes indecent—it is indecent to be a Christian today. And here my disgust begins.—I look about me: not a word survives of what was once called “truth”; we can no longer bear to hear a priest pronounce the word. Even a man who makes the most modest pretensions to integrity must know that a theologian, a priest, a pope of today not only errs when he speaks, but actually lies—and that he no longer escapes blame for his lie through “innocence” or “ignorance.” The priest knows, as every one knows, that there is no longer any “God,” or any “sinner,” or any “Saviour”—that “free will” and the “moral order of the world” are lies—: serious reflection, the profound self-conquest of the spirit, allow no man to pretend that he does not know it… . All the ideas of the church are now recognized for what they are—as the worst counterfeits in existence, invented to debase nature and all natural values; the priest himself is seen as he actually is—as the most dangerous form of parasite, as the venomous spider of creation… . We know, our conscience now knows—just what the real value of all those sinister inventions of priest and church has been and what ends they have served, with their debasement of humanity to a state of self-pollution, the very sight of which excites loathing,—the concepts “the other world,” “the last judgment,” “the immortality of the soul,” the “soul” itself: they are all merely so many instruments of torture, systems of cruelty, whereby the priest becomes master and remains master… . Every one knows this, but nevertheless things remain as before. What has become of the last trace of decent feeling, of self-respect, when our statesmen, otherwise an unconventional class of men and thoroughly anti-Christian in their acts, now call themselves Christians and go to the communion-table?… A prince at the head of his armies, magnificent as the expression of the egoism and arrogance of his people—and yet acknowledging, without any shame, that he is a Christian!… Whom, then, does Christianity deny? what does it call “the world”? To be a soldier, to be a judge, to be a patriot; to defend one’s self; to be careful of one’s honour; to desire one’s own advantage; to be proud … every act of everyday, every instinct, every valuation that shows itself in a deed, is now anti-Christian: what a monster of falsehood the modern man must be to call himself nevertheless, and without shame, a Christian!—

What did I do now?” He reluctantly pulled the car the curb. I needed to get out of this car – like now. I couldn’t breathe. I unbuckled and flung open the door. “Thanks for the ride. Bye.” I slammed the door shut and began down the sidewalk. Behind me, I heard the engine turn off and his door open and shut. I quickened my stride as James jogged up to me. I slowed down knowing I couldn’t escape his long legs anyway. Plus, I didn’t want to get home all sweaty and have to explain myself. “What happened?” James asked, matching my pace. “Leave me alone!” I snapped back. I felt his hand grab my elbow, halting me easily. “Stop,” he ordered. Damn it, he’s strong! “What are you pissed about now?” He towered over me. I was trapped in front of him, if he tugged a bit, I’d be in his embrace. “It’s so funny huh? I’m that bad? I’m a clown, I’m so funny!” I jerked my arm, trying to break free of his grip. “Let me go!” “No!” He squeezed tighter, pulling me closer. “Leave me alone!” I spit the words like venom, pulling my arm with all my might. “What’s your problem?” James demanded loudly. His hand tightened on my arm with each attempt to pull away. My energy was dwindling and I was mentally exhausted. I stopped jerking my arm back, deciding it was pointless because he was too strong; there was no way I could pull my arm back without first kneeing him in the balls. We were alone, standing in the dark of night in a neighborhood that didn’t see much traffic. “Fireball?” he murmured softly. “What?” I replied quietly, defeated. Hesitantly, he asked, “Did I say something to make you sad?” I wasn’t going to mention the boyfriend thing; there was no way. “Yes,” I whimpered. That’s just great, way to sound strong there, now he’ll have no reason not to pity you! “I’m sorry,” came his quiet reply. Well maybe ‘I’m sorry’ just isn’t good enough. The damage is already done! “Whatever.” “What can I do to make it all better?” “There’s nothing you could–” I began but was interrupted by him pulling me against his body. His arms encircled my waist, holding me tight. My arms instinctively bent upwards, hands firmly planted against his solid chest. Any resentment I had swiftly melted away as something brand new took its place: pleasure. Jesus! “What do you think you’re doing?” I asked him softly; his face was only a few inches from mine. “What do you think you’re doing?” James asked back, looking down at my hands on his chest. I slowly slid my arms up around his neck. I can’t believe I just did that! “That’s better.” Our bodies were plastered against one another; I felt a new kind of nervousness touch every single inch of my body, it prickled electrically. “James,” I murmured softly. “Fireball,” he whispered back. “What do you think you’re doing?” I repeated; my brain felt frozen. My heart had stopped beating a mile a minute instead issuing slow, heavy beats. James uncurled one of his arms from my waist and trailed it along my back to the base of my neck, holding it firmly yet delicately. Blood rushed to the very spot he was holding, heat filled my eyes as I stared at him. “What are you doing?” My bewilderment was audible in the hush. I wasn’t sure I had the capacity to speak anymore. That function had fled along with the bitch. Her replacement was a delicate flower that yearned to be touched and taken care of. I felt his hand shift on my neck, ever so slightly, causing my head to tilt up to him. Slowly, inch by inch, his face descended on mine, stopping just a breath away from my trembling lips. I wanted it. Badly. My lips parted a fraction, letting a thread of air escape. “Can I?” His breath was warm on my lips. Fuck it! “Yeah,” I whispered back. He closed the distance until his lush lips covered mine. My first kiss…damn! His lips moved softly over mine. I felt his grip on my neck squeeze as his lips pressed deeper into

