The Brittened Crown

By Gregory Ashe

When Harry Witte returns to warn his friends of an ancient threat, Irene Lovell and Cian Shea are skeptical. Harry Witte, after all, has already betrayed them once. But Irene and Cian quickly learn that a new force--a dangerous force--is working in St. Louis. At stake is an ancient artifact known only as the Brittened Crown. Forging an unlikely alliance with Harry, Irene and Cian race to find the pieces of the crown before they fall into the wrong hands. But time is running out, and their enemies have an advantage.

And, once again, Cian and Irene must face a traitor in their midst.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gregory Ashe
• Release date: Jan 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370121540

Book preview

Prologue

The office, and personal museum, of Dr. Welburn Strickland sat on the next corner. The bricks wore snow like face cream, and beneath the white paste, the red clay had begun to erode. It was a building with its nose in the air, never mind the bad bones.

Pearl Morecott could sympathize with a building like that. Sometimes a painted face and a nose in the air were the only way to keep on your feet. Sometimes you were crumbling to dust, all the way through, but it just wasn’t time to fall down.

At least, not yet.

A gust of wind flapped the lapel of her coat and threw snow into the air. Her companion stumbled, and Pearl reached out to steady him.

Samuel David Turner, one-time thief, with mussed sandy hair and eyes that had, once, been boyish, waved her off. His cheeks had borrowed red circles from the cold, and they were the only bit of color in his face. He walked almost sideways, hunched from the wounds he had received the week before, when he had fought to protect Pearl from monsters.

He should have been in bed. He should have been, all things considered, dead.

But instead, he scuttled alongside her, and every look Pearl gave him scraped iron just below the surface. Cold, cheap iron. The kind that broke fast and broke hard.

Ahead, a group of men emerged from a sagging wine-sack of a building. They were laughing, their faces flushed, and they carried the unmistakable odor of gin. Gin that had, if Pearl stretched her imagination an inch, been brewed in a none-too-clean bathtub.

The men came down the street in a ragged clump. Their voices were loud. Too loud for Pearl and Sam. For them, over the last week, silence had become a friend. One of the men leered at Pearl as he drew closer.

Hey boys, he called to his friends, what a girl! Look at those gams.

Pearl didn’t bother responding. She tried not to bother breathing.

Sam, on the other hand, gave the man a furious glare. He took Pearl’s arm, put himself between her and the crowd of drunks, and steered her forward.

And then the men were behind them. Laughter skipped after them down the street. Ahead, the intersection had grown quiet for a moment. Pearl’s destination, with its arsenic countenance, waited, patient. Patient as a corpse.

You can let go, now, Sam, Pearl murmured.

He didn’t answer. He did, however, pry his hand from her arm.

Pearl threw a glance over her shoulder. The men had almost reached the next street. Their laughter sounded like pennies down a well. She started to turn back and then stopped.

She rubbed her eyes and missed a step. She glanced down to keep from falling, and by the time she looked up, everything was normal.

But she had been certain, quite certain, that one of the shadows was moving.

All right? Sam asked.

Pearl nodded. She was staring at the patch of shadow beneath a tattered poster proclaiming the advantages of Miss Marie’s Health Elixir. The shadow lay there, a scruffy doormat, the way shadows are supposed to lie.

Well, what is it? You want me to find that fellow?

Don’t be ridiculous.

I heard what he said. I’ll—

No, Sam. It’s nothing. I thought I saw something. That’s all.

He paused. She could hear the effort as he tried to contain the anger in his voice—the anger that was always lurking under the surface these days. The anger that was poison rising off something buried deeper in him.

Grief.

What did you see?

She turned to look at him. She could have started a fire with his eyes.

Nothing, honestly. It’s just—I thought one of the shadows was moving. It’s silly.

He swallowed, and even that small gesture looked painful. He pressed one hand under his coat against his chest. Monsters were nothing new to either of them. Neither was being hunted. But Pearl thought they were entitled to a bit of rest. After all, they had won—at a high price, at the price that had cost them everything. But they had won.

Did you mean moving like that? Sam asked.

Pearl looked back.

The shadow came towards them, arching its back across the snow and pavement, passing along the edge of an empty storefront.

Yes, Pearl said. She grabbed Sam’s arm. Exactly like that.

