Ghost Story (The Dresden Files, #13)

by Jim Butcher

“You want to call me something, call me Captain. Or Jack.” “Or Sparrow?” I asked. Jack looked at me with a cop face that showed nothing but the vague hint of disapproval.

It’s one hour. Just one little hour. What could happen in one hour?” And that’s how I knew that Mort was telling the whole truth when he said he wasn’t a hero. Heroes know better than to hand the universe lines like that.

Mort drove one of those little hybrid cars that, when not running on gasoline, was fueled by idealism. It was made out of crepe paper and duct tape and boasted a computer system that looked like it could have run the NYSE and NORAD, with enough attention left over to play tic-tac-toe. Or possibly Global Thermonuclear War.

Paranoid? Probably. But just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean there isn’t a wizard’s ghost standing beside you with tears in his eyes.

“Then what will you do?” “I give it to Murphy, who uses it to rip the bad guys’ tongues out through their belly buttons.” Sir Stuart blinked. “That…is certainly a vivid image.” “It’s a gift,” I said modestly.

Technically, I didn’t have a heart anymore. It couldn’t twist. It couldn’t break. It did anyway.

“You might be right.” “I am very old, child. It is a safe assumption in most circumstances.”

I sighed. Sometimes my inner monologue annoys even me.

she wasn’t a pretty woman. She had a face shaped like a hatchet, only less gentle and friendly.