The Law: A Dresden Files Novella by Jim Butcher

Author:Jim Butcher [Butcher, Jim]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Imaginary Empire LLC
Published: 2022-07-05T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Maximillian Valerious worked out of his home in a residential neighborhood in Park West.

I pulled up to the address, peered at the house, and double checked what I’d written down, because it wasn’t the kind of place where I expected a high-priced lawyer to settle.

Valerious’s place could best have been described as ‘quirky.’ For one, it was painted a bright canary yellow with sky blue trim. There was a large oak tree in the front yard, along with high, wire fencing and a chicken hutch. A dozen chickens in a dozen different shades and patterns of feathers clucked around the yard, under the sleepy watch of a droopy-eyed basset hound. The house didn’t have a driveway, but the car parked out in front of it was an old sedan from somewhere just after World War II, and its personalized license plate read ‘LAWYUR.’

I swung out of the Munstermobile into the sultry summer evening and squinted at the house for a moment. The windows were open, and I could see half a dozen fans whirling in front of them, taking in air on the shaded front side of the house and pushing it out the side still facing the sunset.

I walked up to the gate and squinted at a wood-burned sign that read, ‘No solicitors or proselytizers welcome, business clients and known personal friends only, everyone else is TRESPASSING, please leave packages in the box inside the gate, mind the chickens, beware of dog, this sign does not constitute an invitation of any kind.”

I squinted up at the basset hound and said, “Beware of dog. That’s you, huh?”

The dog gave me a look and yawned. Then he heaved himself to his stumpy legs and padded down the sidewalk, pausing to nose a chicken fondly, and sat down to regard me with the saddest eyes in the canine kingdom.

“Max!” called a woman’s voice from inside the house. “Max! There’s a weirdo at the gate!”

A man with a shock of grey hair stuck his head out one of the open windows, squinted at me, then quickly withdrew. He stuck his head out a second time, this time with a pair of thick gold spectacles perched on the end of his nose, and he gave me a thorough peering. “Huh!” he said after a moment. “I think I know who you are!”

“Do I call the police?” the woman called from deeper inside the house.

“Not yet!” the man who was presumably Max said. “Don’t call your mother though!”

“Fine!” the woman’s voice shouted.

“Hi,” I said, rather lamely. “Nice dog.”

“I know that,” Max said. He stared at me, took a deep breath and said, “Stay there. You aren’t invited in.” Then his head popped back in the window, and footsteps sounded clearly inside the house.

I lifted my eyebrows at that. Most people didn’t get all technical about invitations unless they were savvy to the details of the supernatural world. I hadn’t been invited, and I’d had considerable education in a number of schools of courtesy (don’t

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