They started walking. Fast, but not a run. Sam couldn’t run. Even a fast walk was putting him at his limits. He had his hand tight against his chest. His face was chalk. Pearl’s arm ached with the strain of keeping him on his feet. The shadow came behind them at a saunter. It slipped around a street lamp, its shape brushing the metal pole. There was a sleekness to the shadow. A strength.

It was a thing that lived by pouncing.

Pearl didn’t look back a second time. Her heart had climbed into her throat. She urged Sam forward faster, and he let out a pitiful noise—something that should have been a scream, something he was trying to hold back. A Daimler rumbled past them, all gray and chrome and bouncing, and sprayed a line of icy water across Pearl’s front.

Then the street was clear. Sam half-fell from the sidewalk. One of his boots slid in the snow, and his full weight came down on Pearl. For half a moment she was certain they would fall.

The back of her neck prickled.

Sam’s breath was hot and wet, dampening a tendril of hair against her neck. One of his arms wrapped around her. Her face was buried in his coat, and he smelled of fire, and sweat, and the cherry-flavored medicine she’d made him drink.

Somehow, they stayed on their feet.

Then Pearl pulled herself free and got them moving again. A moment later they reached the crumbling brick building. Copper plates—some dangling by only a single nail—listed the residents. Dr. Welburn Strickland’s name sat at the top.

Pearl, Sam said.

She helped Sam lean against the building and then tried the door.

Pearl, look.

The street was clear. A pair of Model T’s rumbled past. A man muffled to the eyebrows stopped at the corner and glanced back, watched Pearl and Sam for a moment, and then trudged into the street. Pigeons pecked at a patch of dead grass that poked up between the pavement.

No sign of the shadow.

Or rather, there were shadows everywhere, but only the ordinary, winter afternoon kind. Pearl pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. She was still holding onto the door with her other hand. After a minute, or maybe two, she managed to put a bit more steel in her backbone. She rubbed the smear of lipstick from her glove and eased aching fingers from the door.

Sam had his eyes half-closed. When he closed his eyes, even pale and injured, he looked a bit more like the boy Pearl had met only a month ago. She wondered how long it would be before that, too, was gone.

Not long. Not long for any of them.

Do you want to wait here? Pearl asked.

He didn’t open his eyes, but he shook his head. Pearl helped him to the threshold, and Sam let out another grunt of pain.

I hate him, Sam said as Pearl knocked free a sliver of ice and got the door open. Sam said it the way a man might announce that it was raining or that the mail had arrived. He said it like a man lining up a good shot.

Pearl didn’t answer. She helped him inside. A staircase met them.

Sam didn’t groan, but he said, I hate him so much I think it will burn me up inside. Sometimes, at night—

Then he stopped. He used both hands to ease himself up a step. There was pain on his face and it was written in verse.

Harry didn’t know what he was doing, Pearl said. He never would have done those things to you. Not the real Harry.

The real Harry. Sam turned the phrase over in his mouth and spit it out. He paused, met her eyes, and then he said, I hate him for what he did to you.

They didn’t speak again until they reached the top of the stairs. Sweat covered Sam’s face and stained his collar. When Pearl reached for the door, though, he waved her back and pulled a battered revolver from the back of his trousers. He reached for the door, paused, and waved her back again.

Pearl felt a flicker of irritation, but she moved back. One step.

Sam gave a silent sigh and threw open the door.

Dust and clutter lay in ambush.

Still holding the revolver, Sam limped into the high-ceilinged room. Pearl followed. On their right, heavy drapes blocked out the light from the street. Instead, a series of gas lamps ran overhead, giving off a dim glow. That same light shimmered on the polished wood of tables that ran in rows throughout large room. The tables were organized by their contents: shrunken heads, cuneiform tablets, Indian masks, arrowheads, stone carvings, copper jewelry. The horded treasures made a maze. It was an impressive collection.

And it seemed to have been completely abandoned. Dr. Strickland, who normally kept vigil from his desk, was nowhere to be seen. A set of private rooms was attached to the back of the museum, and Pearl started towards those.

Sam grabbed her arm again and shook his head.

Samuel, stop it, Pearl said. I’ve known Dr. Strickland for ages.

Harry sent us here.