God saw Hansen tighten his chokehold on Day and he could see his lover fighting to breathe. Day’s ears and neck were bright red. His lips were turning a darker color as his body was deprived of oxygen. Hansen pressed the barrel in deeper and yelled. “Two minutes and fifteen seconds before I get to zero and I provide the great state of Georgia the luxury of one less narc.” God’s mind exploded at the thought of not having Day in a world he lived in. He looked into his partner’s glistening eyes and saw he was turning blue and possibly getting ready to faint. Day was still looking at him, looking into God’s green eyes. No, no, no! He’s saying good-bye. God closed his eyes and released a loud, gut-wrenching growl cutting off the SWAT leader’s negotiations. “Godfrey, get yourself under control,” his captain said while grabbing for him. God jerked himself away from the hold and stepped forward, his angry eyes boring into Hansen’s dark ones. Hansen stared at him as if God was crazy. Little did he know God was at that moment. “Godfrey, get back here and stand down. That’s an order, Detective!” his captain barked. God’s large hands clenched at his sides fighting not to pull out his weapons. He ground his teeth together so hard his jaw ached. “Do you have any idea of the shit storm you’re about to bring down on your life,” God spoke with a menacing snarl while his large frame shook with fury. “In your arms you hold the only thing in this world that means anything to me. The man that you are pointing a gun at is my only purpose for living. You are threating to kill the only person in this world that gives a fuck about me.” God took two more steps forward and was vaguely aware of the complete silence surrounding him. Hansen’s finger hovered shakily over the trigger as he took two large steps back with Day still tight against his chest. God growled again and he saw a shade of fear ghost over Hansen’s sweaty face. “If you kill that man, I swear on everything that is holy, I will track you to the ends of the earth, killing and destroying any and everything you hold dear. I will take everything from you and leave you alive to suffer through it. I will bestow upon you the same misery that you have given to me.” Hansen shook his head and inched closer to the door behind him. “Stay back,” he yelled again but this time the demand lacked the courage and venom he exhibited before. “You kill that man, and you’ll have no idea of the monster you will create. Have you ever met a man with no heart…no conscience…no soul…no purpose?” God rumbled, his voice at least twelve octaves lower than the already deep baritone. God yanked his Desert Eagle from his holster in a flash and cocked the hammer back chambering the first round. Hansen stumbled back again, his eyes gone wide with fear. God’s entire body instinctually flexed every muscle in his body and it felt like the large vein in his neck might rupture. His body burned like he had a sweltering fever and he knew his wrath had him a brilliant shade of red. “I’m asking you a goddamn question, Hansen! No soul! No conscience! I’m asking you have you ever met the devil!” God’s thunderous voice practically rattled the glass in the hanger. “If you kill the man I love, you better make your peace with God, because I’m gonna meet your soul in hell.” His voice boomed.

You know what, Sam? We created the council to take pressure off of you. Because you were falling apart.” Sam just stared at her. Not quite believing she’d said it. And Astrid seemed shocked herself. Shocked at the venom behind her own words. “I didn’t mean…,” she started lamely, but then couldn’t find her way to explaining just what it was she didn’t mean. Sam shook his head. “You know, even now, as long as we’ve been together it still surprises me that you can be so ruthless.” “Ruthless? Me?” “You will use anyone to get what you want. Say anything to get your way. Why was I ever even in charge?” He stabbed an accusing finger at her. “Because of you! Because you manipulated me into it. Why? So I would protect you and Little Pete. That’s all you cared about.” “That’s a lie!” she said hotly. “You know it’s the truth. And now you don’t have to bother manipulating me, you can just give me orders. Embarrass me. Undercut me. But as soon as some problem hits, guess what? It’ll be, oh, please, Sam, save us.” “Anything I do, I do for everyone’s good,” Astrid said. “Yeah, so you’re not just a genius now, you’re a saint.

The calamity leaves us our old courage and our old earnest energy. Let the world say venomously what it cannot refrain from saying; it will leave you and me cold. On the contrary, we are counting on the possibility of a hard life which will have a purpose other than earning as much money as possible. Our purpose is in the first place self-reform by means of a handicraft and of intercourse with nature, believing as we do that this is our first duty in order to be honest with others and to be consistent - our aim is walking with God - the opposite of living in the midst of the doings of the big cities.

You say respect my elders, but what you mean is respecting my betters, is that not right? Are you so full of your own arrogance that you need me to bow and kowtow to you like some throwback fledgling? Or perhaps we should reinstate the role of concubines in our society. Then you may have the pleasure of claiming me and forcing me to fall to my knees, bowing low in respect of your masculine eminence!” Gideon watched as she did just that, her gown billowing around her as she gracefully kneeled before him, so close to him that her knees touched the tips of his boots. She swept her hands to her sides, bowing her head until her forehead brushed the leather, her hair spilling like reams of heavy silk around his ankles. The Ancient found himself unusually speechless, the strangest sensation creeping through him as he looked down at the exposed nape of her neck, the elegant line of her back. Unable to curb the impulse, Gideon lowered himself into a crouch, reaching beneath the cloak of coffee-colored hair to touch her flushed cheek. The heat of her anger radiated against his touch and he recognized it long before she turned her face up to him. “Does this satisfy you, my lord Gideon?” she whispered fiercely, her eyes flashing like flinted steel and hard jade. Gideon found himself searching her face intently, his eyes roaming over the high, aristocratic curves of her cheekbones, the amazingly full sculpture of her lips, the wide, accusing eyes that lay behind extraordinarily thick lashes. He cupped her chin between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, his fingertips fanning softly over her angrily flushed cheek. “You do enjoy mocking me,” he murmured softly to her, the breath of his words close enough to skim across her face. “No more than you seem to enjoy condescending to me,” she replied, her clipped words coming out on quick, heated breaths. Gideon absorbed this latest venom with a blink of lengthy lashes. They kept their gazes locked, each seemingly waiting for the other to look away. “You have never forgiven me,” he said suddenly, softly. “Forgiven you?” She laughed bitterly. “Gideon, you are not important enough to earn my forgiveness.” “Is your ego so fragile, Legna, that a small slight to it is irreparable?” “Stop talking to me as if I were a temperamental child!” Legna hissed, moving to jerk her head back but finding his grip quite secure. “There was nothing slight about the way you treated me. I will never forget it, and I most certainly will never forget it!

According to what I have heard, true love is not divided and must be voluntary, not forced. If this is true, as I believe it is, why do you want to force me to surrender my will, obliged to do so simply because you say you love me? But if this is not true, then tell me: if the heaven that made me beautiful had made me ugly instead, would it be fair for me to complain that none of you loved me? Moreover, you must consider that I did not choose the beauty I have, and, such as it is, heaven gave it to me freely, without my requesting or choosing it. And just as the viper does not deserve to be blamed for its venom, although it kills, since it was given the venom by nature, I do not deserve to be reproved for being beautiful, for beauty in the chaste woman is like a distant fire or sharp-edged sword: they do not burn or cut the person who does not approach them. Honor and virtue are adornments of the soul, without which the body is not truly beautiful, even if it seems to be so. And if chastity is one of the virtues that most adorn and beautify both body and soul, why should a woman, loved for being beautiful, lose that virtue in order to satisfy the desire of a man who, for the sake of his pleasure, attempts with all his might and main to have her lose it?

