Johannes Cabal the Detective (Johannes Cabal #2)

A census taker once tried to test me. I let my front garden eat him.

After some minutes of mental scuttling, his face was transformed by a smile. It was not a nice smile. It was the smile of a criminal mastermind who, on capturing his nemesis, decides to forgo the circular saws and piranhas and just shoots the man.

Cabal regarded her with mild amusement. “Smile when you whisper,” he advised her. “You’re supposed to be flirting with me, if you recall?”

She stared at him icily. Then suddenly her expression thawed and she smiled winsomely, her eyes dewy with romantic love. “Oh, sweetheart… somebody tried to kill you? Whosoever would do such a thing to my nimpty-bimpty snookums?”

Cabal could not have been more horrified if she’d pulled off her face to reveal a gaping chasm of eternal night from which glistening tentacles coiled and groped. That had already happened to him once in his life, and he wasn’t keen to repeat the experience.

“What?” he managed in a dry whisper.

“Smile when you whisper,” she said, her expression fixed and blood-curdlingly coquettish. You’re supposed to be flirting with me, remember?”

“Please don’t do that.

Cabal took her arm, and they processed towards the cafe like old friends, or at least the sort of old friends in which the lady wears a somewhat smug smile while the gentleman scowls darkly.

Do shut your mouth--you'll catch flies sitting there like that.

Do you smoke, Herr Cabal?"
"Only to be antisocial," replied Cabal, making no move.

(D) Write a political treatise—not to exceed 250,000 words or 500 sides, whichever is less—detailing your solution to stabilising relations in the region. Military force above brigade level is not permitted, nor is divine intervention. You may include diagrams.

Guns don't kill people. People kill people.'
'But guns make it so much easier. Shall we go?

Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.” “But guns make it so much easier.

Has any progress been made on Cabal’s notes?” “All a bit technical for me, I’m afraid,” said Karstetz, who found getting dressed unassisted all a bit technical for him.

He’d asked for his to be cooked medium rare, which in Mirkarvian cuisine meant it had been shown a picture of an oven for a moment and then served. A very brief moment, mind.

He smiled, and it was like a bloodless cut. 'No,' he replied, amused by something. 'No, not a doctor. I haven't the bedside manner for it.

In the last few months, he’d found himself prey to strange twinges that, after some research, he had discovered to be his conscience.

Johannes Cabal disliked many things, despised fewer, loathed fewer still, and reserved true hatred for only a handful. Understanding how intense his personal definition of 'dislike' was, however, gives some impression of how hot his hatreds ran. This is a man who had, after all, shot men dead for making him faintly peeved.

Könnten Sie nicht hin und wieder lächeln?" Dass diese Äußerung aus dem Mund eines Menschen, den ein Lächeln so viel Anstrengung zu kosten schien, dass er wahrscheinlich daran krepiert wäre, an Heuchelei nicht zu überbieten war, wurde von den Anwesenden kommentarlos zur Kenntnis genommen.

Leonie Barrow knew enough about real criminal investigations to know full well that cases rarely if ever hinged on an encyclopedic knowledge of tobacco ash or the curious incident of the butler’s allergy to spinach.

Leonie Barrow's voice was quiet but clear. With Marechal's eyes on her, she said, "Cabal is more dangerous then you can believe, Count. Both the angels and the devils fear him. He's a monster, but an evenhanded one. I know he is capable of the most appalling acts of evil." Her glance moved to Cabal, who was listening dispassionately. "I believe he is also capable of great good. But to predict which he will do next isn't easy or safe."

Marechal grimaced. "What is your association with this man? Public relations or something?"

"I loathe him," she said with sudden venom. The, more quietly, "And I admire him. You're right; he didn't have to come back. He's taken a big risk, but I know he's taken bigger. I can't tell you whether he's a monster or playing the hero right now, but I know one thing. You made the biggest mistake of your life when you made an enemy of him.

No. The dream was just my subconscious mind's way of drawing attention to something I'd seen without perceiving its significance.

She's a bike. A tart. A slut. She'll be buried in a Y-shaped coffin. A baggage. A hussy. She's the good time that was had by all. A wanton floozy." She looked closely at him, but he still seemed to be stuck on cricket. "A nymphomaniac."
The use of a technical term shook him from his paralysis. Realisation flooded his face and a silent "Oh!" filled his mouth.

Sighing heavily, for he disliked violence generally and murder in particular, Cabal set off to commit violent murder.

... the first few minutes of a person's death are the most vitally important minutes of opportunity for a necromancer, [so] Cabal added, "Look, I have to go. Without the necessary chemicals, we'll lose whatever wits are still floating around his cooling brain. The only more immediate alternative that I can think of is a Tantric ritual involving necrophiliac sodomy and, frankly, I don't think my back is up to it. So, if you will excuse me?

The materials were of the finest, the workmanship superlative, the design execrable.

There is possibly no insult so calculated to sting the English as the suggestion that they may at any time be considered foreign, as this flies in the face of the obvious truth that the whole of Creation actually belongs to the English, and that they are just allowing everybody else to camp out on bits of it from a national sense of noblesse oblige.

There is possibly no insult so calculated to sting the English as the suggestion that they may at any time be considered foreign, as this flies in the face of the obvious truth that the whole of Creation actually belongs to the English, and they are just allowing everybody else to camp on bits of it from a national sense of noblesse oblige.

These little countries always seemed to have such long histories, usually full of extraordinary characters with horrible personalities. One would expect small places to breed small people, yet so many world changers had walked out of their minor nations, unblinking, onto the great global stage, where—as often as not—they messed it all up for everybody.

They served to remind Cabal - should a reminder ever be necessary - why his social skills were so poor: people were loathsome and not worth the practise.

Zombies are so passe