Harry sent us here to return something. Pearl produced the small stone statue, with its exaggerated breasts and belly, with its featureless face. He’s trying to make things right.

Sam didn’t answer. He didn’t put the gun away either.

They moved deeper into the room. And then Sam stopped. He pointed with the revolver deeper into the maze of tables.

A shoe and a length of black sock were visible.

Pearl pulled free of Sam and hurried towards the body. Sam swore and hobbled after her. Pearl threaded her way through the tables. She stopped when she saw who it was.

Dr. Welburn Strickland. Someone—something—had slashed open his stomach. The smell of human waste and blood was thick in the air. The edges of the wound had already blackened.

Pearl knelt and closed Dr. Strickland’s eyes.

Is that . . . Sam let the question hang.

Pearl nodded.

I told you, Sam said. I told you, didn’t I?

This wasn’t Harry.

Harry sent us here. He sent us here for a reason, Pearl. He was probably hoping that whoever killed him would kill us too. Sam swore again and turned in a circle. The murderer might even still be here. Waiting for us.

Harry wouldn’t do that, Sam. Not to Dr. Strickland. Not to us.

Sam moved off down the line of tables. He looked back once. The kind of look saved for animals and fools.

Pearl felt her cheeks heat.

When Sam had disappeared through the door at the far end of the collection, Pearl straightened Dr. Strickland’s jacket, running her fingers along the collar, turning his head to face her. The clay mask stared back. The inside of her wrist touched his chin—warm, but not warm enough—and she shivered and stood up.

Then, drawing the derringer from her clutch, Pearl paced the maze of tables. Nothing leaped out to attack. The shrunken heads stared off into the distance with the silent, unchanging expression of men who had seen another world. At a table of fertility figures, all hewn from the same stubble features, as though carved by children, Pearl paused. She dug the figurine out from her pocket. She rubbed her thumb across the swollen belly and the exaggerated breasts. She didn’t want fertility. Not anymore. Not for herself, at least. But she wanted a little luck.

And, to be fair, she thought the figurine might want a little luck too. That woman probably had back problems.

Sam came back after a few minutes. The color had run from his face like dye in a bad wash. Sweat made constellations across his forehead.

You don’t look well, Pearl said.

I look better than him.

Pearl set the figurine down and said a mental goodbye to the little stone woman. Did you find anything?

The man has a more dressing gowns than Clara Bow.

Pearl raised an eyebrow. You know how many dressing gowns Clara Bow has?

With a bent-spoon smile, Sam said, I’d like to.

She tried to smile back. It was like dropping a bucket into a well that had gone brackish, and been boarded over, and then forgotten. The problem wasn’t that the bucket came up empty. It just didn’t come up at all.

It’ll be all right, Pearl, Sam said. We’ll be all right.

She nodded, but the shrunken heads were grinning now, and she wondered if someone, once, had told them the same thing.

A sound from behind Pearl made her start, and she whirled around, derringer held up.

Someone was in the room with them.

Chapter 1

Cian Shea thought that, for someone who had been beaten, shot, thrown off a cliff, for someone who had battled a giant underground snake and faced off against some of the sickest sons-of-bitches on God’s good earth, for someone who had learned, only a few weeks ago, that monsters and magic were real and hiding in all the dark places—he thought that, all things considered, he had held up fairly well.

The handcuffs, though, said otherwise.

He was waking up and felt like he was buried deep. He lay still and he gave himself a minute to think.

He was in a bed.

That was a good start.

Above him, yellow plaster that had once been white, cracked like pottery tossed from the top of the Louisiana Grand.

Another very good, very pertinent detail.

And, of course, the handcuffs.

Better and better.

It was at this moment that Cian realized he had been drugged. He could feel the ribbons of morphine wrapped around him, cocooning him, smothering him. He sat up. The yellow plaster spilled out of sight, and he found himself facing a small room, a cracked shelf, and a Bible. Of the three, the Bible was the only one that didn’t look like it was worth less than an egg sandwich.

In the morphine shroud, Cian was dizzy, and his mouth dry, and the light from the window was the diffuse orange of ripe peaches, amplified into an aura by the drug. He thought it was rather beautiful. And then he thought he might be sick.

Which he was.