The bowl she holds fills slowly, one drop at a time, but eventually the poison fills the bowl to the brim. It is then and only then that Sigyn turns away from Loki. She takes the bowl and pours the venom away, and while she is gone, the snake’s poison falls on to Loki’s face and into his eyes. He convulses then, jerks and judders, jolts and twists and writhes, so much that the whole earth shakes. When that happens, we here in Midgard call it an earthquake. They say that Loki will be bound there in the darkness beneath the earth, and Sigyn will be with him, holding the bowl to catch the poison above his face and whispering that she loves him, until Ragnarok comes and brings the end of days.

I know what I want to hear. I want to hear the "Believe it or Not" song. I want to play that shit loud. Really belt out the "Should have been somebody eeeeeelse" part, with a little bit of Zack de la Rocha venom. That would be pretty awesome right about now. But the other part of me, the part that wanted to be cool, knew that it was a much better idea to say, "Let's play the fucking Misfits." Because that's what you say to the cool guy in the combat boots who wants to smoke in your house. Because he's going to snarl-smile at you and say, "Fuck yeah!" And you're feel cool by association. "Let's play the fucking Misfits," I said. John snarl-smiled and saluted me with rock horns. "Fuck yeah." Told you.

I will not mention the name (and what bits of it I happen to give here appear in decorous disguise) of that man, that Franco-Hungarian writer... I would rather not dwell upon him at all, but I cannot help it— he is surging up from under my pen. Today one does not hear much about him; and this is good, for it proves that I was right in resisting his evil spell, right in experiencing a creepy chill down my spine whenever this or that new book of his touched my hand. The fame of his likes circulates briskly but soon grows heavy and stale; and as for history it will limit his life story to the dash between two dates. Lean and arrogant, with some poisonous pun ever ready to fork out and quiver at you, and with a strange look of expectancy in his dull brown veiled eyes, this false wag had, I daresay, an irresistible effect on small rodents. Having mastered the art of verbal invention to perfection, he particularly prided himself on being a weaver of words, a title he valued higher than that of a writer; personally, I never could understand what was the good of thinking up books, of penning things that had not really happened in some way or other; and I remember once saying to him as I braved the mockery of his encouraging nods that, were I a writer, I should allow only my heart to have imagination, and for the rest rely upon memory, that long-drawn sunset shadow of one’s personal truth. I had known his books before I knew him; a faint disgust was already replacing the aesthetic pleasure which I had suffered his first novel to give me. At the beginning of his career, it had been possible perhaps to distinguish some human landscape, some old garden, some dream- familiar disposition of trees through the stained glass of his prodigious prose... but with every new book the tints grew still more dense, the gules and purpure still more ominous; and today one can no longer see anything at all through that blazoned, ghastly rich glass, and it seems that were one to break it, nothing but a perfectly black void would face one’s shivering soul. But how dangerous he was in his prime, what venom he squirted, with what whips he lashed when provoked! The tornado of his passing satire left a barren waste where felled oaks lay in a row, and the dust still twisted, and the unfortunate author of some adverse review, howling with pain, spun like a top in the dust.

Harley, if you’re asking me to marry you, I’m afraid I must say no,” he joked. “I mean, we hardly know each other, and you haven’t even bothered to ask my parents for my hand.” “Will you shut up?” As much as I didn’t want to laugh, I failed. That was the good thing about Drake. He could be annoying, sure, but he knew how to lighten the mood when things became tense. “I’m being serious, Drake.” “Okay, then shoot.” “Are you like me?” As the words escaped my lips, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. “What do you think?” “Answering a question with a question doesn’t work,” I answered. “And I think you are.” “Well, then, you can rest assured knowing you’re right.” He shrugged as he turned the chair around to properly face me. “Although, I do believe I wasn’t supposed to tell you as much just yet.” “Was my father behind this?” Drake shook his head no. “The League—more specifically, the Council—had nothing to do with my arrival,” he assured me. “I came here for you, yes, but only because the clan of the vampire you killed is looking for you. And while you might not believe it, I’m your best chance at survival.

There once was a female snake that roamed around a small village in the countryside of Egypt. She was commonly seen by villagers with her small baby as they grazed around the trees. One day, several men noticed the mother snake was searching back and forth throughout the village in a frenzy — without her young. Apparently, her baby had slithered off on its own to play while she was out looking for food. Yet the mother snake went on looking for her baby for days because it still hadn't returned back to her. So one day, one of the elder women in the village caught sight of the big snake climbing on top of their water supply — an open clay jug harvesting all the village's water. The snake latched its teeth on the big jug's opening and sprayed its venom into it. The woman who witnessed the event was mentally handicapped, so when she went to warn the other villagers, nobody really understood what she was saying. And when she approached the jug to try to knock it over, she was reprimanded by her two brothers and they locked her away in her room. Then early the next day, the mother snake returned to the village after a long evening searching for her baby. The children villagers quickly surrounded her while clapping and singing because she had finally found her baby. And as the mother snake watched the children rejoice in the reunion with her child, she suddenly took off straight for the water supply — leaving behind her baby with the villagers' children. Before an old man could gather some water to make some tea, she hissed in his direction, forcing him to step back as she immediately wrapped herself around the jug and squeezed it super hard. When the jug broke burst into a hundred fragments, she slithered away to gather her child and return to the safety of her hole. Many people reading this true story may not understand that the same feelings we are capable of having, snakes have too. Thinking the villagers killed her baby, the mother snake sought out revenge by poisoning the water to destroy those she thought had hurt her child. But when she found her baby and saw the villagers' children, her guilt and protective instincts urged her to save them before other mothers would be forced to experience the pain and grief of losing a child. Animals have hearts and minds too. They are capable of love, hatred, jealousy, revenge, hunger, fear, joy, and caring for their own and others. We look at animals as if they are inferior because they are savage and not civilized, but in truth, we are the ones who are not being civil by drawing a thick line between us and them — us and nature. A wild animal's life is very straightforward. They spend their time searching and gathering food, mating, building homes, and meditating and playing with their loved ones. They enjoy the simplicity of life without any of our technological gadgetry, materialism, mass consumption, wastefulness, superficiality, mindless wars, excessive greed and hatred. While we get excited by the vibrations coming from our TV sets, headphones and car stereos, they get stimulated by the vibrations of nature. So, just because animals may lack the sophisticated minds to create the technology we do or make brick homes and highways like us, does not mean their connections to the etheric world isn't more sophisticated than anything we could ever imagine. That means they are more spiritual, reflective, cosmic, and tuned into alternate universes beyond what our eyes can see. So in other words, animals are more advanced than us. They have the simple beauty we lack and the spiritual contentment we may never achieve.

