minaminokyoko reblogged
Then there was another roar–this time not of thunder, but of a hundred and forty horses, American-made.
Karrin Murphy’s motorcycle slid to a stop close enough to me to throw gravel over my shoes, and I turned to find her revving the engine.
“Karrin! What the hell are you doing?”
“Get on the bike, bitch!” she called over the next horn blast. “Let’s make them work for it!”
She smiled a fierce, bright smile, and I found my own face following her example.
“Fuck, yeah,” I said, and threw myself onto the back of the Harley as darkness, death, and fire closed in around my city.
Harry Dresden and Karrin Murphy (Cold Days by Jim Butcher)