He managed to direct most of the vomit into the stainless steel basin that had been provided. Then he wiped his mouth and lay back down. The cracked ceiling peeked back at him. Doubtful.

He remembered Irene.

In contrast to that memory, the morphine seemed like a pleasant escape. Charging a German trench seemed, for that matter, a pleasant escape. There was logic to a charge. There were risks, true. Death, dismemberment, injury. Little things, compared to facing Irene. He would have traded the sick feeling in his stomach for one good charge. Because, at the bottom of it all, he had treated her horribly and been an absolute ass.

He lay there a moment longer. He wondered if he could convince Harper to speed things up. Take him back to Fort Benning, sprint through the court-martial, and then bundle Cian off to a nice, quiet, and most importantly, a secure, cell. Maybe a bullet through the heart, if he were lucky.

Then, with a sigh, he decided against it. He sat up again. He gave the Bible and the cracked shelf matching dirty looks. He rattled the handcuffs, and they clanked against the steel frame of the bed.

And then he noticed the shadow near the window.

It was moving.

Slowly, yes. Almost imperceptibly. It inched towards him, dragging itself across the tile.

Hey, Cian shouted. Hello. Anybody out there? Guard?

From outside came the scuffle of movement. A moment later, the sound of a lock, and then the door swung open. A heavy, mustachioed man in a St. Louis policeman’s uniform looked into the room. He had a wary face, the kind that said he checked his eggs for poison and his newspaper for a trap. He looked like a man who’d be happier with a mop in one hand and a knife in his back pocket.

He didn’t look much like a cop.

What?

Cian jerked his head at the shadow. For a long moment nothing happened. The look of suspicion on the cop’s face deepened. Cian twisted the chain of one cuff.

And then the shadow moved forward again. Steadily now, without the starts and stops it had shown previously.

The cop’s jaw fell.

Thank God it hadn’t been a morphine dream.

Get me out of here, Cian said.

The cop stared at him for a moment. The wary look of tricks hidden in buttered toast came back.

Cian rattled the cuffs. Get me the hell out of here.

With a nod, the cop sprang into action. He fumbled with the keys at his belt. The shadow came closer. It didn’t drag along the tile. Now it moved with an arched back, at a patient saunter. The cop shoved a key into the cuff, fumbled the whole ring of keys, and swore.

Faster, Cian said.

Still swearing, the cop snatched up the keys, fitting the key back into the lock, and turned.

The first cuff opened.

The shadow made a playful lunge. Metal screeched, and one of the legs of the bedframe snapped. The bed tilted forward.

Give me that, Cian said. Grab your god-damned gun.

He took the keys and went to work on the second cuff. The officer put his back to the wall and pulled his revolver. The man’s hands were shaking hard enough to churn butter.

Cian bit back another wave of nausea. The morphine made his fingers heavy and dull. The key felt a mile away.

But he felt the lock click.

The cuff came open, and Cian rolled out of bed.

From behind him came the sound of shredded fabric, and then the squeal of metal again. The cop let out a shout and started firing. The sound of gunfire hammered Cian toward the door. He kicked it open with one bare foot and glanced back.

Just in time to see something—a blur of darkness, perhaps only a trick of the light—split the cop open across the stomach.

The steaming stench of punctured organs filled the room. A battlefield smell that kicked Cian in the ass and propelled him forward.

Out the door, like a coward, he ran.

Chapter 2

Under his bare feet, the tile was cold. He ran as fast as he could. The morphine made the corridor tilt at uncertain angles and slowed Cian’s reactions. A nurse with a cone of white hair stepped into the hallway. Cian fumbled for purchase on the tile, trying to slide around her, but he checked her with his injured shoulder. Even though the opiate cloud, the pain kicked like a mule, and Cian gritted his teeth and kept running.

Halfway down the hallway, he heard screams. A doctor in a white, blood-spattered apron backed out of a swinging door. He held a scalpel as though it were a sword. From inside the room, the screams reached a crescendo. Cian didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. But as he passed the door and the trembling little doctor, he got a glimpse of the surgery theater within.

A man stood in the middle of the room. His chest hung open like two barn doors. In one hand, he held a nurse by the throat and shook her. There was a crack, and her head fell to the side.

The screaming stopped.

