Last time, Harry decided that he’d so thoroughly fucked up everything about investigating the A-plot that he might as well work the vampire party B-plot. (more…)
Tag: Dresden Files Grave Peril
Back in my lab, it felt a little creepy to be working by candlelight. Intellectually, I knew that it was still full daylight outside, but last night had brought out the instinctive fear of the dark that is a part of being human.
Intellectually, working by candlelight makes you go blind. (more…)
All hospital emergency rooms have the same feel to them. They’re all decorated in the same dull, muted tones and softened edges, which are meant to be comforting and aren’t. They all have the same smell too: one part tangy antiseptics, one part cool dispassion, one part anxiety, and one part naked fear.
This feels like one of those situations where the author’s flunking out on the whole “write what you know” thing and resorting to cliche. (more…)
I’ve done smarter things in my life. Once, for example, I threw myself out of a moving car in order to take on a truckload of lycanthropes singlehandedly. That had been nominally smarter. At least I had been fairly certain that I could kill them, if I had to, at the time.
That’s really not how that went down.
God, the “last time on” things in this series are always so annoying. (more…)
Well, first I mislaid the game and then I left the notes on the wrong computer, so here we are again!
Last time, instead of properly warning either Michael or Murphy, Harry rushes off to save Murphy and gets there too late, so off he goes to try to save Michael.
Now, previously, Harry visited Micky (it seems like M is a cursed letter this book) and gone on about their wonderfully homey home. Now he’s doing the same thing about Michael’s place, which is a chunk of suburbia with, yes, white picket fences, plopped into Chicago. (more…)
Right, so there will be a delay returning to Moon and so instead there will be an end to the delay of Grave Peril.
Last time, Harry’s bullshit “reasoning” led him to figuring out the nightmare wanted revenge for that time Michael killed it, at which point he declared he needed to go warn Murphy.
We open this chapter with him attempting to explain his equally bullshit decision:
There’s a kind of mathematics that goes along with saving people’s lives. You find yourself running the figures without even realizing it, like a medic on a battlefield. This patient has no chance of surviving. That one does, but only if you let a third die. (more…)
“Eat me,” I whispered. “I don’t … I don’t understand.”
While this has been an innuendo-heavy book, this turn of phrase is actually quite appropriate. It literally ate a part of him, as will be clarified in a moment. (more…)
Last time, Harry does his usual dragging of his feet, but as usual, plot means he’s still forced to get there in time, and then he fights vampires and nearly dies and then chance saves his ass in the nick of time, but now he’s doped up on vampire spit. (more…)
Finding people is hard, especially when they don’t want to be found. It’s so difficult, in fact, that
estimates run up near seven-digit figures on how many people disappear, without a trace, every year
in the United States. Most of these people aren’t ever found.
This is particularly unforgivable because Harry isn’t just some random dumbass. He’s the guy actually getting tapped for the missing persons cases. (more…)
We open with Harry complaining about how his rapist skull is being such a downer about this whole nightmare business.
“Harry, look at this thing. Look at what it’s done. It crossed a threshold.”
“So what?” I asked. “Lots of things can.
Indeedity. You can’t have thresholds be a non-issue for this long and expect me to care. (more…)
We jump now to Harry on the phone. He’s saying he hasn’t gotten the chance to do something due to the whole Micky issue.
it’s four hours of daylight lost.” I filled him in on Mort Lindquist and his diaries, as well
as the events at Detective Malone’s house.
“There isn’t much more time to find this Lydia, Harry,” Michael agreed.
What do you mean, “agreed”? Since when was Harry attempting to do that? Sure, he said he would when you guys left the priest, but then he wandered over to bully Morty instead. (more…)
So, Harry is finally slightly motivated to do something now that he was dragged kicking and screaming to the problem. Now he just needs to figure out what’s wrong with Micky. Maybe he should start off making sure Micky isn’t faking. Could be a scam, I mean. Or maybe it’s totally justified ghost or angel or demon revenge. There are so many, many possibilities, remember Harry? So many reasons why it might be okay not to help. Surely that’s always your biggest concern when dealing with someone in trouble.
Nope, looks like somehow when it’s not a sick, starving homeless girl, Harry doesn’t worry about that. Huh. I wonder why. (more…)
Micky Malone owned a nice house. His wife taught elementary school. They wouldn’t have been able to afford the place on his salary alone, but together they managed.
Okay, look. I realize you’re a ninety year old man and everything, and were too busy fighting in WW2 to notice that time when back home women were all through the workforce, but both people working has been normal for the past thirty years at the time the book is published. You’ve had decades to work out that it’s no longer some rare anomaly that needs special attention. (more…)
Harry returns home after bullying an innocent man for no reason. He finds An unmarked car sat in my driveway with two nondescript men inside. waiting for him, but sadly, they are not the karma police, just the regular police.
Why would you do this to a child? Did his parents not love him?
had tried to give his house that gothic feel. Greyish gargoyles stood at the corners of his roof. Black iron gates glowered at the front of his house and statuary lined the walk to his front door. Long grass had overgrown his yard. If his house hadn’t been a red-roofed, white-walled stucco transplant from somewhere in southern California, it might have worked.
The results looked more like the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland than an ominous abode of a speaker to the dead. The black iron gates stood surrounded by plain chain-link fence. The gargoyles, on closer inspection, proved to be plastic reproductions. The statuary, too, had the rough outlines of plaster, rather than the clean, sweeping profile of marble. You could have plopped a pink flamingo down right in the middle of the unmowed weeds, and it would have somehow matched the decor. But, I supposed, at night, with the right lighting and the right attitude, some people might have believed it.
I’m sorry you don’t think it lives up to your awesome WIZARD door stencil, but let’s consider that he’s evidently making his living doing this while you’re limping along because the police force has literally no one else they can go to.