Is she now? I didn’t know the FBI investigated murders,” Mama Z said. “I thought such things were matters for local authorities.” “There might be some civil rights violations involved,” Hind said. “Whose civil rights?” “I don’t know yet.” “I ask because you have to have civil rights in order for the them to be violated.” Mama Z let that hang in the air. “I’m sorry. Forgive my manners. We can sit in here. Gertie, be a dear and make us some tea and bring some cookies. Make sure the cat doesn’t come in here and bother us.” Gertrude nodded. “I actually like cats,” Hind said. “This one sheds like crazy,” Mama Z said. “Your suit would be a mess before you could say, ‘Mississippi goddamn.’” She didn’t quite sing the words. “What is your last name, Mama Z?” Hind asked. “Everybody just calls me Mama Z.” “But for my notes.” “Lynch. My name is Adelaide Lynch.” To Gertrude, “Go get that tea, baby.” Gertrude left. “Where does the Z come in?” “I don’t quite remember,” the old woman said. “It’s easier to spell than Omega.” Mama Z looked Hind in the eye. “How old are you?” “One hundred and five.” “You look great. Moving around like this. Do you live alone?” “Yes.” “That’s amazing. What’s your secret?” “Venom.” “What?” Hind asked. “It’s what I call my nightly tea,” Mama Z said, then, conspiratorially, she added, “I mix it with bourbon.” “I see.

It's only that... well, if Olivia cannot be with the man she loves, as he has vanished like a bloody 'cowardly'..." She stopped talking abruptly. Yanking herself back like a dog on a leash. Which was a pity, as the words had acquired a fascinating whiff of venom and had begun to escalate in volume. She would have done some squeaking of her own. Genevieve Eversea was beginning to interest him. "If she cannot be with the man she loves..." he prompted. "I do believe she can only to be with someone... impressive." "Impressive..." He pretended to ponder this. "I hope you do not think I presume, but I cannot help but wonder if you're referring to me. Given my rank and fortune, some might describe me as such. And I'm flattered indeed, given that there really are so many other words you could have chosen to describe me." A pause followed. The girl was most definitely a 'thinker.' "We have only just become acquainted, Lord Moncrieffe. I might elect to use other words to describe you should I come to know you better." Exquisite and refined as convent lace, her manners, her delivery. And still he could have sworn she was having one over on him. She seemed to be watching her feet now. The scenery didn't interest her, or it caused her discomfort. And as he watched her, something unfamiliar stirred. He was... 'genuinely' interested in what she might say next.

romantic between us, but when he opens his arms I don’t hesitate to go into them. His body is familiar to me — the way it moves, the smell of wood smoke, even the sound of his heart beating I know from quiet moments on a hunt — but this is the first time I really feel it, lean and hard-muscled against my own. “Listen,” he says. “Getting a knife should be pretty easy, but you’ve got to get your hands on a bow. That’s your best chance.” “They don’t always have bows,” I say, thinking of the year there were only horrible spiked maces that the tributes had to bludgeon one another to death with. “Then make one,” says Gale. “Even a weak bow is better than no bow at all.” I have tried copying my father’s bows with poor results. It’s not that easy. Even he had to scrap his own work sometimes. “I don’t even know if there’ll be wood,” I say. Another year, they tossed everybody into a landscape of nothing but boulders and sand and scruffy bushes. I particularly hated that year. Many contestants were bitten by venomous snakes or went insane from thirst. “There’s almost always some wood,” Gale says. “Since that year half of them died of cold. Not much entertainment in that.” It’s true. We spent one Hunger Games watching the players freeze to death at night. You could hardly see them because they were just huddled in balls and had no wood for fires or torches or anything. It was considered very anticlimactic in the Capitol, all those quiet, bloodless deaths. Since then, there’s usually been wood

Testing his image in Hartford, he would refine it further in subsequent speeches. “If I saw a venomous snake crawling in the road,” Lincoln began, “any man would say I might seize the nearest stick and kill it; but if I found that snake in bed with my children, that would be another question. I might hurt the children more than the snake, and it might bite them. . . . But if there was a bed newly made up, to which the children were to be taken, and it was proposed to take a batch of young snakes and put them there with them, I take it no man would say there was any question how I ought to decide! . . . The new Territories are the newly made bed to which our children are to go, and it lies with the nation to say whether they shall have snakes mixed up with them or not.” The snake metaphor acknowledged the constitutional protection of slavery where it legally existed, while harnessing the protective instincts of parents to safeguard future generations from the venomous expansion of slavery. This homely vision of the territories as beds for American children exemplified what James Russell Lowell described as Lincoln’s ability to speak “as if the people were listening to their own thinking out loud.” When Seward reached for a metaphor to dramatize the same danger, he warned that if slavery were allowed into Kansas, his countrymen would have “introduced the Trojan horse” into the new territory. Even if most of his classically trained fellow senators immediately grasped his intent, the Trojan horse image carried neither the instant accessibility of Lincoln’s snake-in-the-bed story nor its memorable originality.

She's my mother. How do you say no to family?" Marie gets a dark look on her face. "There's a difference between relatives and family. You can be related to someone; that is an accident of genetics. Relatives are pure biology. But family is action. Family is attitude. That woman..." Marie's voice drips with venom. "Is NOT your family. WE are your family. That woman is just your relative." Hedy's mouth drops, and Caroline's eyes fly open so wide I think they might get stuck. "Don't hold back there, Marie," Hedy says, finding her voice. "I'm sorry, but..." Marie's eyes fill with tears. "Oh no!" Caroline leans over and takes Marie's hand. Marie shakes it off. "I hate her. I hate that she had the best daughter on the planet and never appreciated her and wasn't ever there for her and never once did anything for her. You guys don't know. She was the most self-absorbed narcissistic cold person..." "She gave me Joe." "But..." she says. I raise my hand. "She. Gave. Me. JOE. Whatever other bullshit happened, the most important thing in my life growing up was Joe. He made me who I am, he helped me find my calling, he was a gift, and everything else is just beyond my ability to get upset about." "You could get a little upset," Caroline says. "It takes nothing away from Joe, and how important he was to you, to acknowledge that your mother failed you in almost every way," Hedy says. "I think you should tell her to go fuck herself," Marie says, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms like a petulant child. I don't know that I've ever seen her so furious. "You guys don't get it, I was THERE. I MET HER. Wanna know how she screws in a lightbulb? Holds it up in the air and lets the universe just revolve around her." This makes the three of us bust out laughing. "Oh, Marie, I love you. Thank you for being so on my side." It does mean the world to me that my oldest friend is so protective.

