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Jones looks like he wants to slug me, which is only subtly different from his usual way of looking at me like I'm a slug.

Holly Black

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Holly Black
Age: 52
Born: 1971
Born: November 10
Journalist
Novelist
Writer
New Jersey
United States
Looks
Different
Slug
Way
Slugs
Like
Subtly
Jones
Usual
Wants
Looking

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Boys never believe I can beat them, she told me back then. But I always win in the end.
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Maybe it was that nearly everyone else was dead and she felt a little bit dead too, but she figured that even a vampire deserved to be saved. Maybe she ought to leave him, but she wasn't going to.
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You okay? Anton asks, looking at me like he's trying to figure out if I'm drunk. His plans depend on me. I look as blank as possible and hope that it freaks him out. No point in my being the only miserable one.
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He runs to the sink to spit it out. I grin. There’s nothing quite as funny as someone else’s misery.
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Some promises aren’t worth keeping.
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You better get over here with my car,” Grandad says. “Before I call the cops and tell them you stole it.” “Sorry,” I say contritely. Then the rest of what he said sinks in and I laugh. “Wait, did you just threaten me with calling the police? Because that I’d like to see.
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You don't have to protect these people, Cassel. I am these people.
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It's okay, he informs me. Your grandfather is teaching me how to play poker. If I know Grandad, that means what he'll really be teaching Sam is how to cheat.
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I'm the best kind of thief, the kind that leaves behind items equal in value to those he's stolen.
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I don't want to be a vampire' she told herself. But in her dreams, she kind of did.-Tana Bach-page 29-chapter 4
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Everything was strange and beautiful and swollen with possibilities.
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Sam: You know what I wish? Cassel: What? Sam: That someone would covert my bed into a robot that would fight other bed robots to the death for me.
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Farewell, Father, she said. He fell back upon his chair, choking. She laughed, not with mirth or even mockery, but something that was closer to a sob. You crafted me so sharp, I cut even myself.
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A second book that makes you rethink the first book is the Holy Grail of a series.
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I want you and I hate wanting things and I especially hate admitting I want them.
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You are the best kind of killer, Cassel Sharpe, the kind that never has blood on his hands. The kind that never has to sicken at the sight of what he's done, or come to like it too much.
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She knew what it felt like to tremble like that before touching someone -- desire so acute that it became despair.
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I need your help, says the tiny figure. Her voice is sad and soft and sounds like Lila's, but with an odd accent that might just be how cats sound when they talk.
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He looks like the good boy he's never been.
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I thought of how proud he was when he took the marks- cutting the skin of his throat in a long slash and then packing it with ashes until keloid scars rose up. He called it his second smile.
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