“Jackaby turned to look at me. “What in heaven’s name are you doing with my copy of Historia Lycanthropis?” “I – what?” I answered eloquently. “That book. What on earth are you doing with it?” “Well, you had the stick.” His eyebrows furrowed. “This is a shillelagh. It was cut from Irish blackthorn by a leprechaun craftsman, cured in the furnace of Gofannon, and imbued with supernatural powers of protection. That” – he gestured to the book – “is a book.” “It’s heavy, though.”

“Jackaby turned to look at me. “What in heaven’s name are you doing with my copy of Historia Lycanthropis?” “I – what?” I answered eloquently. “That book. What on earth are you doing with it?” “Well, you had the stick.” His eyebrows furrowed. “This is a shillelagh. It was cut from Irish blackthorn by a leprechaun craftsman, cured in the furnace of Gofannon, and imbued with supernatural powers of protection. That” – he gestured to the book – “is a book.” “It’s heavy, though.”

— William Ritter