Jim Butcher - The Dresden Files Collection 1–6

Special thanks go out to Caroline, Fred, Debra, Tara, and Corin: the original Harry Dresden fans. Without the perverse desire to make you guys scream at me to write the next chapter, Harry would never have gotten into so much trouble. More thanks are due to Ricia Mainhardt and to A. J. Janschewitz, great agents and good people, and to Chris Ely, who is just an all-around neat person.

Superspecial thanks to my son, J.J., who believed his dada had written a good book even if he couldnt read it.

And thank you, Shannon, for too many things to list. Youre my angel. One day, I will learn to turn my socks right side out before throwing them on the bedroom floor.

I heard the mailman approach my office door, half an hour earlier than usual. He didnt sound right. His footsteps fell more heavily, jauntily, and he whistled. A new guy. He whistled his way to my office door, then fell silent for a moment. Then he laughed.

Then he knocked.

I winced. My mail comes through the mail slot unless its registered. I get a really limited selection of registered mail, and its never good news. I got up out of my office chair and opened the door.

The new mailman, who looked like a basketball with arms and legs and a sunburned, balding head, was chuckling at the sign on the door glass. He glanced at me and hooked a thumb toward the sign. Youre kidding, right?

I read the sign (people change it occasionally), and shook my head. No, Im serious. Can I have my mail, please?

So, uh. Like parties, shows, stuff like that? He looked past me, as though he expected to see a white tiger, or possibly some skimpily clad assistants prancing around my one-room office.

I sighed, not in the mood to get mocked again, and reached for the mail he held in his hand. No, not like that. I dont do parties.

He held on to it, his head tilted curiously. So what? Some kinda fortune-teller? Cards and crystal balls and things?

No, I told him. Im not a psychic. I tugged at the mail.

He held on to it. What are you, then?

Whats the sign on the door say?

It says Harry Dresden. Wizard.

Thats me, I confirmed.

An actual wizard? he asked, grinning, as though I should let him in on the joke. Spells and potions? Demons and incantations? Subtle and quick to anger?

Not so subtle. I jerked the mail out of his hand and looked pointedly at his clipboard. Can I sign for my mail please?

The new mailmans grin vanished, replaced with a scowl. He passed over the clipboard to let me sign for the mail (another late notice from my landlord), and said, Youre a nut. Thats what you are. He took his clipboard back, and said, You have a nice day, sir.

I watched him go.

Typical, I muttered, and shut the door.

My name is Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. Conjure by it at your own risk. Im a wizard. I work out of an office in midtown Chicago. As far as I know, Im the only openly practicing professional wizard in the country. You can find me in the yellow pages, under Wizards. Believe it or not, Im the only one there. My ad looks like this:

HARRY DRESDENWIZARD

L OST I TEMS F OUND. P ARANORMAL I NVESTIGATIONS.

C ONSULTING. A DVICE. R EASONABLE R ATES.

N O L OVE P OTIONS, E NDLESS P URSES, P ARTIES,

OR O THER E NTERTAINMENT.

Youd be surprised how many people call just to ask me if Im serious. But then, if youd seen the things Id seen, if you knew half of what I knew, youd wonder how anyone could not think I was serious.

The end of the twentieth century and the dawn of the new millennium had seen something of a renaissance in the public awareness of the paranormal. Psychics, haunts, vampiresyou name it. People still didnt take them seriously, but all the things Science had promised us hadnt come to pass. Disease was still a problem. Starvation was still a problem. Violence and crime and war were still problems. In spite of the advance of technology, things just hadnt changed the way everyone had hoped and thought they would.

Science, the largest religion of the twentieth century, had become somewhat tarnished by images of exploding space shuttles, crack babies, and a generation of complacent Americans who had allowed the television to raise their children. People were looking for somethingI think they just didnt know what. And even though they were once again starting to open their eyes to the world of magic and the arcane that had been with them all the while, they still thought I must be some kind of joke.

Anyway, it had been a slow month. A slow pair of months, actually. My rent from February didnt get paid until the tenth of March, and it was looking like it might be even longer until I got caught up for this month.