I like Jim Butcher’s Harry Dresden series. I like the idea of a wizard-detective in novel-noir Chicago, VI Warshawski with testicles and a magical staff instead of high heels. I liked the wise-crackery of the early books, I appreciated the whimsy of Harry’s potion-making, and I loved his brown leather, weatherproof, spell-laden duster, one of the coolest pieces of outerwear in fiction. With Turn Coat, the eleventh book in the series, however, Butcher has wobbled off course.
First and foremost,