”So,” Kavinsky drawls. “You want that ride or not, Madame Laveau?” She considers him, considers the heat between her legs, considers her nonexistent future.
”Yeah,” she finally decides on, feeling dangerous. Feeling reckless and eighteen. Blue on fire. She tries it out, slides into it like an oversized jacket. Feels crueler, sharper, more dangerous. Her pink switchblade is in her pocket. Kavinsky’s throat is all thin skin and blue veins.
(In the nebulous time between Blue Lily, Lily Blue and TRK there is Blue, suffering from existential angst, and there is Joseph Kavinsky, suffering from existential boredom. Who says Gansey’s the only one allowed to be on fire?)