Samhain Publishing Ltd, Ebooks and Books in Print

Beginnings: The Last Prophecy by Jennie Andrus

By the time the plane landed in St. John’s, my eyes were gritty and sore. At some point I must have fallen asleep, because there was a crusty kind of feeling on my cheek where I’d drooled on myself.

Despite all that, I felt great. It’s an unbelievable feeling to know you can walk somewhere without feeling you’re about to get a knife in the back.

With a bounce in my step I found the car rental kiosk and flirted with the gray-haired man behind the counter. After signing away most of the remaining credit on my Visa, I bought a map and a bag of necessities (chips, pop and a paperback novel) and headed out to pick up my vehicle.

Cool fall air blew around me when I stepped out the doors into the night. I drew in a deep breath and imagined I could taste the tang of the sea over the airport smells of oil and tarmac. The blue, knee-length sweater I wore billowed in the breeze. I stood there just outside the door, simply breathing, for a good ten minutes.

It wasn’t until I was in the dimly lit parkade that I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I stopped, spun around and saw nothing but the shadows cast by parked sedans and minivans.

“You’re being stupid,” I whispered to myself. There was no way he could have followed me here. I hadn’t told anyone where I was going, mostly because there wasn’t anyone to tell. My parents had died in a car crash two years ago. All the friends I’d had at the hospital were the kind of friends you talked to at work, but didn’t invite out for drinks after shift. Hell, I doubted any of them even noticed I’d quit two weeks ago. Being a trauma nurse didn’t offer much time to contemplate the whereabouts of your co-workers.

Still the feeling would not go away. My skin itched. Probably a janitor, I told myself, and forced my legs to keep moving.

I found my car, a putrid green hatchback that made me question the wisdom of asking for the cheapest car on the lot. With a wince I unlocked the door and threw my lumpy backpack into the backseat. Green was so not my color.

The airport was about ten kilometers from St. John’s, but I wasn’t heading into the city anyway. The cottage was in a small town on the southern coast, about an hour and a half away. Actually it wasn’t a cottage at all, in the way we think of them in Ontario. It wasn’t on a lake, or any waterfront for that matter, just a small house with a view of the ocean (if you squinted through the trees while standing on the roof) that my parents had bought because real estate was so cheap there.

Two weeks of restless sleep, followed by a late flight, didn’t exactly make me into the most competent of drivers. After forty-five minutes, I’d hit the shoulder about ten times and spilled half my pop in my lap. I was crashing, long past the point where a cup of coffee would help—even if there were any Tim Horton’s out in the middle of nowhere. The car didn’t come equipped with a radio of course, so I made do by sticking my head out the window like a golden retriever.

By the time I hit the outskirts of Dildo, I was holding one eye open with my left hand and driving with my right. Even snickering about the name of my destination wasn’t helping me stay awake, which is really saying something. I know it’s immature of me. Dildos are the pegs used to brace oars to a dory for rowing, but I was too tired to be thinking like an adult.

Maddy would be giggling right now. She’d always thought it was cool that we had a cottage here, and she told everybody all about it every chance she got. The only thing that kept our vacations here from falling into the realms of hell was that we were never here long enough for people to realize what a screwed up family we were.

As my eyes started to blur with exhaustion, I made a pact with whichever deity would listen—let me survive until November first and I’d never make another crack about Dildo again.

And that was when the moose stepped onto the highway.

“Son of a—” I swerved the car, aiming for the ditch. It would be just my luck to kill the damned moose that I was supposed to accept if I wanted to live. I’m pretty sure I was still giggling about how absurd that thought was, when I hit the tree and slipped into unconsciousness.

Ritual Love by Kate Davies

Her jaw dropped. “What?”

“Samhain,” he said.

“What about it?”

“‘Tis the time when the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead is lifted. And if the dead can walk among the living, why could a living soul not travel across time, as well?” He shoved a hand through his hair. “It explains much. Yer strange clothing, yer words, yer mannerisms.”

“Setting aside the fact that I could say the same thing about you, it’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“Time travel doesn’t exist.”

“Are ye so blinded to the world beyond yer ken, ye canna consider the possibility?”

“Of course I canna—can’t—consider it. I’m a scientist, for God’s sake!”

“And what would that be?”