There were more cries coming from deeper in the hospital. Too many cries, even for a place like this. It reminded Cian of France. Of the worst it. The screams of people who were helpless and knew it.

Then Cian skidded to a halt. Coming up the staircase, bulldog-jowls, his coat stained, his hat askew, his pistol raised like an angel’s trumpet, was Captain Irving Harper. The same Captain Harper, of the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division, who had put those handcuffs on Cian. The same Captain Harper who, at this very moment, was lining up a shot on Cian.

Cian darted down a side hall. From behind came a blast of gunfire, the noise trapped and funneled by the tight corridor, and then a fresh chorus of shouts. Harper was calling for the police, and then his shouts changed to swearing, and then, after Cian took the next corner, he lost Harper’s voice in the chaos.

Exhaustion dragged at Cian’s heels. The morphine had turned his stomach and given it a good shake. The pain in his shoulder was creeping back in. He slowed to a walk. A service staircase waited at the end of the hall.

As Cian approached it, a door opened to his right, and a hand swiped at Cian.

He stumbled back. A man stumbled out after him. Or rather, half of a man. The right side of his body was a mess of broken bones and torn skin. He looked like he’d been hit by an automobile. His head hung cockeyed; when he turned it to keep Cian in sight, bone clicked against bone. He took another step towards Cian and swiped again.

Cian dodged again. The man was fast. Too fast for someone who’d been hit by a car.

With a growl, the man made a third, vicious swipe. This time he caught Cian by his bad shoulder. Cian roared. More out of instinct than anything else, he reared back and slugged the man. The punch landed solid on the injured man’s jaw, snapping his cockeyed head to the side.

The man rolled forward. His hand tightened on Cian’s shoulder. His nails bit through the thin cotton gown. Cian landed another punch, this time on a vicious gash that ran across the man’s torso. A woof of breath left the man, but otherwise the blow didn’t seem to slow him.

Cian staggered back a step. He was trying to suck in a breath and his brain was flashing warning lights. The man came with him, still grasping at Cian.

For God’s sake, Cian said, trying to knock the man’s hand free. Let go.

The man’s eyes widened. They held a glassy green sea. He lunged forward, mouth open, as if he were going to bite Cian.

And then a round took off the top half of the man’s head. The force of the shot threw the man back. His hand came off Cian’s shoulder, and he dropped to the ground. Brain and bone fanned across the floor.

Did you want to play with him? a man asked.

Cian turned around. Patrick Hannafy stood there, dark-haired and smiling like a boy after his first time at bat. He was holding a very familiar-looking pistol and looking too God-damned pleased with himself.

Next to him was Irene.

Irene. Beautiful, dark-haired, thin, and holding a silver-handled revolver. She wore a fur coat. She could have worn the Queen of England’s robes and looked at home. She was, quite obviously, still angry at him.

And suddenly, just like that, all the old scrapes and scratches, all the old fights, came back.

Francis Derby, for example.

And, for that matter, Patrick Hannafy, who needed his teeth knocked out one by one.

Well? Patrick said, looking from Cian to Irene.

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

Irene was the first to break the silence. Are you—

What the hell is he doing here? Cian asked.

For a moment, she looked just like the old Irene. Color rushed into her cheeks, her back stiffened, she tilted her chin at that haughty, impossible angle. The kind of woman who was about to give him a piece of her mind and it wasn’t going to be cherry pie. Then she went cold again. She turned to Patrick.

Patrick, darling, find us a way out of here.

He flashed her that same damned grin and started down the service stairs.

Irene and Cian exchanged glares.

Can you walk? Irene asked.

He pushed past her to the stairs and said, I made it this far, didn’t I?

Another two seconds and you would have been chum. Irene stayed behind him, that ridiculous little revolver in her hand, casting backward glances. A thank you would be the polite thing, you know.

Thank you, Irene. Thank you so God-damned much for bringing Patrick Hannafy back into all this. Because things weren’t quite right, you know? Not without that traitorous, rotten, toothy mick trying to charm his way up your skirt.

At the bottom of the stairs he stopped and turned to see the effect of his words.

Irene had a cat’s smile on her face as she brushed past him. He caught the scent of her soap, and the fur coat, and her hair.

Toothy, was all she said as she stepped out into the hallway.

