“I don’t know. The whole conversation seemed a bit odd.” Allen pulled the crucifix from the pocket of his sweatpants. “He insisted I take this.”

“Good. You should wear it.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Look.” She dipped two fingers under the collar of her T-shirt and came out with a silver crucifix. It was smaller but otherwise identical. “You wear yours, and I’ll wear mine. We can be Savior buddies.”

Allen laughed. “Maybe.”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Mmmmmm. What have you done for me lately?”

“I’m serious,” Penny said.

“You know we are.”

“Then do this for me,” she said. “Simply because I’m asking you to.”

“But why?”

“Do it for me, and I’ll tell you later.”

Allen looked at her, then at the crucifix, and back to her. He hadn’t figured her for the religious type.

“Didn’t I get you through Professor Mayflower’s Restoration lit class?”

“Yeah.”

“Then humor me.”

He smiled and shrugged, slipped the thin chain over his head. The crucifix hung heavy to the middle of his chest. “There. Happy? You saved my soul.”

“Maybe.”

Penny left him to sleep and to dream.

You’ve probably heard all the Freud stuff about dreams, the subconscious stretching and giving itself a workout, all those dreams that originate from within. Going to class in your underwear. The dream where you’re falling and falling and falling.

But there’s another sort of dream too. The kind that comes from elsewhere, that wriggles into your mind. An invasion. Allen dreamed of eyes. Cool, calm eyes of the night, eyes he felt had been watching him for centuries. Eyes that ate the light and lived in darkness. And he was cold; he shivered.

Allen awoke at dawn, covered in sweat and burdened with some nameless dread that he couldn’t explain.

The rest of the semester passed uneasily. The headless murder lingered in the newspapers and on the TV news, the story catching fire again whenever the police insisted they had a lead or were questioning a new suspect. Every trail, however, led to a dead end. The mystery eventually passed into local legend, the tale becoming strange and exaggerated. For Halloween, the bloody, headless corpse wearing a bomber jacket became a favorite costume of Gothic State students.

In the meantime, Allen passed his exams (with Penny as a dutiful study partner) and readied himself for his journey overseas. The week before their flight, Evergreen peppered him with emails, reminding him of books and materials to pack. Allen was being asked to go ahead of Dr. Evergreen to supervise the arrival of some equipment about which Evergreen was very vague. He grew exceedingly cranky if pressed for an explanation. Allen did not relish the idea of being in a foreign city alone.

Here he comes now. You can see his American Airlines flight descending toward Prague airport after a three-hour layover at Heathrow. Allen is coming to me, to my hometown. I wasn’t born here, no, but after so many centuries one can’t help but think of it as home.

There he is coming through customs. He looks terrible, hasn’t slept a wink. Poor bastard. I’d show him around town if I could, but life’s a bitch when you’re not corporeal.

The surly Czech cab driver dropped him in front of the apartment building in the little neighborhood across from Letna Park. Rain flayed the world, and Allen, struggling with his two enormous suitcases, was soaked in just the quick dash across the sidewalk and into the building. He hauled his luggage up two flights of stairs, then collapsed in front of number three, the apartment Dr. Evergreen had arranged for himself for the summer.

Allen unzipped the front pouch of the first suitcase, fished out the key he’d been given, and entered the apartment. It was spacious, with two bedrooms, a sitting area that bled into the kitchen, and a balcony that overlooked the street in front. From this vantage point he saw warm light in the windows of a neighborhood pub not even half a block away. He had a sudden, overwhelming urge to sample the Czech beer he’d heard so much about, but if he missed the delivery, there would be hell to pay with Dr. Evergreen.

And anyway, he was getting wet again standing on the balcony.

Back inside, he changed into dry clothes. He turned on the TV, found he had three channels. One showed something incomprehensible in Czech, and another showed something incomprehensible in German. The third showed soccer.

Allen switched off the television and turned his attention to the present Penny had given him when she’d dropped him off at the airport.

The Rogue’s Guide to Prague was intended to be an irreverent travel guide to the city, pointing out all the usual tourist attractions, offering helpful hints for travelers, but also providing tongue-in-cheek commentary about various parts of the city and its environs. He read the entry for the Letna neighborhood:

More difficult, but not impossible, to locate a hooker in one of the local taverns of this quiet neighborhood. Better chances at the nearby Holešovice train station. The area is bordered by Letna Park on the south and Wenceslas Park to the north, known for its extensive rose gardens. There are numerous quiet grottos and shrubby enclaves where prostitutes can pleasure you if you’re too cheap to spring for a room.

Allen glanced through some of the area’s highlights.

• The Charles Bookstore and Café: Unlike the more touristy places in the city center, you can still get breakfast or lunch here for a song. The strong coffee will crush your balls. Cold beer. Local prices. The girls with tattoos and nose rings who work at the place know enough English to refuse your advances.

• Metronome Sculpture in Letna Park: This useless piece of crap gives the graffiti artists something new to deface instead of the old giant statue of Stalin. But the view here is magnificent. You can look down into the heart of Prague where things are actually happening. The constant racket of skateboarders will make you long for the old days of the iron-fisted Communists who would have sent these punks to the gulag without blinking.

• Kjyeilkle’s Pub: No English. Very few hookers.

Allen closed the book, wondered if Penny had meant it as a gag or if she’d really thought Allen would be able to get useful information out of it. He waited another hour, dozed off to the sound of the rain against the windows and balcony. A harsh knock on the door woke him with a start. He rubbed his eyes, stumbled to answer it.

He opened the door to four grumpy, rain-soaked men, who babbled at him in Czech until he got the message they wanted him to move the hell out of the way. He stepped aside, and the men grunted and heaved a long wooden crate into the middle of the apartment. They shoved a clipboard into Allen’s hands and mimed for him to sign it, which he did right before they left, muttering and frowning.

The wooden crate was nearly seven feet long and came almost up to his belt. He’d been told to wait for some things Dr. Evergreen was having shipped, but Allen had figured it was just miscellaneous luggage and books. An overwhelming curiosity seized him, a strong desire to crowbar the thing open and take a look.

He ran his hands across the rough wood, knocked. Thick planks, something heavy inside. He tried to push the crate off to the side but couldn’t budge it alone. He sat on the crate, let his legs dangle. The rain continued its hypnotic splat against the windows. After signing for Evergreen’s package, Allen was supposed to see to his own accommodations, but he was loath to trek through the downpour.

A whiff of something wet and pungent caught his attention. Allen leaned over, put his nose close to the surface of the crate, and sniffed an earthy smell, like freshly tilled soil, moist and rich.