Blood Rites (The Dresden Files, #6)

by Jim Butcher

He smiled a little and said, “Cool. So what are you guys doing?” “Feng shui,” Jake said. “You know martial arts?” Bobby asked me. Now that he wasn’t threatening violence, I could see that this kid was a jewel. He could potentially provide some lucky wiseass with straight lines for the rest of his natural life, and you can’t put a price on that. “A little.” “Cool.”

We both looked down the hall at Murphy. Murphy didn’t look away from her vigil, and said, “How do I disarm it?” “I’ll talk you through,” Kincaid said. “Dresden, better take her gun and cover us.” “Hey,” I said. “I’m in charge here. Kincaid, talk her through it. Murphy, give me your gun so I can cover you.”

Then he said, “You’re going to lose that hand.” “I was sending it back to the kitchen anyway. I ordered it medium well.” Kincaid stared at me for a second and then started letting out soft, wobbly-sounding laughter, as if it were something he didn’t have a lot of practice at. He stood up, wheezing soft laughter, drew another gun and his own machete from his belt, and said, “Get them out. I’m going to dismember whatever is left.” “Groovy,” I said.

I hung up the phone just as a loud, low rumble approached my house. A moment later Murphy came back in. She was decked out in biker-grade denim and leather again. “I guess we’re going somewhere.” “Rev up the Hog,” I said. “You ready for another fight?” Her teeth flashed. She tossed me a red motorcycle helmet and said, “Get on the bike, bitch.”