Just as before, Pete stood in front of the bleeding shrouded figure and he extended his hand, the waxy flesh dripping red as the thing in his fist beat desperately to be free.

"Take what belongs to you, Pete Caldecott," he hissed. "Take it before it destroys your tattered heart."

"I don't know what you want!" Pete cried desperately. She was very cold and looked down to find herself in her nightdress. So much for convenient dreaming.

"Take it," said the shroud-man. "It belongs to you. It has always belonged."

"She won't listen," purred a second voice, and from over the shrouded figure's shoulder the smoke rolled, gathering around Pete's ankles and forming into a human figure. "She won't see or hear. She's taken out her own eye with a hot poker made of memory. She's blind and dumb to us forever."

Pete knew it was impossible for a column of smoke to grin, but this one did, and its voice grated against her brain, like a thousand tiny screams echoed beneath it. "Run while you can, little girl," the figure hissed. "Run far and fast and don't ever sleep."

Then he reached for Pete—she knew instinctively that slit-throat voice and long grasping hands made it a he—and she screamed and fell backward, the ridiculous Victorian nightdress tangling her feet, sending her down into the graveyard earth. It was soft and dozens of rotting hands wrapped around her arms and legs and everywhere. The shrouded figure drew a sword from the belt of his bloody armor and tried to save her, but she was pulled inward, into the grave, and the last thing she heard as she woke was the wicker man, the smoke, laughing and laughing and laughing.

"Pete!" Jack was shaking her, hard enough to snap teeth together.

She blinked, saw her flat, saw her sitting room, which really needed a good scrubbing. Cobwebs hung in all the corners.

Jack let go of her. "You were screaming in your sleep."

Pete pressed her fingers against her eyes. "I was dreaming about something worth screaming at."

Jack pressed a businesslike hand against her forehead. "You're burning up, luv," he said. "Sure it was a frightening dream and not a hot one?"

Pete swatted him on the arm when the mischief showed in his smile. "You're a great bloody help, you are."

"Can't have you keeling over in the middle of a dustup, can I?" said Jack. "However I may feel about you personally. Not worth seeing you get your time card punched when my arse is on the line."

Pete slammed her feet onto the floor, curving her hands in what she guessed was a subconscious desire to strangle Jack. "What the bloody hell is your problem with me, Winter?"

He snorted and swung his eyes to the window. The sun was high, catching motes of dust across the panes, and Pete knew she was already late for work.

"Like you don't know," Jack said finally with a shrug so disaffected Iggy and all of the Stooges would have burst into tears of envy.

"That's just it," said Pete. "I don't know, Jack." She stood up and he met her, looked down with that bitter quirk to his mouth that warned of rage just beneath. She shouldn't press, but Pete did, because she was damned if she let Jack linger on with his contempt and his silence. "What happened that day, in the tomb?" she asked softly. "I've thought and dreamed about it so much, Jack, but I never really remember. What happened that made you hate me this much?"

Jack's lip curled and his eyes blackened again, and Pete steeled herself for something, she didn't know exactly what, but the air between them had charged.

"You really don't remember?" Jack said, that predatory cold flickering in the depths. Pete shook her head, throat dry.

"How about that," Jack murmured. "If you're telling the truth."

"What reason would I have to lie?" Pete said.

"You know more than you're admitting to yourself," Jack said. "You saw him, same as me. You were there, until you let go." The last two words could have cut flesh.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Pete said automatically, although images of the smoke man flamed behind her eyes.

Jack considered her for a moment, as if he weren't sure what to do with an inconveniently dead body, and then his anger slipped back over his face and he threw up his hands. "Then bloody well figure it out, Pete," he snarled. He went into the toilet and slammed the door.

"Bollocks," Pete swore, slumping back on the sofa and pressing her pillow over her face.

Pete waded through the day of papers and questions and frowning stares from Chief Inspector Newell and took the tube home next to a beautiful Indian couple who smelled of sweat and spices.

"Home, Jack," Pete called reflexively as she entered her front hall. The flat was dark and she saw the glow of a cigarette tip coming from the sofa. Jack exhaled a cloud of smoke and it shone blue-white in the reflection from the streetlamp.

"About time," he said, swinging himself upright. "We've got places to go."

"Where?" said Pete. She didn't flick on the light. Talking to Jack, seeing only the ember of his fag and the flash of his eyes was oddly appropriate, a mirror of hundreds of dreams where he appeared as nothing more than shadow with bits of substance.

Jack grinned and she saw the ivory gleam of his teeth. "You'll see."

They took the tube at Jack's insistence. He jumped the gates and then threw up his hands when Pete glared at him and swiped her Oyster card twice. "Come on, Caldecott, don't give me that look."

"Where are we going?" Pete asked again as the train roared through the tunnel, slicking back Jack's hair. They were the only people in the Mornington Crescent station, alone under the flickering fluorescent tubes with smoke and graffiti on the tiles.

"You'll know when we get there," said Jack, holding the door for her. The tube rattled past Euston, on into stations that were barely lit, the humps of dozing bums flashing past, leather-clad youths staring out into the tunnel with shining animal eyes, transit police wrapped in blue nylon armor like weary sentinels. Pete wrapped her coat around her, crossing her arms across her stomach.

"Don't worry about them, luv," Jack whispered. "I'm here."

Pete turned to look at him in the intermittent flashes from the tunnel lights, each exposure imprinting Jack in stark relief. "That's why I'm worried, Jack."

He sighed and threw his head back, worrying an unlit cigarette between his lips. "We're meeting a friend of mine."

"Are you and this friend on good terms?" Pete wondered. Jack lifted one shoulder.

"Last time I saw him, probably a decade ago, he and I had a slight difference of opinion."

"About what?" said Pete, feeling the cold breath from the train window on the back of her neck.

"Long story," said Jack with a lazy grin. "But it involved two nights in Liverpool and a dancer named Cassidy. She did this bit where she put her leg up over her head…"

Pete held up a hand. "Is he going to try and bash our skulls in?"

"No," said Jack. "Not his style."

"Thank God for small favors," said Pete.

They got off the tube at Charing Cross and walked up the center of a nearby mews, the slick cobbles ringing under Pete's boot heels. Big Ben chimed eleven o'clock in the distance, amplified in the mist so that it echoed from every direction. Pete could smell the Thames, the wet rotting atmosphere that soaked into brick and clothing and hair.

"This way," said Jack, his Parliament springing to life without the aid of a light. Pete blinked. Jack exhaled and held out the fag. "Care for a taste?"

"I'm quitting," Pete said perversely. Jack laughed, and it turned into a cough.

"Bloody hell. I hate this fucking wet weather."