“I’m your friend, Layla.”

“I hope so. Good night.”

He stayed where he was after she’d gone, reminding himself to stay her friend. To stay what she needed, when she needed it.

IN THE DREAM IT WAS SUMMER. THE HEAT GRIPPED with sweaty hands, squeezing and wringing out energy like water out of a rag. In Hawkins Wood, leaves spread thick and green overhead, but the sun forced its way through in laser beams to flash into his eyes. Berries ripened on the thorny brambles, and the wild lilies bloomed in unearthly orange.

He knew his way. It seemed Fox had always known his way through these trees, down these paths. His mother would have called it sensory memory, he thought. Or past-life flashes.

He liked the quiet that was country woods-the low hum of insects, the faint rustle of squirrels or rabbits, the melodic chorus of birds with little more to do on a hot summer day but sing and wing.

Yes, he knew his way here, knew the sounds here, knew even the feel of the air in every season, for he had walked here in every season. Melting summers, burgeoning springs, brisk autumns, brutal winters. So he recognized the chill in the air when it crawled up his spine, and the sudden change of light, the gray tinge that wasn’t the simplicity of a stray cloud over the sun. He knew the soft growl that came from behind, from in front, and choked off the music of the chickadees and jays.

He continued to walk the path to Hester’s Pool.

Fear walked with him. It trickled along his skin like sweat, urged him to run. He had no weapon, and in the dream didn’t question why he would come here alone, unarmed. When the trees-denuded now-began to bleed, he kept on. The blood was a lie; the blood was fear.

He stopped only when he saw the woman. She stood at the small dark pond, her back to him. She bent, gathering stones, filling her pockets with them.

Hester. Hester Deale. In the dream he called out to her, though he knew she was doomed. He couldn’t go back hundreds of years and stop her from drowning herself. Nor could he stop himself from trying.

So he called out to her as he hurried forward, as the growling turned to a wet snicker of horrible amusement.

Don’t. Don’t. It wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault.

When she turned, when she looked into his eyes, it wasn’t Hester, but Layla. Tears streaked her face like bitter rain, and her face was white as bone.

I can’t stop. I don’t want to die. Help me. Can’t you help me?

Now he began to run, to run toward her, but the path stretched longer and longer, the snickering grew louder and louder. She held out her hands to him, a final plea before she fell into the pool, and vanished.

He leaped. The water was viciously, brutally cold. He dove down, searching until his burning lungs sent him up to gulp in air. A storm raged in the woods now, wild red lightning, cracking thunder, sparking fires that engulfed entire trees. He dove again, calling for Layla with his mind.

When he saw her, he plunged deeper.

Once again their eyes met, once again she reached for him.

She embraced him. Her mouth took his in a kiss that was as cold as the water. And she dragged him down to drown.

HE WOKE GASPING FOR AIR, HIS THROAT RAW AND burning. His chest pounded with pain as he fumbled for the light, as he shoved up and over to sit on the side of the bed and catch his laboring breath.

Not in the woods, not in the pond, he told himself, but in his own bed, in his own apartment. As he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes he reminded himself he should be used to the nightmares. He and Cal and Gage had been plagued by them every seven years since they’d turned ten. He should be used, too, to pulling aspects of the dream back with him.

He was still chilled, his skin shivering spasmodically over frigid bones. The iron taste of the pool’s water still coated his throat. Not real, he thought. No more real than bleeding trees or fires that didn’t burn. Just another nasty jab by a demon from hell. No permanent damage.

He rose, left the bedroom, crossed his living room, and went into the kitchen. He pulled a cold bottle of water out of the fridge and drank half of it down as he stood.

When the phone rang, he felt a fresh spurt of alarm. Layla’s number was displayed on the caller ID. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re okay.” Her breath came out in a long, jerky whoosh. “You’re okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I… God, it’s three in the morning. I’m sorry. Panic attack. I woke you up. Sorry.”

“You didn’t wake me up. Why wouldn’t I be okay, Layla?”

“It was just a dream. I shouldn’t have called you.”

“We were at Hester’s Pool.”

There was a moment of silence. “I killed you.”

“As attorney for the defense, I have to advise that’s going to be a hard case to prosecute, as the victim is currently alive and well and standing in his own kitchen.”

“Fox-”

“It was a dream. A bad one, but still a dream. He’s playing on your weakness, Layla.” And mine, Fox realized, because I want to save the girl. “I can come over. We’ll-”

“No, no, I feel stupid enough calling you. It was just so real, you know?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“I didn’t think, I just grabbed the phone. All right, calmer now. We’ll need to talk about this tomorrow.”

“We will. Try to get some sleep.”

“You, too. And Fox, I’m glad I didn’t drown you in Hester’s Pool.”

“I’m pretty happy about that myself. Good night.”

Fox carried the bottle of water back to the bedroom. There, he stood looking out the window that faced the street. The Hollow was quiet, and still as a photograph. Nothing stirred. The people he loved, the people he knew, were safe in their beds.

But he stood there, watchful in the dark, and thought about a kiss that had been cold as the grave. And still seductive.

"CAN YOU REMEMBER ANY OTHER DETAILS?” CYBIL wrote notes on Layla’s dream as Layla finished off her coffee.

“I think I gave you everything.”

“Okay.” Cybil leaned back in the kitchen chair, tapped her pencil. “The way it sounds, you and Fox had the same dream. It’ll be interesting to see if they were exact, or how the details vary.”

“Interesting.”

“And informative. You could’ve woke me, Layla. We all know what it’s like to have these nightmares.”

“I felt steadier after I’d spoken to Fox, and he wasn’t dead.” She managed a small smile. “Plus, I don’t need to be shrink-wrapped to figure out that part of the dream was rooted in what we talked about last night. My fear of hurting one of you.”

“Especially Fox.”

“Maybe especially. I’m working for him, for now. And I need to work with him. You and I and Quinn, we’re, well, fish in the same pool. I’m not as worried about the two of you. You’ll tell Quinn about the dream.”

“As soon as she’s back from her workout. Since I assume she dragged Cal to the gym with her, she’ll probably talk him into coming back here for coffee. I can tell them both, and someone will fill Gage in. Gage was a little rough on you last night.”

“He was.”

“You needed it.”

“Maybe I did.” No point in whining about it, Layla thought. “Let me ask you something. You and Gage are going to have to work together, too, at some point. How’s that going to work?”

“I’ll cross that bridge when. And I think we’ll figure out a way to handle it without shedding each other’s blood.”

“If you say so. I’m going to go up and get dressed, get to work.”

“Do you want a ride in?”

“No, thanks. The walk’ll do me good.”

Layla took her time. Alice Hawbaker would be manning the office, and there would be little to do. With Alice there, Layla didn’t think it would be wise to huddle with Fox over a shared dream. Nor would it be the best time to have a lesson on honing and, more important to her, controlling her ability.