Changes (The Dresden Files #12) - Jim Butcher Page 0,32

is Special Agent Tilly of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I have a warrant to search this property and detain its occupants for questioning regarding last night’s explosion. If you do not open this door, we will be forced to break it down.”

Crap.

11

I tore the rug from the trapdoor again. I’d packed almost all of my questionable materials into a large nylon gym bag. I slung it over my shoulder, grabbed my duster, staff, and blasting rod, and nearly killed myself trying to go down the ladder too quickly. I stopped a couple of steps from the bottom and reached up to close the trapdoor again. There was a pair of simple bolts on the lower side of the door, so that I or the grasshopper could signal the other that something delicate was in progress, and distractions might be dangerous. I locked the door firmly.

“What’s going on?” blurted Bob from his shelf.

“Bob, I need the wards down now.”

“Why don’t you just—”

“Because they’ll come back up five minutes after I’ve used the disarming spell. I need them down. Get off your bony ass and do it!”

“But that will knock them out for at least a week—”

“I know. Go do it, and hurry! You have my permission to leave the skull for that purpose.”

“Aye-aye, O captain, my captain,” Bob said sourly. A small cloud of orange sparkling light flowed out of the skull’s eye sockets and rushed upstairs through the cracks at the edge of the trapdoor.

I immediately started dumping things into my bag. I was making a mess doing it, too, but there was no help for that.

Less than half a minute later, Bob returned and flowed back into the skull again. “There’re a bunch of guys in suits and uniforms knocking on the door, Harry.”

“I know.”

“Why?” he asked. “What’s going on?”

“Trouble,” I said. “What do I have in here that’s illegal?”

“Do I look like an attorney? These ain’t law books I’m surrounded by.”

There was a heavy slam of impact from upstairs. Whoever was up there was trying a ram on the door. Good luck with that, boys. I’d had my door knocked down before. I had installed a heavy metal security door that nothing short of explosives was going to overcome.

“Where’s the ghost dust?” I asked.

“One shelf over, two up, cigar tin in a brown cardboard box,” Bob said promptly.

“Thanks,” I said. “That section of rhino horn?”

“Under the shelf to your left, plastic storage bin.”

So it went, with Bob’s flawless memory speeding the process. I wound up stuffing the bag full. Then I tore the Paranet map off the wall and added it to the bag, and tossed the directory of contact numbers for its members in next to it. The last thing I needed was the FBI deciding that I was the hub of a network of terrorist cells.

Bob’s skull went in, too. I zipped the bag closed, leaving just enough opening for Bob to see out. Last, I took the two Swords (at least one of which had been used in murders in the Chicago area), slipped them through some straps on the side of the bag, and then hurriedly duct-taped them into place, just to be sure I wouldn’t lose them. Then I drew on my duster and slung the bag’s strap over my shoulder with a grunt. The thing was heavy.

Bangs and bumps continued upstairs. There was a sudden, sharp cracking sound. I winced. The door and its frame might be industrial-strength, but the house they were attached to was a wooden antique from the previous turn of the century. It sounded like something had begun to give.

“I told you,” Bob said. “You should have found out what was on the other side from here long before now.”

“And I told you,” I replied, “that the last thing I wanted to do was thin the barrier between my own home and the bloody Nevernever by going through it and then attracting the attention of whatever hungry boogity-boo was on the other side.”

“And you were wrong,” Bob said smugly. “And I told you so.”

There was a tremendous crash upstairs, and someone shouted, “FBI!” at the same time someone else was shouting, “Chicago PD!”

An instant later, someone let out a startled curse and a gun went off.

“What was that?” screamed a rather high-pitched voice.

“A cat,” said Agent Tilly’s voice, dripping with disdain. “You opened fire on a freaking cat. And missed.”

Mister. My heart pounded in my chest. I’d forgotten all about him. But, true to his nature, Mister