Death Masks (The Dresden Files, #5)

by Jim Butcher

“I wouldn’t burden any decent system of faith by participating in it.”

and I had a vague memory of being that ridiculous at one time. Let he who hath never worn parachute pants cast the first stone.

She frowned and said, “There’s already a Harry. You can be Bill.” With that, she broke into a flouncing skip and followed her mother into the house.

Michaels little girl deciding that Harry can't possibly be named "Harry", because that is her littlebrother's name.

A girl after my own heart, Anna Valmont had a quick reply. She shot him some more.

I got out my keys, but Susan put her hand on mine, and walked a circle around the car. She crouched down and looked beneath it a couple of times, then said, “Okay.” I got in. “Thank you, double oh seven, but no one bombs a Volkswagen. They’re too cute.”

“Very nice,” she murmured, hardly moving her mouth. “That’s a good look on you. Ortega’s driver is about to wet his pants.” “You say the nicest things to me.”

Marcone put on a headset and spoke into a microphone. He listened to the answer and then shouted to the rest of us, “The ride may be a bit bumpier. The stabilizers are run by the onboard computer, which has failed.” He gave me a direct look. “I can only speculate as to why.” I looked around, picked up another headset, put it on, and said, “Blow me.” “Excuse me?” came Gard’s somewhat outraged voice over the intercom. “Not you, blondie. I was talking to Marcone.” Marcone folded his arms in his seat, half smiling. “It’s all right, Miss Gard. Compassion dictates that we must make allowances. Mister Dresden is a diplomatically challenged individual. He should be in a shelter for the tactless.”

I scowled at him, then shook my head and leaned back against the seat, shivering. “You suck. You suck diseased moose wang, Marcone.” Marcone smiled with just his mouth. “How colorful.”

“Shooting him hardly seems to inconvenience him,” Marcone said quietly to me. “I take it that the Knight’s sword can harm him?” “Michael doesn’t think so,” I said. Marcone blinked and looked at me. “Then why is he fighting him?” “Because it needs to be done,” I said. “Do you know what I think?” Marcone said. “You think we should shoot Nicodemus in the back at the first opportunity and let Michael dismember him.” “Yes.” I drew my gun. “Okay.”

I had to borrow Michael’s truck so that I could have a prayer of following him inconspicuously. The Beetle may be way sexy, but subtle it ain’t.