Peace Talks (The Dresden Files, #16)

by Jim Butcher

“Sometimes,” Thomas said, “I hate what I am. I hate being me.” “Maybe it’s time to work on that,” I said to him. “Isn’t really the kind of thing you want to teach to a little kid.” He glowered at me. Then he said, “When the hell did you get deep?” “Through experience, wisdom I have earned,” I said in Yoda’s voice.

Ah, well. There was no sense in brooding over it. Life never stays the same. There’s always some kind of curveball coming at you. Nothing to do but swing away.

Wizards live a long time, and they don’t do it by taking unnecessary risks. If you look up unnecessary risk in the White Council’s dictionary, my picture is there. And my address. And all my personal contact information. And my permanent record from middle school.

“I might not be the best parent in the whole world,” I said. “But I’m here. I’m in her life. And there’s no substitute for that. None. There never was. There never will be.”

The capacity of humanity to deny what is right in front of it is staggering.

There’s no point in having a soul-threatening source of power to draw on if you aren’t going to draw on it when your daughter is in danger.

Sometimes the best defense is a T. rex.

Secrets are heavy, heavy things. Carry around too many of them for too long and the weight will crush the life out of you.

Fear is a prison. But when you combine it with secrets, it becomes especially toxic, vicious. It puts us all into solitary, unable to hear one another clearly.

Molly exhaled and calmly stepped out of the circle. She regarded me for a long moment and said, “God, you look tired.” I tilted my head at her and suddenly smiled. “You mean ‘old.’” “Weathered,” she countered. “Like Aragorn.”

“Wanna know a secret?” “Always.” “Only the young think being called old is an insult,”

There is no guilt like wizard guilt, because there is no arrogance like wizard arrogance. We get used to having so much power, so much ability to change things, that we also tend to assume that whatever happens is also our responsibility. Throw in a few shreds of human decency, where you actually worry about the results of your actions upon others, and you wind up with a lot of regrets. Because it’s hard, it’s really, really hard, in fact damned near impossible, to exercise power without it having some unexpected consequences. Doesn’t matter what kind of power it is—magic, muscle, political office, electricity, moral authority. Use any of it, and you’re going to find out that as a result, things happen that you didn’t expect. When those consequences are a blown light bulb, no big deal. But sometimes people get hurt. Sometimes they die. Sometimes innocents. Sometimes friends.

I felt awful. I felt really, really awful. And I wanted to go home. Home, like love, hate, war, and peace, is one of those words that is so important that it doesn’t need more than one syllable. Home is part of the fabric of who humans are. Doesn’t matter if you’re a vampire or a wizard or a secretary or a schoolteacher; you have to have a home, even if only in principle—there has to be a zero point from which you can make comparisons to everything else. Home tends to be it.

Home is where you embrace the present and plan the future. It’s where the books are. And more than anything else, it’s where you build that world that you want.

“Harry, there is very little in this world that we can control. You have to realize when you’ve reached the limits of what you can choose to do to change the situation.”

“Harry,” he said, “over the years, I’ve talked to you many times about coming to church.” “Endlessly,” I said. He nodded cheerfully. “And the invitation is a standing one. But all I’ve ever wanted for you was to help you develop in your faith.” “I’m not sure how much Catholicism I’ve got to develop,” I said. Michael waved a hand. “Not religion, Harry. Faith. Faith isn’t all about God, or a god, you know.”

“People can be evil,” Michael said. “They can be good. They can choose. That’s . . . part of what makes us people.”

“When you have a problem, you have a problem,” I said thoughtfully. I nodded at Cristos. “When you have two problems, sometimes one of them is a solution in disguise.”

I considered setting them all on fire for a while, until I started getting looks from the table. It was only then that I noticed how widely I was smiling and moved along.

I made it to the buffet without causing any major diplomatic incidents, which for me is remarkable.

“Molls, I talked to your dad today.” “Oh?” she asked, her tone utterly neutral. “He says you haven’t been home to visit in a while.” She glanced surreptitiously at me. “I’ve been busy. There’s been no time.” I stopped and perforce she stopped with me. I frowned at her and said, “Kid. Make time.”

You can’t go around making people’s choices for them. Not if you love them.

Thanks, imagination. I didn’t have enough problems, so I really appreciate you making up another one just to keep me on my toes.

“The people,” Murphy said quietly. “Tonight. There’s no one to protect them.” “The hell there isn’t,” I said, and coaxed a little more speed out of the old engine. “I’ll be back before they get here.” “You, huh,” Murphy said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “Against a protogod with a pocket nuke and an army of monsters.” “Not just me,” I said. “But if it had to be just me, yeah. I’d be good with that. It’s home. You gotta die somehow. Standing up to a monster at the door isn’t a bad way to do it.” She was quiet for a moment before she said, “I feel you.”