When I need information, there are a ton of different people I can ask.

Bob, a spirit of intellect, is my first go-to choice, and is a general expert on all things magical. He also knows general and specific facts about just about everything, and can usually learn what he doesn't know in a day or two spent piggybacking on the 30 pounds of muscle I call my cat, using Mister as a living shield for his spiritual form. He's taught me most of what I know about the obscure and otherwise unknowable things that go bump in the night and, other than my mentor Ebenezar McCoy, more about magic in general than anyone else. If knowledge were power, then I believe Bob could throw down against some of the strongest casters on the planet.

When Bob doesn't know something and it's way out of my jurisdiction, there are two books full of rituals that I can use to ask around about obscure, thousand year old facts nobody else bothered to remember. I normally only use the first. Sometimes, while traveling abroad, I can use more generalized rituals to draw in any willing local spirits to get a lowdown on magical weirdness in the area they inhabit. More often than not, I can offer tea, milk, or in some cases, McDonalds or Burger King meals in exchange for enough information to get me back on track.

My second book of rituals focuses primarily on summoning creatures who ask for a lot more than any sane person should trade, and I stopped using it after I almost lost my soul to a demon.

For more localized research, especially in Chicago, I can usually ask the Little Folk for help.

I drove myself to a local donut shop that my friend Murphy and her police buddies tell me has nice coffee, and I bought a couple donuts and another cup of black steaming liquid joy. Rather than get back in my car, I walked down the street a ways and turned off into an empty alley, then took a moment and made sure I was alone. I didn't see anyone, so set my bag of donuts and coffee down on the ground and took out a piece of chalk to draw a quick-but-perfect circle. I checked it twice, just to be sure it didn't have any flaws, then turned and found myself eye to point with a huge sword.

I blinked, and found myself slammed up against the alley wall with the blade at my throat.

"Dresden," a rough, graveled voice growled into my face. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't cut your head off right now."

"Morgan?" I asked the White Council Warden carefully, trying not to flinch. "What are you even doing here? Whatever it was, I didn't do it. I'm not under the Doom anymore, and last I checked you weren't supposed to threaten me every time you decided Chicago was looking nice this time of year."

The Doom of Damocles. I'd broken one of the Laws of Magic when I was a teenager, Thou Shalt Not Kill With Magic, and only the offer of a Senior Council member of the White Council taking me under his wing turned it from "off with his head!" into magical parole. If I'd broken a single law after that, no matter how small the charge, then there wouldn't have been a trial so much as a witch hunt. Except I wasn't under the Doom anymore; I'd been cleared of wrongdoing by virtue of self defense years ago.

Morgan growled rather than answered me, and the sword was pressed close enough to make it hard to breathe. He didn't draw any blood, but if I swallowed that would change. I'd think it was a neat trick if it wasn't my neck the sword was against.

"Why don't we put the sword down and talk this out like civilized people? Y'know, pretend we don't hate each other and that you're an upstanding citizen who doesn't cut people's heads off because they breathe funny?"

The muscled old man, still strong as a spring chicken that hadn't been on the job longer than a century, held me there for a few moments more, then slowly backed up and let his sword fall to his side. Not that I didn't think he'd hesitate kill me if I made any sudden movements, or that I could stop him if he tried; the broadsword he carried was made special by the White Council for their Wardens, the magic secret police, and it cuts through and destroys magic effortlessly. My preferred magical shield wouldn't even slow it down before Morgan could cut me in half.

He's also one of the strongest casters of earth magic on the planet, so there's that, too.

"There have been signs of change in the flow of time, and it has spooled and gotten stuck here in Chicago," Morgan stated clearly. "Naturally, I thought of the only person in the area who has already broken the Laws. The Council may have cleared you of wrongdoing, but it'll be a hot day in Arctis Tor before you regain the people's trust."

"Time? Somebody's messing with time?" I asked, then pointed at myself, "And you think I could pull that off?!"

Morgan paused, then narrowed his eyes. "I have not lived this long underestimating the ingenuity of warlocks seeking power. ...But I see your point."

He sheathed his sword, but again, you don't become the Wardens' second in command without learning to kill somebody without it. I wouldn't feel safe until the large, old, battle-hardened warrior in his calf-length grey cloak was long gone, hopefully back to the other side of the world. Meanwhile, my mind was racing, trying to think of who might have messed with time's flow.

To sum it up in a sentence, altering time is some of the most delicate magic on the planet, next to mental manipulation and some kinds of healing. There are a hundred ways I don't even understand the process myself, but it wouldn't matter if I did know; I'm the magical equivalent of a brawler, and something as big as time travel or anything like it was so far beyond me that I was surprised Morgan had thought of me at all. It was almost a compliment, in a backhanded kind of way.

And it meant somebody strong and careful was causing trouble in my favorite city. It was almost enough to set aside my life-long fight with Morgan. Almost.

"So," I began, folding my arms. "The flow of time?" I prompted. "You didn't run me down and threaten to kill me just to walk away after saying something like that, did you?"

"I'm not here to kill you for breaking the laws, Dresden, but neither do I trust you've had nothing to do with the crimes I've come here to stop." His ever-present scowl deepened. "There are signs of time moving slowly in Chicago, and there is enough residue to hide short jumps backward. We cannot risk those responsible learning that we know, or we might lose what few advantages we have in knowing.

"Watch your back, Dresden," He spat, "because I doubt you would survive a fight against a foe who knows what you'll do before you do."

"Are… are you warning me? Or... warning me?" I asked, confused.

"Both," he said shortly. "As you said, you have a tendency to get involved in everything in Chicago. Something is coming, soon. You may not trust us and we may not trust you, but the Wardens live to protect the laws, no matter who reports when they're broken. You will call us when you find out more, and you won't breathe a word of this to anyone without asking first."

And just like that, he left. Just turned and walked away, down the alley until he turned out of sight.

Morgan doesn't like me, doesn't trust me, and wouldn't offer a kind word if it meant saving a bag of puppies and kittens. Something was wrong, and anything that had Morgan telling me about threats is something to worry more than usual about. More so if he was pulled from the front lines of the war the White Council is having with the Red Court to threaten me over it.

A thought struck me. If he thought I had something to do with it, why mention it at all if it needed to be kept so secret? Was I going to be watched? Or… was I already?

I looked down at where I'd left my coffee and donuts, and clenched my good fist a few times at the crushed bag and spilled caffeine. Great. My offering had a boot print in it.

I wasn't going to offer my preferred contact among the Wee Folk, a sprite I call Toot Toot, a subpar gift for his help, especially not now. I don't like to offer insult to anyone I'm trying to get a favor from (not more than twice or three times, anyway), and that goes double for informants as valuable as Toot Toot had been. Keeping an eye over my shoulder, I ran to my car and almost caused a few accidents driving home.

I kept my eyes moving as I pulled up to my apartment building, then hurried down the stairs to my basement home and inside, mindful of my home's magical wards. I slammed the door shut behind me before Mister could run out, and he spat at me and stalked back into some darkened corner of the room.

Thomas had changed into a Burger King polo shirt and pants (and I took a moment to be so proud of him for his choice of part time job), and was going over some kind of paperwork from the couch. Judging by the mess of beer bottles still littering the room, it looked like he still hadn't taken Mouse for a walk since I'd left. "Something wrong?" he asked.

I frowned. "Plenty. When do you work today? I could use some backup when you're free."