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.

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

It is the first day of November and so, today, someone will die.

That," he said, "is so not the point of this conversation.

Gansey studied Adam's erratic handwriting. His letters always looked like they were running from something.

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

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.