Dead Beat (The Dresden Files, #7)

by Jim Butcher

The cemetery isn’t open after dark. Most aren’t, and there’s a reason for it. Everybody knows the reason, and nobody talks about it. It isn’t because there are dead people in there. It’s because there are not-quite-dead people in there.

‘I’ll stop you,’ I said. ‘And if I don’t, I’ll come after you. If you hurt her, I’ll kill you so hard your last ten victims will make miraculous recoveries.’

They don’t ask many questions, and they don’t hesitate to make up their minds.

It’s a useful skill, Listening, though I couldn’t tell you exactly how to do it.

‘Hubris. Mortals never understand.’ ‘Tell me about it,’ I said. ‘Everyone makes that mistake but me.’

‘I’m so pretty, it’s hard for me to think of myself as intelligent.’

‘Enough with sharing the emotions,’ I said. ‘We’re gonna turn into women as we stand here. Get a move on.’

Bald and good at it, Mac could have been any age between thirty-five and fifty.

I found it aesthetically satisfying to defy municipal code.

‘Well, then,’ he said, his smile ferocious. ‘Shut up and dance.’