Jim C. Hines

“Damn, Boss. See, this is why everyone likes it better when you’re away on your road trips.”

“Don’t call me Boss. Also, staff meeting upstairs in the Wheeler room in 30 minutes.”

“That’s cold, Boss. What did we do to deserve that?”

“Keep it up, and I’ll make you sit through a PowerPoint presentation.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Cruel and unusual punishment.”

In the words of a coworker, my give-a-shit gauge was stuck on Empty these days.

Young Isaac had dreamed of fame.

Young Isaac was an idiot.

“You mean you just let him go?”

“What did you want me to do?” I snapped. “Castrate him on the spot? Execute him?”

“Both. Both is good.”

Modern fantasy is little more than juvenile escapism and anachronistic longing for a time that never existed. I’ve never understood the appeal.

“That’s…that’s magic.”

“Pretty cool, isn’t it? If I had more time, I’d tell you how it worked.”

“He would,” Lena said. “Even if you ask him to stop.”

Do you remember the moment you first realize you were mortal? That no matter what happened, you would never live long enough to read every book you wanted to read? That you’d die having accomplished only a fraction of your goals?

“The biggest liar in the world is They Say,’” I muttered. “Douglas Malloch.”

Every Porter was required to see a therapist on a regular basis. It seemed a wise precaution for people who routinely rewrote the laws of existence to suit their whims.

If books are indeed magic (and does anyone really believe otherwise?), then they are a collaborative magic between author and reader.

Copper River was a small, tightly knit town. If gossip was a competitive sport, we’d have been sending teams to the Olympics and bringing back gold.

“Besides, is it really stealing if you’re stealing from an asshole?”

“I’d have to double-check, but I don’t think the criminal code includes an asshole clause.”