Changes (The Dresden Files, #12)

by Jim Butcher

I answered the phone, and Susan Rodriguez said, “They’ve taken our daughter.”

Susan smiled at me, giving Molly the Female Once-Over—a process by which one woman creates a detailed profile of another woman based upon about a million

subtle details of clothing, jewelry, makeup, and body type, and then decides how much of a social threat she might be. Men have a parallel process, but it’s binary: Does he have beer? If yes, will he share with me?

People who ask questions and think about their faith are the last ones to embrace dogma—and the last to abandon their path once they’ve set out on it. I felt fairly sure that the Almighty, whatever name tag He had on at the moment, could handle a few questions from people sincerely looking for answers. Hell, He might even like it.

“You defy beings that should cow you into silence. You resist forces that are inevitable for no more reason than that you believe they should be resisted. You bow your head to neither demons

nor angels, and you put yourself in harm’s way to defend those who cannot defend themselves.” He nodded slowly. “I think I like you.”

Option three shared one commonality with options one and two: I wouldn’t survive it. Not as the man I was. The one who tried to make the world a little brighter or more stable. The one who tried to help, and who sometimes screwed things up. The one who believed in things like family, like responsibility, like love.

Faith is about what you do. It’s about aspiring to be better and nobler and kinder than you are. It’s about making sacrifices for the good of others—even when there’s not going to be anyone telling you what a hero you are.

“You want to set a price, feel free,” I said. “I’ll pay it. Whatever it takes.”

“Dammit,” I said, my voice breaking. Tears started from my eyes. The colors and lines in my imagination began to blur. “Please.”

“Laugh whenever you can. Keeps you from killing yourself when things are bad. That and vodka.”

Hope is a force of nature. Don’t let anyone tell you different.

He leaned forward, the Lord of the Goblins of Faerie, leader of the Wild Hunt, nightmare of story and legend and peer of the Queen of Air and Darkness, Mab herself. “Well,” murmured the Erlking. “Well, well, well. Isn’t this interesting.”

“Godmother,” I said, staring. “What . . . a big car you have.”

“Wow,” Susan said. “You . . . you really do have a fairy godmother.”

I saw her lips form the word, “Maggie . . .” And I . . . I used the knife. I saved a child. I won a war. God forgive me.

“Stupid, Hoss. Every time. Only so many blackhearted villains in the world, and they only get uppity on occasion. Stupid’s everywhere, every day.”

“That’s the one thing all these dark beings and powers can’t do. Take away your ability to choose. They can kill you. They can make you do things—but they can’t make you choose to do ’em. They almost always try to lie to you about that. Don’t fall for it.”

But maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised: Even in Winter, the cold isn’t always bitter, and not every day is cruel.

“Neither is being Knight of the Sword,” he said. “But Michael is with his family now.” “Michael’s boss was a hell of a lot nicer than mine.”