Moira blew out a frustrated breath. “Someone who believes in facts and reality, who researches and predicts and accepts the natural world as it is, not someone who indulges in fantasy or wishful thinking.”

“And ye know all of the world as it is?”

“No, but…”

He raised an eyebrow. “Can ye devise another explanation?”

“Well, no, but…”

“But ye are unwilling to consider this explanation, at least for tonight.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine. Explain it.”

“Gladly.” Aedan stretched his legs out in front of him. “First, ye are right ignorant of life today.” He lifted a hand. “Not to say ye are a fool, just—unschooled.”

Unschooled? After two advanced degrees?

“Ye know naught about Columba, nor the struggle between his people and ours. Ye talk of things I know nothing about. Ye believe me to be something I am not, and I know naught of what you are.”

“How do I know you aren’t just pretending?”

He leaned toward her until their faces were mere inches apart. “I dinna lie, and I dinna pretend. Can you say the same?”

“Of course!”

His expression darkened. “Then I dinna understand why ye keep denying the truth, and yet call me the liar.”

She glared at him. “Okay, not a liar, but not grounded in reality, either.”

“Reality.” He snorted. “Ye deny reality.”

“I deny reality? You think I’ve traveled fifteen centuries back in time!”

“And why could this not happen?”

“Because the only way that it could happen is magic, and magic doesn’t exist!”

He regarded her with something uncomfortably close to pity. “It must be a sad, empty time ye live in.”

She opened her mouth, but clamped it shut again. How could she argue with him when she’d come to Iona because of that very reason? Once Gran was gone from her life, the magic had disappeared, too.

It didn’t mean she believed his fairy-tale explanation for what had happened tonight. But he was right.

Her life was sad. And empty. But she couldn’t bring herself to tell him so.

Instead, she closed her eyes. At least she didn’t have to look at his too-perceptive, too-attractive face.

Why did he have to be so gorgeous, when he’d obviously been dropped on his head as a child?

Because face it, the man was about as close to perfection as she’d ever seen. She squinted one eye open, inspecting him surreptitiously in the dimness of the cave. His light brown hair was just past shoulder-length, tied back with a leather thong at the base of his neck. Rich brown eyes, the color of bittersweet chocolate, gazed out at the darkness beyond the cave. A fierce strength suffused his face, reminding her of a bird of prey.

The rest of him was just as impressive. A bronze torc circled his neck. Broad, strong shoulders strained against the rough woolen cape fastened across his chest. Underneath, he wore a tunic of the same indeterminate color over leggings that hugged his powerful thighs.

“And do ye like what ye see?”

Her gaze flew upwards in time to see the smug look on his face. “I wasn’t…” But of course, she had been, so she just clamped her mouth shut and glared at him.

In response, he laughed softly and settled back against the wall of the cave opposite her, his long, muscular legs pressing against hers. Moira tried to shift, but in the cramped confines of the cave she didn’t have anywhere to move. Instead, the friction of their legs rubbing against each other sent an unwelcome shock of sexual awareness through her.

No, dammit. She did not want this man.

Well, she didn’t want to want him, anyway.

“We have many hours until the dawning,” he said. “Ye may sleep if ye wish.”

Yeah, right. The last thing she wanted to do was fall asleep with a man who’d kidnapped her. “I’m fine.”

He shook his head. “Ye are a stubborn one, aren’t ye?”

“Me?” She threw up her hands, which she’d forgotten were tied together until they smacked her in the forehead. Swearing, she let them drop back into her lap.

Immediately, Aedan was up and at her side. “Are ye hurt, lass?” He ran his fingertips over her forehead, searching for a bruise or lump. “That was quite a wallop.”

“Stop,” she insisted, but it came out as more of a plea than a command. The breathless quality of her voice made her blush.

His hand stilled, and he looked into her eyes. She could see his Adam’s apple bob. “If it is what you wish,” he said, withdrawing his hand slowly.

As soon as his touch was gone, Moira was struck with a pang of regret.

Maybe she was the one who had been dropped on the head as a child.

Beginnings: Babe in the Woods by Lorelei James

Lacy Buchanan fantasized about leaving a size ten boot print on his ass. A very fine ass that’d commanded far too much of her attention already.

The tight male butt stopped. The equally fine masculine body faced her. Brown eyes snapped with barely restrained hostility.