But what Ianthe and Tamlin had said... 'You don't think it sends a bad message if people see me learning to fight- using weapons?' The moment the words were out, I realised the stupidity of them. The stupidity of- of what had been shoved down my throat these past months. Silence. Then Mor said with a soft venom that made my understand the High Lord's Third had received training of her own in the Court of Nightmares, 'Let me tell you two things. As someone who has perhaps been in your shoes before.' Again, that shared bond of anger, of pain throbbed between them all, save for Amren, who was giving me a look dripping with distaste. 'One,' Mor said, 'you have left the Spring Court.' I tried not to let the full weight of those words sink in. 'If that does not send a message, for good or bad, then your training will not, either. Two,' she continued, laying her palm flat on the table, 'I once lived in a place where the opinion of others mattered. It suffocated me, nearly broke me. So you'll understand me, Feyre, when I say that I know what you feel, and I know what they tried to do to you, and that with enough courage, you can say to help with a reputation.' Her voice gentled, and the tension between them all faded with it. 'You do what you love, what you need.' Mor would not tell me what to wear or not wear. She would not allow me to step aside while she spoke for me. She would not... would not do any of the things that I had so willingly, desperately, allowed Ianthe to do I had never had a female friend before. Ianthe... she had not been one. Not in the way that mattered, I realised. And Nesta and Elain, in those few weeks I'd been at home before Amarantha, had started to fill that role, but... but looking at Mor, I couldn't explain it, couldn't understand it, but... I felt it. Like I could indeed go to dinner with her. Talk to her. Not that I had much of anything to offer her in return.

Here are two examples of just how strange and unique humans can be when they go about harming one another and caring for one another. The first example involves, well, my wife. So we’re in the minivan, our kids in the back, my wife driving. And this complete jerk cuts us off, almost causing an accident, and in a way that makes it clear that it wasn’t distractedness on his part, just sheer selfishness. My wife honks at him, and he flips us off. We’re livid, incensed. Asshole-where’s-the-cops-when-you-need-them, etc. And suddenly my wife announces that we’re going to follow him, make him a little nervous. I’m still furious, but this doesn’t strike me as the most prudent thing in the world. Nonetheless, my wife starts trailing him, right on his rear. After a few minutes the guy’s driving evasively, but my wife’s on him. Finally both cars stop at a red light, one that we know is a long one. Another car is stopped in front of the villain. He’s not going anywhere. Suddenly my wife grabs something from the front seat divider, opens her door, and says, “Now he’s going to be sorry.” I rouse myself feebly—“Uh, honey, do you really think this is such a goo—” But she’s out of the car, starts pounding on his window. I hurry over just in time to hear my wife say, “If you could do something that mean to another person, you probably need this,” in a venomous voice. She then flings something in the window. She returns to the car triumphant, just glorious. “What did you throw in there!?” She’s not talking yet. The light turns green, there’s no one behind us, and we just sit there. The thug’s car starts to blink a very sensible turn indicator, makes a slow turn, and heads down a side street into the dark at, like, five miles an hour. If it’s possible for a car to look ashamed, this car was doing it. “Honey, what did you throw in there, tell me?” She allows herself a small, malicious grin. “A grape lollipop.” I was awed by her savage passive-aggressiveness—“You’re such a mean, awful human that something must have gone really wrong in your childhood, and maybe this lollipop will help correct that just a little.” That guy was going to think twice before screwing with us again. I swelled with pride and love.

The minutes snailed by. Harry let Lockhart’s voice wash over him, occasionally saying, ‘Mmm’ and ‘Right’ and ‘Yeah’. Now and then he caught a phrase like ‘Fame’s a fickle friend, Harry’ or ‘Celebrity is as celebrity does, remember that’. The candles burned lower and lower, making the light dance over the many moving faces of Lockhart watching him. Harry moved his aching hand over what felt like the thousandth envelope, writing out Veronica Smethley’s address. It must be nearly time to leave, Harry thought miserably, please let it be nearly time … And then he heard something – something quite apart from the spitting of the dying candles and Lockhart’s prattle about his fans. It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone-marrow, a voice of breath-taking, ice-cold venom. ‘Come … come to me … let me rip you … let me tear you … let me kill you …’ Harry gave a huge jump and a large lilac blot appeared on Veronica Smethley’s street. ‘What?’ he said loudly. ‘I know!’ said Lockhart. ‘Six solid months at the top of the bestseller list! Broke all records!’ ‘No,’ said Harry frantically. ‘That voice!’ ‘Sorry?’ said Lockhart, looking puzzled. ‘What voice?’ ‘That – that voice that said – didn’t you hear it?’ Lockhart was looking at Harry in high astonishment. ‘What are you talking about, Harry? Perhaps you’re getting a little drowsy?

What’s so funny? Stop chuckling at me.” Her eyes flared. “It’s only two years away! Besides, engaged is as good as being married… it’s like prison. Nobody breaks their engagement—well there was Lady Macela—poor thing, and she never got married. Isn’t she all on her own now? But to that old pig? What are my parents thinking? I truly despise them.” “Just tell them you don’t want to marry him. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” “I already did. You know they never listen to me. They claim they know what’s best. I’d rather run away than marry him. I simply won’t do it.” She cast a venomous glare at her soup, then sighed and looked up at Talis, raising a finger as if she had an idea. “Let’s win the Blood Dagger competition. If we win, we’re allowed any wish we choose. That’ll keep me away from that ridiculous man.” “But Rikar and Nikulo are undefeated… and they’re brutal—” “I don’t care! We can do it, I know we can. Ever since that old witch made me drink all her potions and tea I feel strangely powerful… like I can do anything.” “We’ve had a string of bad luck, though. We lost two times in a row in the training arena. And then you almost got killed by the boar.” Talis lowered his voice to a whisper. “It’s like the gods are angry with us.” “Don’t say that,” she hissed. “Besides, there are rites of initiation we could try… a blood oath.” “A blood oath? You’ve got to be kidding! First you wanted to go after the boar, and now this?” Talis swallowed, not liking whatever she meant by the suggestion. “Don’t be a child. And look, we’re right here. We can do it now.” She looked at the vines covering the walls surrounding the Temple of Nyx, the God of War. Talis followed her gaze and felt a chill prickling along the back of his neck. “What? You want to make a blood oath at the Temple of Nyx?” The last time he’d been inside was when his brother Xhan had died. A painful memory. “No, don’t you know anything? I’ve got it all figured out. We must pray to Zagros, who favors the weak and fallen.” Zagros? What insanity would cause them to pray to the God of the Underworld? “I don’t think that’s a good idea… actually I think it is a terrible idea.” “Listen, we know the rites of initiation. We’ve been trained, right? What are you afraid of?” At her determined gaze Talis felt a clammy coldness creep

