" He jams the pistol under his belt and takes from a pocket of his jeans the feather that had fallen to his hand as he’d pursued Justine. The soft barbs sprouting from the shaft to form the vane are glossy black, inky yet with a hint of midnight blue, as if the bird that shed it was an emissary of some ancient god of darkness and, in the name of its master, had stolen the color of the daytime sky to ensure eternal night. "

― Dean Koontz , Devoted