American Gods

He was beginning to feel lightheaded. He hoped that he was not going to be sick.

The glinting fiber-optic lights inside the limo continued to change, cycling through their set of dim colors. It seemed to Shadow that the boy's eyes were glinting too, the green of an antique computer monitor.

The boy inhaled deeply, then held his breath. He let the smoke trickle out from his mouth, pulled it back into his nostrils. Shadow suspected that he had practiced that in front of a mirror for a while before doing it in public. "If you've lied to me," said the boy, as if from a long way away, "I'll fucking kill you. You know that."

The cigarette appeared to have been hand-rolled, and when the boy lit it, with a matte black Zippo lighter, it smelled a little like burning electrical parts.

"You're working for Wednesday," said the young man.
"Yes," said Shadow.
"What the fuck is he after? I mean, what's he doing here? He must have a plan. What's the game plan?"
"I started working for Mister Wednesday this morning," said Shadow. "I'm an errand boy."
"You're saying you don't know?"
"I'm saying I don't know,"

Keep your answers short and to the point or I'll fucking kill you.

Shadow's temples felt as if they had been reattached to the rest of his skull with roofing nails.

Back in prison, Low Key Lyesmith had once referred to the little prison cemetery out behind the infirmary as the Bone Orchard, and the image had taken root in Shadow's mind. That

Snowflakes danced in the beams of her headlights.
<…>
With the headlights gone, the world was dark. Twilight faded into night. Shadow kept expecting the act of walking to warm him, to spread warmth through his icy hands and feet. It didn't happen.

"Hey!" she shouted. "Hey! I'm talking to you!"
Shadow turned. "Do you want me to tell you that you were right when you spit in Laura's face? Do you want me to say it didn't hurt? Or that what you told me made me hate her more than I miss her? It's not going to happen, Audrey."