Intellectual Fascism – 2/3 Take, by way of illustration, two well-educated, presumably liberal, intelligent people in our culture who are arguing with each other about some point. What, out of irritation and disgust, is one likely to call the other? A "filthy black," a "dirty Jew bastard," or a "black-eyed runt"? Heavens, no. But a "stupid idiot," a "nincompoop," a "misinformed numbskull"? By all means, yes. And will the note of venom, of utter despisement that is in the detractor's voice, be any different from that in the voice of the out-and-out fascist with his racial, religious, and political epithets? Honestly, now: will it? Suppose the individual against whom a well-educated, presumably liberal, intelligent person aims scorn actually is stupid, or misinformed. Is this a crime? Should he, perforce, curl up and die because he is so afflicted? Is she an utterly worthless, valueless blackguard for not possessing the degree of intelligence and knowledge that her detractor thinks she should possess? And yet - let us be ruthlessly honest with ourselves, now! - isn't this exactly what the presumably liberal person is saying and implying - that the individual whose traits she dislikes doesn't deserve to live? Isn't this what we (for it is not hard to recognize our own image here, is it?) frequently are alleging when we argue with, criticize, and judge others in our everyday living? The facts, in regard to higher-order fascism, are just as clear as those in regard to lower-order prejudice. For just as everyone in our society cannot be, except through the process of arbitrary genocide or "eugenic" elimination, Aryan, or tall, or white, so cannot everyone be bright, or artistically talented, or successful in some profession. In fact, even if we deliberately bred only higher intelligent and artistically endowed individuals to each other, and forced the rest of the human race to die off, we still would be far from obtaining a race of universal achievers: since, by definition, topflight achievement can only be attained by a relatively few leaders in most fields of endeavour, and is a "relative" rather than an "absolute" possibility. The implicit goals of intellectual fascism, then, are, at least in today's world, impractical and utopian. Everyone cannot be endowed with artistic or intellectual genius; only a small minority can be. And if we demand that all be in that minority, to what are we automatically condemning those who clearly cannot be? Obviously: to being blamed and despised for their "deficiencies"; to being lower-class citizens; to having self-hatred and minimal self-acceptance. Even this, however, hardly plumbs the inherent viciousness of intellectual fascism. For whereas lower-order or politico-economic fascism at least serves as a form of neurotic defensiveness for those who uphold its tenets, higher-order fascism fails to provide such defences and actually destroys them. Thus, politico-social fascists believe that others are to be despised for not having certain "desirable" traits - but that they are not to be applauded for having them. From a psychological standpoint, they compensate for their own underlying feelings of inadequacy by insisting that they are super-adequate and those who are not like them are subhumans. Intellectual Fascists start out with a similar assumption but more often than not get blown to bits by their own homemade explosives. For although they can at first assume that they are bright, talented, and potentially achieving, they must eventually prove that they are. Because, in the last analysis, they tend to define talent and intelligence in terms of concrete achievement, and because outstanding achievement in our society is mathematically restricted to a few, they rarely can have real confidence in their own possession of the values they have "arbitrarily deified".

Let me help with the buttons.” Falco set his glass down on the wooden stool. Before Cass could protest, he was behind her, his fingertips on the small of her back. Cass felt a pearl come loose. She whirled around, sloshing a bit of wine out of her glass as she slapped his hand. “You undid one,” she accused. Falco laughed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” He reached for her but she leaned away. “Come on, I promise I’ll behave.” “Why should I trust you?” Falco moved to Cass’s back again and began sliding each pearl through its loop. He leaned in close so that the side of his face brushed against her neck. “Because you want to.” The wineglass trembled in Cass’s hand. She tightened her grip and took another drink. Every time Falco touched her, it got a little harder to breathe. She wasn’t sure if it was the outfit, or being so close to him. She sipped from her glass nervously. It was empty by the time he reached the last button. Falco slid the glass from her fingertips. “I’ll refill this, and then we’ll get you positioned.” “Positioned?” Cass fumbled over the word. Falco pulled her over to the divan, then left her standing beside it as he strode across the room to a tall armoire hidden in a shadowy corner. “I’m going to paint you, of course.” “Paint me?” “Are you going to repeat everything I say?

I’ll refill this, and then we’ll get you positioned.” “Positioned?” Cass fumbled over the word. Falco pulled her over to the divan, then left her standing beside it as he strode across the room to a tall armoire hidden in a shadowy corner. “I’m going to paint you, of course.” “Paint me?” “Are you going to repeat everything I say?

I’ll refill this, and then we’ll get you positioned.” “Positioned?” Cass fumbled over the word. Falco pulled her over to the divan, then left her standing beside it as he strode across the room to a tall armoire hidden in a shadowy corner. “I’m going to paint you, of course.” “Paint me?” “Are you going to repeat everything I say?” He returned to her and placed a full glass of cloudy brown liquid in her hand. “Sorry. That was the last of the wine. All I’ve got left is Tommaso’s special brew.” Cass made a face, but accepted the glass. “I’d like to see some of your paintings,” she said, in an attempt to stall. Part of her had been hoping that Falco would want her to sit for him ever since she met him, but now that it was happening, she felt horribly self-conscious. Falco smiled. “You want to see if I’m any good before you become my latest victim?” “No, I just--” “I’m joking.

