Would we be so enamored with dystopian fiction if we lived in a culture where violent death was a major concern? It wouldn't be escapism.

I'm having a psychic moment. It involves you and me." Distracted, Gansey glanced up from the computer screen. "Were you talking to me or Ronan?" "Either. I'm flexible." Blue made a small, terrible noise. "I would appreciate if you'd turn your inner eye towards the water.

This is a love story. I never knew there were so many kinds of love or that love could make people do so many different things. I never knew there were so many different ways to say goodbye.

Then I picked my book back up again and stroked her hair and read to the soundtrack of her breaths.

As I handed her the bag, the old scars on my wrist throbbed with buried memories.

There was something unbearably sexy about cars at night, Ronan thought. The way the fenders twisted the light and reflected the road, the way every driver became anonymous. The sight of them knocked his heartbeat askew.

Gansey had no idea how old Blue was. He knew she'd just finished eleventh grade. Maybe she was sixteen. Maybe she was eighteen. Maybe she was twenty-two and just very short and remedial.