“Would you hurry up?” The guide waited impatiently by a decaying log, wiping away the sweat beaded on his forehead with a dirty red bandana. The compass on a chain around his neck glinted in the harsh sunlight. “We’ll never make camp before nightfall at this rate. God, what are you? Part tortoise?”

“Better that than part caveman,” she retorted, throwing her Day-Glo orange backpack to the rocky ground. It kicked up clouds of dust. She coughed and flopped down beside it. Something inside it made a horrible crunching sound.

Lacy could care less what survival item she destroyed because her feet were killing her—not that she’d ever mention it to the sullen hiking guide she’d dubbed Ranger Rick. Except after marching the last two hours in near-desert heat, she’d secretly added a silent “P” to his name. Not even her secret attempt at humor lessened her irritation with the man whose facial expressions registered exactly two emotions—anger and frustration.

“Just go on. I’ll catch up.”

His left eyebrow winged up. “You’d rather I left you out here to wander the woods alone?”

“Yep. I’ve got water and an excellent moisturizer. Just give me your compass and I’ll be set.”

A new expression lit his eyes. Disbelief. “Where is your compass?”

She was so hoping not to have to confess that little mishap to this rugged outdoorsman with the instincts of a wolf and the disposition of a bear. “Umm.” She absentmindedly fingered her charm bracelet. Damn thing was supposed to bring her good luck, not bad. “It’s kind of funny actually.”

His gaze narrowed. He didn’t look the least bit amused.

“Okay. It fell out of my pocket and sank to the bottom of the creek when we filled our canteens.”

“And you’re telling me now? What makes you think you’d survive out here?” He expelled a harsh bark of laughter. “Cupcake, you’d last about ten seconds before screaming your head off for me to come back and rescue you.”

Cupcake? Lacy ground her teeth. So she wasn’t Campfire Girl material, but she wasn’t helpless either. For godssake, she worked in the jungle of Manhattan. She’d spent years honing her survival instincts.

“Rescue me? I wouldn’t call for you with my last breath.”

The first hint of a smile played at the corners of his sinful mouth. “Careful, that can be arranged.”

Ooh, his testosterone-laden behavior rankled.

“But, if we don’t get going,” he continued, “we may be forced to rely on survival techniques that’ll offend your delicate sensibilities.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He scratched the sexy stubble on his chin. “Eating squirrel or grub worms.” His gaze locked on hers. “Conserving our strength tonight by sharing body heat.”

Lacy knew he was bluffing, yet something warm and liquid pooled low in her belly. “In your dreams, Grizzly Adams. Not if you were the last man on earth.”

“Back at you. But at this pace, the human race might be extinct by the time we reach base camp.”

She tossed her head, reaching in the pocket of her cargo shorts for a tube of cherry Chapstick. “Please. Could we hurry back so I can choke down another meal of the prepackaged cardboard you psychos are passing off as food?”

His avid gaze remained glued to her mouth as she spread the waxy substance over her cracked skin.

She puckered and compressed her lips before releasing them with a loud smack. “This is not what I expected.”

He inhaled deeply and muttered, “Don’t ask. You don’t even want to know.”

“Want to know what?”

“What exactly were you expecting?”

“A nightly campfire with cowboy sing-alongs. Horseback riding through flower-filled meadows. A grumpy old man everyone affectionately called ‘Cookie’ scrounging up a kettle of baked beans. The only ones eating well on this trip are the mosquitoes.”

“Spare me the drama. This is backwoods hiking.”

“Well, I didn’t know that.”

“It was spelled out on the damn brochure. How did a woman like you end up here anyway?” A beat passed. His slow, knowing grin was worse than his disdain. “Aha. I get it now. Was this adventure your boyfriend’s idea?”

“Ex-boyfriend,” she spit out.

Beginnings: A Touch of Magic by Cassandra Kane

Orson’s soldiers thundered past, manic grins fixed to their faces as they fired indiscriminately at the crowd. Tirana felt someone’s hand on her neck, shoving her to the ground, a body throwing itself over hers. She nose-dived, felt the scrape of grass against her cheek, the smell of damp soil pressed against her nostrils. Screaming and shouts reverberated around her, punctuated by sharp volleys of gunfire.