As the gondola cut between the Giudecca and San Giorgio Maggiore, wind whistled through the slats of the felze, stinging Cass’s eyes and skin. She wasn’t cold, though. She might never be cold again. Touching her lips, she replayed Falco’s kiss in her head, one delicious second at a time. His lips hovering near her face before coming to rest on her cheekbone. The indecision, the terror that gripped her heart as she decided whether to give in. The way she had every reason to turn away and only one reason to turn toward him--because she wanted to, almost more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. What would have happened if they hadn’t been interrupted by the other artists? She reclined against the back of the felze, trying to imagine Falco’s weight on top of her, his mouth finding her neck, making its way down to her bare shoulder while she ran her fingers through his messy brown hair. She had no idea if it was all right for a woman to touch a man or if she was just supposed to let him touch her. She knew what Falco would say: Forget about what’s appropriate. Do what feels right. Cass closed her eyes. Kissing him had felt right. So right. But it shouldn’t happen again. Couldn’t.

Signorina Cass!” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “Your aunt returned early from Abano and has been asking for you all morning. I didn’t know what to tell her, so I said you had gone for a walk along the shore.” Siena paced back and forth next to the long countertop. “Of course she was furious at me for letting you go anywhere alone. I was afraid she was going to send me away, so I told her you insisted.” Agnese was back? This was bad. Very bad. Cass unclenched Siena’s hands, squeezing one of them gently. “It’s okay, Siena. I’ll handle my aunt.” She didn’t know exactly how she was going to accomplish this, but it felt like the right thing to say.

What is Signor Dubois doing here?” Siena shrugged. “Personal business with your aunt, I imagine.” She lifted her chin daintily. “I am not privy to Signora Querini’s affairs.” Cass elbowed Siena in the ribs. “I am not privy to Signora Querini’s affairs,” she mimicked. “Come on, Siena. I know those ears hear everything.” Siena dropped her glance to the floor and Cass immediately felt guilty. She hadn’t meant to imply that the girl’s ears were too big, only that the servants always seemed to be hovering just out of sight. Siena put the silver hairbrush back on the dressing table and picked up a hair ornament carved from sea coral and adorned with pearls. She began to twist Cass’s hair into a tight bun. “If I heard anything, it was purely accidental,” she said, shooting Cass’s reflection a warning look. “And only as a result of the normal course of my duties.” Cass winked at Siena in the mirror, amazed at the sleek topknot the girl had created. “Fine. What did you accidentally hear while you were responsibly completing your duties?” Siena pinned the pearl ornament around Cass’s hair and pursed her lips. She liberated a couple of strands from the bun and nodded as they curled naturally around Cass’s face. “I may have heard Dubois say he saw you in unsavory company at his masquerade ball last evening.

If it were up to me, I would have waited a year or more to even think about any planning. I wish I could postpone the wedding indefinitely. I just don’t feel ready. Sometimes I wish…” Cass hesitated. She decided that Signor Sesti, as a tailor for both nobles and wealthy courtesans, was no stranger to gossip. Chances were that nothing she could say would make the old man’s stoic face so much as twitch. “What?” Mada prompted her. “I wish I were a man,” Cass burst out. “Or a courtesan, even. At least then I’d have some control over my own life.” “A courtesan?” Mada’s voice sharpened to a screech. “You must be joking. They’re no better than common whores. Today I passed the Rialto Bridge only to see some courtesan’s stays dangling from a mooring post. I can only imagine how they got there.” Cass turned bright red. She had assumed her stays had ended up in the canal, not looped around a post for the whole world to see.

Your drawing!” Her lantern fell to the ground, the candle flame blowing out as she ran after the flying parchment and tackled it. “So fierce,” Falco murmured, holding out a hand to help Cass to her feet. “I’m beginning to enjoy picking you up off the ground.” Cass looked down at the paper in her hand, which had unrolled during its journey across the grass. The moonlight illuminated what he had drawn: a gorgeous reproduction of the gravestone with the doves on top. Cass flipped the parchment over. On the other side, Falco had sketched the rough outline of a woman’s body. Cass’s breath caught; she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the figure. She marveled at the sharpness of the knees and elbows, at the soft roundness of the figure’s breasts. The face was still a heart-shaped blank, but the hair looked familiar: it fell in thick, lustrous waves like Cass’s own. Falco laughed, leaning in close to Cass. “It almost looks like you’re blushing. Why? It’s not like you’ve never seen a woman’s body before.” “You’ve obviously seen more than I have,” Cass said sharply. Her fingers trembled as she handed the parchment back to Falco, trying to look everywhere but at the drawing, wishing he hadn’t seen her staring at it. Who is she? She wanted to ask, but the words held fast to her lips. “If I have, it’s a shame.” Even in the dark, his eyes were flashing. “If I had your body, I’d stare at it for hours. Days, maybe.” Cass sucked in a sharp breath. “You can’t just say things like that. It’s not, it’s not--” “Proper?” Falco finished. “Perhaps. I didn’t mean it to be offensive. A woman’s body is a beautiful thing.” He took ahold of Cass’s hand and twisted it from side to side, opening and closing her fingers. “The human form, it’s a symphony. Tiny interlocking movements that join together in song.” He slid his hands down over her knuckles until he was gripping the very tips of her fingers. “You play a more delicate tune than I do. Have you never noticed?

Mariabella is divine,” Maximus said, leaning in toward Cass. “Beautiful and talented. She used to assist me in my act from time to time. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was the beauty your brother fell in love with.” “What did--does--she look like?” Cass asked. Maximus pulled a rose out of thin air. “She has silky dark hair and the most delicious set of lips.” He reached out his index finger as though to touch Cass’s lips and then seemed to think better of it. “You resemble her, in a way. Except you don’t have her birthmark.” He traced the shape of a heart in the air. Cass’s blood accelerated in her veins. A heart-shaped birthmark. It had to be the same girl. Mariabella. A maid missing from Joseph Dubois’s estate, and now a dead courtesan, one of his chosen companions. Could it possibly be a coincidence? Emotions churned together in her stomach--excitement and wonder and fear. And more excitement. She leaned in to give the conjurer an impulsive peck on the cheek. The conjurer pressed the rose into her palm. “I think your master is watching us.” Cass glanced up and saw Falco staring at her--no, at them--from the doorway of the portego. Cass hadn’t even heard the front doors open. “I see you’ve met my beautiful signorina,” Falco said, nodding to the conjurer as he snaked his fingers around one of Cass’s small wrists. The conjurer winked at Cass. “Indeed. There’s something magical about her, wouldn’t you say?” “You’ve no idea,” Falco said. He pulled her across the room, out of the conjurer’s earshot. “Is it safe to leave you alone for a few minutes while I go speak to the owner of the house?” “No need,” Cass said. She couldn’t help but smile triumphantly. “I’ve not only learned the name of the dead girl, but I also know where she lives.” Falco arched an eyebrow. “All that, and you still found the time to bat your eyelashes at some traveling con man? That is impressive.” “I wasn’t batting anything,” Cass said. “I was appreciating his performance. Come on. I’ll fill you in on the way to her place.” As the two passed the conjurer, Falco’s grip on her was so tight, she was afraid he was going to leave a bruise. “Good-bye, Maximus,” she called behind her. “Thank you for the magic.

