Grave Peril (The Dresden Files, #3)

by Jim Butcher

‘Sit down, Morty. I’ve got a few questions. Now, if you cut the crap, you’ll make your cab. And, if not . . .’ I left the words hanging. One thing about intimidation is that people can always think up something worse that you could do to them than you can, if you leave their imagination some room to play.

Blocking out pleasure was a more difficult exercise, but I somehow managed. The first thing I had to do was separate my sense of enjoyment. It took me a while, but I slowly marked out the boundaries of the parts of me that liked all the wonderful, warm sensations, and walled them away. Then the actual pounding happiness itself. I found my heart rate and slowed it a bit, though it was already going too slowly, then started shutting down perception of my limbs, pushing them behind the walls with the rest of me that wasn’t doing any good. Giddy delight went next, leaving only a dull fuzz across my thinking, chemically unavoidable.

I stood up and walked to my work table, my eyes by now adjusted to the dimness. I reached for the nearest candle, but there weren’t any matches handy. So, I pointed my finger at it, frowned, and muttered the words, ‘Flickum bicus.’