“Get off me!” She fought against the dead weight forcing her down, managed to jab her elbow into his ribs. The body slid off her. She pushed herself away, struggled to her knees and pulled the stunner from her holster, turning to protect herself.

Thurley lay sprawled facedown on the ground beside her. Laser fire had blasted a gaping hole in his back, his flesh blackened beneath the edges of his singed jacket. He was dead, taking the shot obviously meant for her.

The hot sting of fury wiped out the shock of horror. She rose and pushed through the frightened crowd running to escape the battle being fought on the far side of the hill. The bonfire had toppled beneath the weight of two robed men lying across its scattered centre. Loose embers fluttered into the sky from the trail of fire spreading over the hill.

“Orson!” Tirana strode towards the knot of soldiers herding the crowd. It was difficult to see more than the circling shadows of their uniforms, the points of their rifles. A scatter of bodies littered the area.

Someone slammed into her, screamed. Tirana stumbled, gripped her stunner firmly. She heard the sobbing of women, the cry of children. Children!

Damn Special Forces. Damn Orson. She would make him pay for this outrage.

Orson was standing on the exact same spot where only minutes before the man in the necklace had stood. In the flash of lightning, she saw a smug smile settle over his countenance as he watched his soldiers rounding up the crowd. Half a dozen of the robed men knelt before him, the soldiers’ weapons digging into their backs. Their hoods had been yanked back to reveal spider-like tattoos engraved on their bald heads.

“Orson!” Tirana raised her stunner.

Orson turned and saw her. A nasty smirk spread over his face.

A blazing heap of embers obscured her view, making a sure shot difficult. She stepped closer and flicked her stunner to its highest setting.

“I wouldn’t try that,” Orson called, raising his voice to be heard over the space separating them and the sobs from the crowd. “You’re outnumbered, Captain. I suggest you stand down.”

“You’ll be court-martialed for this.” Tirana aimed at him through the shimmer of heat. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Orson laughed in derision. “Who do you think authorized this?”

No. Oh, no. She stared at him in horror.

“You think they’d give something like this to you without a reason?” His voice rose in scorn. “You were in way over your pretty head from the start, Tirana.”

Her shoulders jerked when he said her name. There was menace and rage in his voice, a desire to hurt. And in his eyes the lust to control, to make her submit, to destroy her.

“Come here, bitch.” Orson’s mouth thinned into a vicious twist. He lifted his laser rifle, aimed it, and took a step towards her.

Standing in the open was suicide, her stunner no match for a rifle. She wheeled and ran, stumbling over the bodies strewn in her path as Orson shouted her name. Laser fire sizzled past her ear. Up ahead, she saw Thurley’s body beside the menhir. Beyond the standing stone lay the bare hill, where Orson would get a clear shot if she ran. She’d have to make her stand there.

She ran to it and jumped over Thurley’s body. Someone caught her arm as she landed and dragged her behind the menhir. She smacked up against the solid chest of the man standing there. He gripped the top of her arms and held her still against his hard body.

Tirana gazed up into blazing green eyes. A shock of recognition shivered through her body. The man with the necklace stared at her, his beautiful face austere in the shadows of the tall stone, his mouth set in grim determination.

“Come with me.”

She heard the low authoritative growl of his voice and shook her head, twisted out of his grip. Something screeched. The gargoyle jumped from foot to foot at her feet, his tiny, leathery hands pulling at the edge of her trousers.

Shock had her stepping back involuntarily, out into the line of fire. Something sizzled, slapped into her arm. There was a moment of excruciating pain before everything went black.

Beginnings: A Warrior’s Witch by Mackenzie McKade

Sabine’s magic had gone amok.

Twice she attempted to transform Lachlan into a frog as he chased her out of the keep’s front entrance. Each time her spells fizzled and rebounded to change her voice into hoarse croaks. She had to get away from him, had to feel the forest beneath her feet.

Only by a stroke of luck did she escape the beast trailing her when he stopped to speak with a man who looked at her appraisingly.

“This canna be happenin’.” She trudged through the dimly lit forest using Beserka sight to lead her way. The night wind whispered through the trees, tugging at her kirtle. She glanced at the cloudy sky looking for the answer.

Sabine felt like a forsaken child, instead of the woman she was. And where was her aplomb? The man confused her on so many levels. Her body screamed to be near him. Yet she feared leaving the safety of her family.