The gondola slowed to a stop and Falco tied up the boat directly beneath the bridge. The stone structure blocked out the light and the wind, making Cass feel as if she and Falco were alone in a warm, dark room. “Here,” he said, pulling a flask from his cloak pocket. “Celebratory libations.” “What are we celebrating?” she asked. “We set out to discover the dead girl’s identity,” Falco said. “And we did.” He pressed the slick metal container into Cass’s palm. “I say that’s progress.” Cass sniffed the flash warily. The liquid within smelled sharp and sour, almost chemical. “What is it?” she asked. “Some witches’ brew I found in my master’s studio. Go on, try it.” He winked. “Unless you’re afraid.” Cass put her lips to the flask and tipped it up just enough to let a tiny sip of liquid make its way into her mouth. She held her breath to keep from gagging. Whatever it was, it tasted awful, nothing like the tart sweetness of the burgundy wine to which she was accustomed. Falco took the flask back and shook it in his hand as if he were weighing it. “You didn’t even take a drink, did you?” “I did so.” Falco shook the container again. “I don’t believe you.” Cass leaned in toward him and blew gently in his face. “See? You can smell that ghastly poison on my breath.” Falco sniffed the air. “All I smell is canal water, and a hint of flowers, probably from whatever soap you use on your hair.” He put his face very close to Cass’s, reached out, and tilted her chin toward him. “Try again.” Her lips were mere inches from his. Cass struggled to exhale. Her chest tightened as the air trickled out of her body. She noticed a V-shaped scar beneath Falco’s right eye. She was seized by an irrational urge to touch her lips to the small imperfection. “What about now?” she asked. Falco brushed a spiral of hair from her freckled cheek and touched his forehead to hers. “One more time?” He closed his eyes. He reached up with one of his hands and cradled the back of her head, pulling her toward him.

You didn’t even take a drink, did you?” “I did so.” Falco shook the container again. “I don’t believe you.” Cass leaned in toward him and blew gently in his face. “See? You can smell that ghastly poison on my breath.” Falco sniffed the air. “All I smell is canal water, and a hint of flowers, probably from whatever soap you use on your hair.” He put his face very close to Cass’s, reached out, and tilted her chin toward him. “Try again.” Her lips were mere inches from his. Cass struggled to exhale. Her chest tightened as the air trickled out of her body. She noticed a V-shaped scar beneath Falco’s right eye. She was seized by an irrational urge to touch her lips to the small imperfection. “What about now?” she asked. Falco brushed a spiral of hair from her freckled cheek and touched his forehead to hers. “One more time?” He closed his eyes. He reached up with one of his hands and cradled the back of her head, pulling her toward him. He was going to kiss her. She was going to let him. Falco’s face blurred in the darkness as he closed the distance between them. And then…it wasn’t Falco she was about to kiss. It was Luca. She lunged backward in her seat, causing the gondola to lurch to one side. Falco’s eyes snapped open. “What happened?” Cass had no idea what to say. “I--I thought I saw something,” she stammered out. Falco glanced around, as if reaffirming that it would be impossible to see anything in the blackness under the bridge. “A vampire?” His voice was thick with sarcasm.

Have you heard anything about the murder?” she asked Luca. “Dreadful, that poor maid floating up in the canal.” Luca had the crumbling dessert halfway to his lips. He placed it neatly back on his plate and rubbed both hands on his napkin. His whole body seemed to tense up. Cass set her fork down. She stared at Luca as she waited for him to speak. “I have actually heard rumors,” he said slowly. “There was some gossip in the city about it. There is talk of a gang roving the cemeteries at night…” The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Agnese finished the second half of her pastry and chased it with a big swallow of wine. “Satanists, if you ask me,” Luca added. Agnese bobbed her head in agreement. “The girl was strangled and then cut up like a chicken, they say. I’m not even sure San Domenico is safe anymore.” “I don’t see why everyone is suddenly so concerned,” Cass said. Even to her own ears her voice sounded strained. “Venice has always had more than her share of murders.” “Drunken brawls and knife fights,” Luca said. He stared back at her. Was it her imagination, or did she see a challenge in his eyes? “But not murders of this kind. And of innocent women.” Cass’s throat felt as though she had swallowed a chicken bone. “Why so interested, Luca? Don’t you have other, more important duties to which you should attend?” She downed half a glass of wine in one swallow. Her mind flooded with terrible thoughts. Did Luca somehow know about Falco? Had he been spying on her?

A numbness in her arm roused her from sleep. She tried to shake it to get the blood flowing, but it was trapped under something heavy. She yanked hard and her arm pulled free. Falco groaned. Falco! Cass sat up on the divan. Falco pulled the coverlet over his eyes to block out the light. The sun was streaming through a high window she hadn’t noticed the night before. She bounded off the divan and almost landed on the floor. Mannaggia. Why did her head feel like it had been used as a battering ram? “What time is it?” she hissed. “Judging from the oppressive amount of light, I’d say late morning,” Falco mumbled, burying his face in a pillow. Cass rushed behind the wooden dressing screen and tugged at the neck of the model’s costume she had fallen asleep in. “Why didn’t you wake me?” she asked. She was shaking too hard to undo all of the tiny buttons. She gave the garment a hard yank, and a handful of pearl buttons hit the floor of the studio. She wriggled the costume down over her hips. “Probably because I was also asleep,” Falco answered, his voice still heavy with fatigue. Cass grabbed her clothes, slipping her cotton chemise over her head. She skipped her stays altogether, because the only way she was going to get those cinched properly was with help, and she wasn’t about to ask Falco. “You slept next to me all night?” She couldn’t keep the accusing tone out of her voice. “Yes. Is that a problem?” Falco asked. Cass didn't answer.

What time is it?” she hissed. “Judging from the oppressive amount of light, I’d say late morning,” Falco mumbled, burying his face in a pillow.