Turn Coat by Jim Butcher Page A

that didn’t mean that they weren’t there.
    “If that’s not paranoid reflex,” I muttered, “I don’t know what is.”
    I shivered and walked down the steps to my apartment. I disarmed the wards, and reminded myself, again, that I really needed to do something about the deep divots in the steel security door. The last thing I needed was for old Mrs. Spunkelcrief, my near-deaf landlady, to start asking me why my door looked like it had been shot a dozen times. I mean, I could always tell her, “because it has been,” but that isn’t the sort of conversation one has with one’s landlady if one wants to keep one’s home.
    I opened the bullet-dented door, went inside, turned toward the bedroom door, and was faced with a bizarre tableau.
    Morgan was off the bed, sitting on the floor with his back to it, his wounded leg stretched out in front of him. He looked awful, but his eyes were narrowed and glittered with suspicion.
    Sprawled in the bedroom doorway was my apprentice, Molly Carpenter.
    Molly was a tall young woman with a bunch of really well-arranged curves and shoulder-length hair that was, this month, dyed a brilliant shade of sapphire. She was wearing cutoff blue jeans and a white tank top, and her blue eyes looked exasperated.
    She was sprawling on the floor because Mouse was more or less lying on top of her. He wasn’t letting his full weight rest on her, because it probably would have smothered her, but it seemed obvious that she was not able to move.
    “Harry!” Molly said. She started to say something else, but Mouse leaned into her a little, and suddenly all she could do was gasp for air.
    “Dresden!” Morgan growled at about the same time. He shifted his weight, as if to get up.
    Mouse turned his head to Morgan and gave him a steady look, his lips peeling back from his fangs.
    Morgan settled down.
    “Hooboy,” I sighed, and pushed the door shut, leaving the room in complete darkness. I locked the door, put the wards back up, and then muttered, “Flickum bicus.” I waved my hand as I spoke, and sent a minor effort of will out into the room, and half a dozen candles flickered to life.
    Mouse turned to me and gave me what I could have sworn was a reproachful look. Then he got up off of Molly, padded into the alcove that served as my kitchen, and deliberately yawned at me before flopping down on the floor to sleep. The meaning was clear: now it’s your problem.
    “Ah,” I said, glancing from Mouse to my apprentice to my guest. “Um. What happened here, exactly?”
    “The warlock tried to sneak up on me while I slept,” Morgan spat.
    Molly quickly stood up and scowled at Morgan, her hands clenched into fists. “Oh, that’s ridiculous.”
    “Then explain what you’re doing here this late at night,” Morgan said. “What possible reason could you have to show up here, now?”
    “I’m making concentration-supporting potions,” she said from between clenched teeth, in a tone that suggested she’d repeated herself about a hundred times already. “The jasmine has to go in at night. Tell him, Harry.”
    Crap. In all the excitement, I’d forgotten that the grasshopper was scheduled to show up and pull an all-nighter. “Um,” I said. “What I meant to ask was, how is it that Mouse came to be sitting on you both?”
    “The warlock summoned up her will and prepared to attack me,” Morgan said frostily. “The dog intervened.”
    Molly rolled her eyes and glared at him. “Oh, please . You are such an asshole.”
    The air in the room seemed to tighten a little, as power gathered around the young woman.
    “Molly,” I said gently.
    She glanced over at me, scowling. “What?”
    I cleared my throat and gestured at her with one hand.
    She blinked for a second, then seemed to catch on. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled it slowly. As she did, the ominous sense of stormy energy faded. Molly ducked her head a little, her cheeks flushing. “Sorry. But it wasn’t like