His was the disease we couldn’t cure. His was the good-bye that meant the most

There's a metaphor for the American public in here," Gansey murmered darkly, "but it escapes me at the moment.

One happy day for every falling leaf you catch. Sam's voice was low.

Death smells like birthday cake.

His wife's a brand of Christian that forbids a gathering that involves young women dancing in the streets but not races where men die

I slithered out of the sinkhole on my stomach. It was not the sexiest move I'd ever performed, but I was impressed nonetheless.

My father said once that if I didn't have my mother's ginger hair, I wouldn't blush or curse as easily. Which I though was unfair. I hardly ever curse or blush, even though I've had plenty of days that required both.