Cold Iron Task (The Unorthodox Chronicles, #3)

by James J. Butcher

If nothing else, that told Mayflower that Grieves retained some small measure of spine. Perhaps a vertebra or two.

If only I could say as much about our politicians in Washington.

When the only tool you have is a fireball, he supposed, every problem becomes tinder.

Your hope is surprisingly resilient.” “Thanks.” He smiled. “I made it myself.”

“Technically,” he said, his voice smaller than he would have liked, “at this very moment, you’re watching me die as slowly as humanly possible. So really anything you might do would only rush things along.”

Nothing beats down fear like sarcasm

“I’m honored to not stub my toe on that obscenely low bar.”

True thats like the jokers sense of comedy over batman's

“I think we’re people. And that means we can be anything—including monsters.”

“Evil just seems to run downhill to places like this.”

“If you kill it, you can stay for a week. Otherwise, I’ll be back when I’m back.”

The dad has reached the "I don't want the pet" stage

“But even a good man can still do terrible things when he’s angry. Anger’s a privilege he can’t afford. He can’t let himself give in. Not even for a moment…Or someone else gets hurt.”

It’s not wrath—it’s justice. He felt himself assured. Justice with some satisfaction mixed in. Let go.

This is a lesson taught too often for how wrong it is

“Even a good man can still do terrible things when he’s angry. Anger’s a privilege he can’t afford. He can’t let himself give in. Not even for a moment…Not even for a moment.”

“Well, I feel like shit, so that tracks,” Mayflower said. He stepped aside, but a scurrying scuffle behind him nearly tripped him. “Damn it, Abe!” he cursed as the familiar dashed away. He grumbled and turned to limp back to his chair. “Abe?” Grimsby asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “Is that short for Abraham?” “No,” Mayflower growled, settling himself in his indentation with a wince. “Abomination. But I’d suffocate wasting that much breath on that many syllables every time the damn thing annoys me.” As if answering a summons, Abe sauntered out from behind the chair. His metallic body was wrapped in a small checkered sweater, and knit green booties covered his feet. “Did—did you dress him?” Mayflower’s face darkened. “His claws were scratching up my floor.” “And his sweater?” The Huntsman glared before finally mumbling, “He was cold.”

What did I say about the dad pet meme.

The Huntsman’s eyes were flat, as though carved from moss-covered marble. Not the eyes of a man. But of a statue—perhaps a machine. Or a monster. Jasper felt his voice catch in his throat. “You’ve won. I’ve surrendered. Take me to the Asylum.” The Huntsman let out a slow breath, the only sign he was a living being at all. “I said you won!” Jasper said, his voice growing shrill. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to work. Then the Huntsman spoke, his voice as low as a church bell at a funeral. “For there to be people like them,” he said, looking down at the vial. He raised his gun, the barrel aimed at Jasper’s forehead. “There have to be people like me.” “No, please—!” The old witch never heard the gunshot as it echoed through the now-abandoned warehouse.

Now that is a good 3rd act breakdown