My name is Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. Conjure it when you want a cheap consultant who's weak for sob stories.

There's an old Romanian saying that roughly translates as 'what you fear, that you don't escape'. In my case, 'that' is authority figures.

Now, I'm no anarchist. I firmly believe the law, its makers and its enforcers play as big a role in protecting innocents from things that go bump in the night as wizards like me. But some people...

Back home, I was the only openly-practising wizard in the phonebook. In fact, I was in the yellow pages, under 'wizards'.

Here, though?

Here, in the Nightside-a place where the Seven Laws of Magic are shamelessly violated- I was just one among any. In fact, its version of the phonebook-which tries to read people; don't ask- is so filled with practitioners, I got placed under 'private eyes'. Ironic, I know.

Nowadays, I was known as the Arcane Eye, the wizard investigator. People, and other things, still came to me to find lost objects, but here, my most dangerous cases would have seemed like Tuesday. No lost dogs to find here.

Recently, I'd been hired by Walker, the representative of the Authorities-those grey, faceless men who run the Nightside, as much as anyone does, or can- to find a runaway teen. Cathy Barrett. She'd last been seen heading into one of the city's most dangerous area... where I was also going right now. Self-preservation? What's that?

Walker was an older British gent, always in a suit, tie and bowler hat, which he could actually pull off. I didn't wear hats, though some people expected me to. No idea why. Walker also had his Voice, which could compel anything to do anything. I'd heard he'd once made a corpse sit up on its slab and answer his questions. It was a terrifying power.

Walker had hired me before, when he'd needed an expendable, deniable chump who'd do jobs too dangerous or dirty for his people. He didn't trust me, and I loathed him for his ruthlessness when it came to enforcing the status quo, so I'd asked him why he would seek my services.

He'd smiled. "You remind me of someone, Mr. Dresden." He hadn't elaborated, and I hadn't asked.

Hell's bells. It had been like talking to Mab in Marcone's body.

Blaiston Street was where hope-such as it was,in the Nightside-went to die. It was dilapidated,gloomy and filled with folks who had nothing to lose. It broke my heart to see them, but I wasn't here to help them. Sometime else...

I've been saying that too often since I've come here. I was changing, or perhaps being changed. My Winter Mantle was always chomping at the bit, waiting to be let loose in this den of monsters and madness. I'd never let it. God knew what the Winter Knight could become here...

As I reached Blaiston Street, I saw a somewhat familiar face: Christian Anthony Gordon, known as Chris to his friends and God's Hammer to his enemies.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Chris was average in height, but muscular and handsome in that ethereal way vampires sometimes are. His eyes were a bright purple that darkened in battle.

I'd seen him fight. Nightmarish, even on your side. He said he was touched by God, and reminded me of my old friend, former Knight of the Cross Michael Carpenter. The same friendliness and honor... and the same fierce faith.

Once, when we were sitting in a bar after a joint job, he'd told me he'd had a family back home. A wife, and twins.

Just like Michael. At least he was still there to protect his kids.

"Will they be safe without you?" I'd asked. Chris had grinned and laughed.

"My Tanya's much scarier than me, Harry. Smarter, too..." At that, his smile had turned wistful, so I'd tried to cheer him up.

"Jeez, man. Aren't all our women?"

"Amen." And we'd clinked our glasses.

Said bar, Strangefellows, was said to be the oldest in the world. Its owner, the morose Alex Morrissey, was bound to it by a curse that spanned centuries. He could never leave it.

I knew. I'd Seen it, a nightmarish chain spinning through the past and future alike, uncaring of time's laws. And the chain started from the dead, but not departed monster buried in the bar's cellar: Merlin, known as Satanspawn.

I'd been shocked to learn that, I admit- that Merlin was the son of the Devil here and that he'd torment his descendants with such a curse. But then, my Merlin had built Demonreach, a prison that held all the universe's greatest monsters, whether they liked it or not. My brother, Thomas Raith, had been imprisoned there when I'd... left. For his own safety. Maybe I didn't have room to talk.

At the moment, Chris was healing one of Blaiston's homeless. Channeling his aura through his hands and using it to set straight an old woman's twisted leg. One of his many powers, none of which were related to magic, at least magic as I understood it.

He stood up, extending his hand, and the old lady took it. Chris lifted her, then let her stand on her own. She couldn't believe it, and was weeping in sheer joy.

Chris Gordon, everyone. He heals people and raises them up and kills monsters.He'd have been a Knight back home, I was sure.

"It's alright," he told her with a smile. "You can go now. I know you only stayed here because you couldnt't move, but you can find your own place now."

The woman hugged him, sobbing, and Chris hugged her back, still smiling. "Thank you! Thank you so much!"

After she calmed down, she drew back, looking at him with uncertain eyes.

"Is it true?" She asked. "Were you... sent here by God?"

Chris' eyes turned sad at that, but his voice was still firm.

"I believe we all are, ma'am."