Shirts and jeans litter the asphalt, the empty fabric limbs askew as if they're attempting to escape. Blood smears Sarah's lips as she struggles against the chest of a dirty looking man with a beard. Terror. Terror is the only word my mind can seize on and it forgets what it means. I forget how to think - to move.

I was crying for the little girl I had been, who had withstood terrifying nightmares of death and blood and war and maiming. And when I had tried to share those horrors, the shock on my friends' faces had told me I was not normal, and I should keep my dreams to myself.

Damn you__e got an irresistible mouth. You should hold it against me more often._ ~Luke, Kissing the Maid of Honor

When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.

I don't want you to go back to Miami already." "You don't? You could have your house all to yourself." Her voice was whisper soft. "I don't want my house all to myself. I like you in it. I like watching the yoga." "You could get cable. They have lots of yoga shows on cable." He moved a little closer, and she stretched her legs out in front of her. "It would be quite the same as watching it live," he said.

Jez had gone from an evil twin to a sweet, even angelic, girl, all in less than a minute.