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“You call that evening the odds? You demolished them."
Demolished. He liked that. "I left you one."
"I noticed."
"I promised to share," he told her. "Manners are very important in the Weird. Lying would be quite impolite.”
― Ilona Andrews, Bayou Moon

“I need you to get down there, open the stalls inside, and panic the horses.â€�
� ‘Panic�?� Gaston asked.
“Smile at them or something.”
― Ilona Andrews, Fate's Edge

“I realized that I'm a child."
William looked point-blank at her chest. "No.”
― Ilona Andrews, Bayou Moon

“Life was too short and ended too suddenly. If you didn't take advantage of what you had today, tomorrow it might be ripped from you.”
― Ilona Andrews, Bayou Moon

“Slowly the reality of the situation sank in. He got his ass kicked, learned nothing, and got saved by a dumb dog and an old lady. If he lived long enough to report to Nancy back in Adrianglia, he would have to gloss over this part.”
― Ilona Andrews, Bayou Moon

“A forest," William said, his expression distant. "Where the ground is dry soil and stone. Where tall trees grow and centuries of autumn carpet their roots. Where the wind smells of game and wildflowers."
"Why, that was lovely, Lord Bill. Do you ever write poetry? Something for your blueblood lady?"
"No."
"She doesn't like poetry?"
"Leave it."
Hehe. "Oh, so you have a lady. How interes--”
― Ilona Andrews, Bayou Moon

“She put her hand on her hip. "Where are you going?"
"To the boat. You called me Lord Bill again. That means we're cool."
Cerise slapped her forehead with the heel of her hand and followed him.”
― Ilona Andrews, Bayou Moon

“He hit her with his best smile. Her eyes widened. She took a deep breath. “Oh no, not that seductive face. I’m overcome with the need to take off these awful clothes. What is happening? I do not understand. Oooh. Ahhh.â€� She touched her wrist to her forehead. “Somebody help me. I’m being drenched with my own fluids.â€�
Evil woman.”
― Ilona Andrews, Fate's Edge

“His stuff . . . Oh. Ha! “In that case, it’s hanging long!â€� Jack dissolved into giggles. “Long, get it?â€�
“My brother, everyone.â€� George bowed to an invisible crowd with a martyred expression. “A refined and sensitive creature.”
― Ilona Andrews

“We crossed the street and turned left into one of the side streets, which was only slightly less wide. Here the traffic was lighter. To the left and slightly in front of us, two men walked shoulder to shoulder. The first wore leather pants, a white shirt with wide sleeves, and a leather vest over it. A wide leather bracer enclosed his left forearm. His hair, a rare blond shade, almost gold, hung in a ponytail down his back. He moved with a casual aristocratic elegance, perfectly balanced. Watching him, you had a feeling that if the road suddenly became a tightrope, he would just keep on walking without breaking a stride. My father moved like that. I sped up a little. We drew even and I saw a slender sword on his waist. That's what I thought. An expert swordsman.

I glanced at his face and blinked. He was remarkably handsome.

The man to his left was larger, his shoulders broader, his body emanating contained aggression. He didn't walk, he stalked, and you could tell by the way he moved that he would be very strong. His auburn hair looked like he'd rolled out of bed, dragged his hand through it, and gone on about his day. He wore dark pants and a black leather jacket that was more doublet than motorcycle. A ragged scar crossed his left cheek and when he turned his head, his eyes shone with yellow. Interesting.

"It's always work with you," the russet-haired man said.

"Some of us have to mind the safety of the realm," the blond said. A narrow smile curled his lips.

"I've given the realm eight years of my life. It can bite me," his stocky companion retorted. "How far is it?"

The slim man raised his left arm. A hawk dropped out of the sky and landed on his bracer. "We're almost there. Two blocks left."

"Good. Let's get this crap and go home."

They turned into the side street.

"That bird smelled dead," Sean said.”
― Ilona Andrews, Clean Sweep

“Shh, mi amor. The neighbors will hear and call the police.”
― Kate Richards, The Milkman Cometh

“Stay up... 'till you come up... when you come up stay up!”
― Johnnie Dent Jr.

“Cursing themselves in ragged dreams
fire has singed the edges of,

they know a slow dying the fields have come to terms with.
Shimmering fans work against the heat

& smell of gunpowder, making money
float from hand to hand. The next moment

a rocket pushes a white fist
through night sky, & they scatter like birds

& fall into the shape their lives
have become.”
― Yusef Komunyakaa, Dien Cai Dau

“So it was always at night, like a werewolf, that I would take the thing out for an honest run down the coast. I would start in Golden Gate Park, thinking only to run a few long curves to clear my head. . . but in a matter of minutes I'd be out at the beach with the sound of the engine in my ears, the surf booming up on the sea wall and a fine empty road stretching all the way down to Santa Cruz. . . not even a gas station in the whole seventy miles; the only public light along the way is an all-​night diner down around Rockaway Beach.
There was no helmet on those nights, no speed limit, and no cooling it down on the curves. The momentary freedom of the park was like the one unlucky drink that shoves a wavering alcoholic off the wagon. I would come out of the park near the soccer field and pause for a moment at the stop sign, wondering if I knew anyone parked out there on the midnight humping strip.
Then into first gear, forgetting the cars and letting the beast wind out. . . thirty-​five, forty-​five. . . then into second and wailing through the light at Lincoln Way, not worried about green or red signals, but only some other werewolf loony who might be pulling out, too slowly, to start his own run. Not many of these. . . and with three lanes on a wide curve, a bike coming hard has plenty of room to get around almost anything. . . then into third, the boomer gear, pushing seventy-​five and the beginning of a windscream in the ears, a pressure on the eyeballs like diving into water off a high board.
Bent forward, far back on the seat, and a rigid grip on the handlebars as the bike starts jumping and wavering in the wind. Taillights far up ahead coming closer, faster, and suddenly -- zaaapppp -- going past and leaning down for a curve near the zoo, where the road swings out to sea.
The dunes are flatter here, and on windy days sand blows across the highway, piling up in thick drifts as deadly as any oil-​slick. . . instant loss of control, a crashing, cartwheeling slide and maybe one of those two-​inch notices in the paper the next day: “An unidentified motorcyclist was killed last night when he failed to negotiate a turn on Highway I.�
Indeed. . . but no sand this time, so the lever goes up into fourth, and now there's no sound except wind. Screw it all the way over, reach through the handlebars to raise the headlight beam, the needle leans down on a hundred, and wind-​burned eyeballs strain to see down the centerline, trying to provide a margin for the reflexes.
But with the throttle screwed on there is only the barest margin, and no room at all for mistakes. It has to be done right. . . and that's when the strange music starts, when you stretch your luck so far that fear becomes exhilaration and vibrates along your arms. You can barely see at a hundred; the tears blow back so fast that they vaporize before they get to your ears. The only sounds are wind and a dull roar floating back from the mufflers. You watch the white line and try to lean with it. . . howling through a turn to the right, then to the left and down the long hill to Pacifica. . . letting off now, watching for cops, but only until the next dark stretch and another few seconds on the edge. . . The Edge. . . There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. The others -- the living -- are those who pushed their control as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between Now and Later.
But the edge is still Out there. Or maybe it's In. The association of motorcycles with LSD is no accident of publicity. They are both a means to an end, to the place of definitions.”
― Hunter S. Thompson, Hell's Angels

“He stopped and stared intently at Rincewind. "Every night I come out here and look down." he finished, "and I never jump. Courage is hard to come by, here on the Edge.”
― Terry Pratchett, The Color of Magic