“I carried my pint to a corner table and sat just looking at it for a moment: the head of foam, the tiny bubbles ascending through clear gold, the droplets condensing on the sides of the glass, then running down to form a wet circle on the beer mat. Reputations are ruined, marriages destroyed, lifes works forsaken for the beauty of such a sight. There are seven thousand pubs in London.”

“Some seek the comfort of their therapist's office, other head to the corner pub and dive into a pint, but I chose running as my therapy.”

“At the pub my dad was waiting for me, a black-as-night beer and his open laptop on the table in front of him. I sat down and swiped his beer before he'd had the chance to even look up from typing. 'Oh, my sweet lord,' I sputtered, chocking down a mouthful, 'what is this? Fermented motor oil?''Just about,' he said, laughing.”

“Running beer gathers no foam.”

“All the pent up, helpless rage formed a wrecking ball inside of me. Maintaining human form was near impossible. I wanted to hit something—destroy something. I needed to.“Daemon, no one—”“Shut up,” I said, turning to where Matthew sat in the corner of the room. Right this moment I wanted to destroy him. “Just shut the hell up.”

“David put his pint glass down like it was poison. The clear amber beauty stared back at him with Again on its mind. She was already in his blood, swimming in his veins.”