He asked for a specific. I gave him a specific. I'm sorry it wasn't puppies.

I found it."
"People find pennies," Gansey replied. "Or car keys. Or four-leaf clovers."
"And ravens," Ronan said. "You're just jealous 'cause" - at this point, he had to stop to regroup his beer-sluggish thoughts - "you didn't find one, too.

It's like scrying into that weird space. There's so much coming out of him, it shouldn't be possible. Do you remember that woman who came in who was pregnant with quadruplets? It was like that, but worse."
"He's pregnant?" Blue asked.

The buck stops here," Ronan said, pulling up the hand brake. "Home shit home.

I never taught him to break his thumb."
"That's Gansey for you. Only learns enough to be superficially competent."
"Loser," Ronan agreed, and he was himself again.

The demon kept pulling him unconscious, and in those short bursts of blackness, the dreamer snatched at light, and when he swam back to consciousness, he thrust the dream into reality. He shaped them into flapping creatures and earthbound stars and flaming crowns and golden notes that sang by themselves and mint leaves scattered across the blood-streaked pavement and scraps of paper with jagged handwriting on them: Unguibus et rostro.
But he was dying.