Frantically, she tore her chemise and kirtle over her head and tossed them aside. The beast within her rose to the surface, sending a tingling sensation across her skin as her body began to shimmer. Heat waves rose as every muscle clenched and shifted, rolling across her body until a leopard, black as the night, stood in her once human footsteps.

She raised her head to the heavens, releasing a sorrowful mewl. Then she began to run, fast and furious, away from the castle—away from her destiny.

Light raindrops fell as she bounded over fallen logs and large boulders in her way. She ran fast and far, until her lungs burned, felt as if they would explode. Then she slowed. Panting, she gulped breaths of air to quell the ache in her chest. When the beat of her heart was almost normal, she stretched, and laid her lithe form upon the ground. Soft, non-aggressive puffing sounds came from her nostrils as she called her friends to her side.

From a copse of trees emerged a reddish-brown fox. He sniffed the air. Reynard had been one of the first animals she befriended as a child. Beneath a bramble a rabbit appeared. Kasha’s long ears twitched as she hopped closer.

From high in the treetops, a gray squirrel jumped from one branch to another, until he perched on the limb above where Sabine lay. She mewed, urging the skittish animal from its sanctuary. Rubus’s encounters with humans and animals alike had left him untrusting, but not so with Sabine. As he crawled closer, Sabine began to purr. Among her friends, she was content.

For a moment in time, all was well. At the rustling of a bush, her friends each startled and began fleeing in opposite directions. Sabine jumped to her feet, crouching low to discover the largest wolf she had ever seen staring at her. He held her chemise, kirtle and a pair of breeches in his jaws.

Devil take the man.

Slowly the change rippled across his body. What was once golden fur was now tanned flesh stretched taut over firm muscle. He was magnificent from his clear-blue eyes, broad shoulders, taut abdomen, to—

Saints perserve! The man was endowed.

“’Tis time, Sabine.” He held his hand to her.

She crouched lower. Her tail jerked with agitation, then it beat the ground as her top lip rose in a snarl.

He answered her defiance with a low, ominous sound that rumbled up from his chest. As he began to slip his leggings on, he said, “Change now or I will haul that bonnie arse of yers over my shoulder.”

How dare he speak to her in such a way? She barely held her temper as she released her beast’s hold, allowing the change to whisper across her body.

She refused to allow Lachlan to dominate her. With a proud stance, she raised her chin. That was until his cock jerked alive, lengthening. She gasped, hastily making tracks to gather her chemise and kirtle and quickly dressed.

“I dinna wish tae wed.” Her voice trembled.

A shadow raced across his face as he fastened his breeches. Had her words hurt him? She thought differently when his features hardened. “’Tis done. Come.” He pushed by her, and then headed for the castle.

Anger surfaced hot and fast. Impulsively, she shoved her hands in front of her. “Rat!”

Nothing happened as she watched his muscled back draw further away from her. Once again, her magic failed. Instead, her nose began to twitch. When whiskers began to appear on her face, she released a high-pitched cry.

Beginnings: Night Music by Charlene Teglia

Rom felt the first stirrings of the night with some imperceptible circadian measure. A hint of darkness on the breeze. A smoky flavor of yearning that woke in his blood, sharpening his senses, rousing him.

Night. It moved over and around him, whispering, inciting. He lay quietly and savored it.

The early night hours had a song all their own. A song that drew restless crowds, searching for some nameless fulfillment of an unknown desire, to prowl through night streets and clubs, losing themselves in the urgent rhythms of night music.

Rom knew the crowds, knew their boredom and the glitter of their seeking eyes.

They were all the same. They inhabited the night worlds of a thousand cities and centuries, mimicked each other unknowingly in carefully executed exhibits of individuality, moved to the same restless rhythm. They searched in vain for the nameless desire that called them into the night and sometimes settled for the heat and promise in the eyes of a stranger, only to wake to the cold light of day that held no mysteries.

In the day, there were only gritty eyes, aching temples and mouths dry with the taste of stale cigarettes and vanished wraiths of night promises.

Rom preferred the night. He always had.

He came fully awake and sat up on the hard sofa, smoothing back the once-again fashionable length of dark hair that was not much disturbed by his quiet, motionless sleep.

His heart throbbed with the beat of city traffic and the far-off pulsing of a bass guitar. Night. He smiled, feeling it around him like a living cloak of mystery, shining with the soft fires of distant stars.

Valentine was awake, too. Rom knew it, and thought he could sense the disturbance in the air currents signaling his approach long before he heard the soft sound of feet on carpet, then the rustle and muttered curse as body and unexpected object collided.

“Careful,” Rom murmured, too late to be any help. “You’ll step in the pizza.”

Val responded with a low growl and a sharp curse. When he spoke, his tone made the words sound like more curses. “Pizza. You got garlic.”

“It amused me.”

“It’s disgusting. Get it out of here.”

“It’s part of our cover,” Rom said in a mild tone that nevertheless held a thread of something that hinted at granite. “Nobody raises a brow over two wealthy young men who only work at night if they’re software designers. Youth is the byword of the industry. So is eccentricity. So is pizza.”

“I’m not eating this,” Val muttered, not calmed by the speech.

“Of course not. We donate it to the homeless behind the building,” Rom said. “Ignore the garlic. It’s a standard ingredient.”

“You ignore it.”

“I have been.”

This was the undeniable truth and it silenced Val’s grumblings. He continued to brood, however, as he prowled the office. Passing the desk chair, he hooked one leg around it to draw it up, sat in one fluid motion and tapped at the computer keyboard, disturbing the fractal pattern laboriously arranged by the screen saver.

“Get any further with this?” Val asked. It was the closest he came to apology.

Rom accepted it. “Not really.”

Val tapped some more, symbols dancing across the screen at his command. “Huh. I’ll work on it awhile.” He continued, the silence broken by the swift, steady tap of keystrokes.

“Do that,” Rom agreed as he stood and stretched to his full height. “I’ll take this down.” He reached for the cardboard pizza box, delivered hours earlier. “Hungry?”

Val shook his head. “Not yet. You?”

Night sang, hummed, buzzed in his senses. Sharp. Urgent. Dark. “Yes.”

“You’re going to go watch her again. You’re obsessed with that woman.” Val came straight to the point, laying open the real source of the tension that had been growing steadily between them.

“I like her music,” Rom answered in neutral tones.

“You liked Mozart’s music, too, but you didn’t follow him around.”

“I went to his performances.”

“You didn’t want to convert him. You want her, though.” Val tapped furiously at the keyboard. “I know what’s coming. Girl stuff everywhere. Girl things hanging in the bathroom. Waiting for you to get on with it is worse than living with it will be. I wish you’d just do it.”

Rom paused, wondering how much he should say in answer to that. Women were something of a sore point with Valentine. Over two hundred years of grief and celibacy would do that. “She’s sick,” he said finally. “You wouldn’t know it to look at her, but I can smell it on her skin. I didn’t want to take any of the time she had left, but now her time is running out.”

Rom had been watching her for years. He’d waited, giving her the chance to find a mortal love, a family, all the things he couldn’t offer her, things he couldn’t bear to deny her. Now he would offer her the only ever after possible for her, before the hidden killer that ate away at her took even that option away.

“Get on with it, then. Don’t let her die. It’s a real bitch waiting centuries for the woman you love to be reincarnated.”

Val was a mass of tension. Inevitable, given that he’d spent centuries waiting for his lost love to be returned to him and had decided after the early decades of grief-imposed celibacy to just keep on waiting. He had so much tension bottled up that the others had taken to avoiding him and his hair-trigger temper at all costs about a hundred and fifty years ago.

“Has it crossed your mind that the gypsy might have been wrong?” Rom asked, not unkindly. Since the topic was open, it was a good time to discuss it without fear of it leading to mortal combat.

“It crossed my mind about a thousand times in the first year. Everybody needs something to believe in. I believe in gypsy prophecy.”

“Has it occurred to you that if she does come back, she won’t remember you, she won’t recognize you, and you’ll have centuries of pent-up sexual frustration driving you that no human woman could withstand?”

Val stopped dead. He whipped around to look at Rom, and the motion tossed his long blond hair streaked with white, gold and amber around his shoulders. The expression on his face was frightening.

Finally he said, “If she remained human, it might be a problem. But I will teach her to love me again, she will accept my kiss, she will transform, and she will survive being the recipient of my pent-up sexual frustration, thank you very much. Now go do something about yours.”