A moment later, Cian went after her, trying to figure out how she’d turned him on his head yet again.

Chapter 3

For Harry Witte, freedom came with a dead man and a lot of memories. He stood outside the Public Hospital for Persons Insane, his home and prison until approximately a quarter of an hour before, and thought, once again, that the whole situation felt like unreal. The sun cracked a red eye from the horizon. The streets lay under a blanket of trampled, black snow. The last light of day made unflinching distinctions with the clarity typical of dreams.

And then, of course, there was Oliver Dupont, who held Harry by the upper arm, as though making certain he didn’t disappear.

Oliver Dupont, with red-gold hair, who had died.

Or so Harry had thought.

A cab rolled up to the curb, and Oliver loosed his first, impatient breath. He threw a glance back at the Public Hospital.

There had been no disturbances, as far as Harry could tell. Oliver hadn’t opened a path with a gun and walked in over the dead. There hadn’t even been any paperwork.

None of which explained Oliver’s tiny cracks of worry.

Without a word, Oliver threw open the door and pushed Harry into the cab. He followed a moment later.

The cab will take us back to your place, Oliver said. He had one hand inside his coat. His eyes studied the hospital. Give him the address.

I haven’t forgotten how cabs work, Olly, Harry said.

Just give him the address.

Harry leaned forward, gave the cabbie the address, and added, I wasn’t in there long enough for that.

The cabbie gave a polite laugh, the kind meant to fill a frightening silence, and then the car pulled into the street. Outside, sunlight painted the snow jaundiced, and glimpses of the city’s red brick were the only hint of warmth. As Harry and Oliver left the hospital behind, the streets became more crowded. After a few more blocks, Oliver leaned back with a sigh.

He kept his hand inside his coat, though.

I’m not going to attack you, Harry said.

Oliver blinked. What?

Harry glanced at Oliver’s hand in his coat.

It’s not you.

Then what is it?

Oliver shook his head. For the first time since Oliver had appeared at the hospital, Harry began to notice the details. Oliver was tired. Dead tired, and it was written in dark smudges under his eyes. His trouser cuffs were frayed, his coat missing a button, and he looked like he skipped more meals than he ate.

What’s wrong, Olly?

Oliver squeezed his arm. All he said, though, was, Ask me twenty years ago.

Harry opened his mouth, but Oliver shook his head and turned to face the window.

When they pulled up in front of Harry’s apartment building, Oliver opened the door and helped Harry out.

You live here?

Unless I’ve been evicted, Harry said. I’ve been . . . elsewhere. I suppose I should go up and see if I’ve still got a home. You’ll come with me, won’t you? I haven’t—God, Olly, it’s been a lifetime.

At those words, the exhaustion in Oliver’s face seemed to stretch. No, he said. I’d like to. But no, not right now, Harry.

Olly—

Don’t—please, don’t call me that. It’s Oliver. Anyway, I’ll come see you. Soon. I promise.

Without waiting for an answer, Oliver threw himself back into the cab, and the car started off. Snow washed over Harry’s shoes. He kicked the slush off, stared after the cab, and wondered how much whiskey Cian had left him.

And, more importantly, if it would be enough to get Oliver Dupont out of his head for the night.

Harry took the stairs. He traced the patterns of rust and peeling paint with one hand. He studied the broken teeth of the steps. It felt like years since he had been here. In reality, though, it couldn’t have been more than a pair of weeks. A pair of weeks since he’d put on the Drowning Mask. A pair of weeks since the madness had taken hold completely.

But the madness had been growing for a long time. Much of the last year had been packed in old newspaper and shoved to the back of his head. A few parts were clear. The time he spent with Pearl. Or when he’d been injured, and his conversation with Cian.

The rest, though—well, he wasn’t sure he wanted to unwrap those particular memories.

His key still fit the lock. That was a good sign. Harry opened the door and stepped inside.

It was clean. That was the first thing he noticed. Someone—Pearl, of course—had come after he had disappeared and straightened up the place. Gotten it ready for him to come home, no matter how long it took. The thought made it hard to breathe. Harry loosened his necktie and wiped his cheeks. The matching chairs and sofa, the coffee table, the lamps. Everything was as it should be. Through the door to the sitting room, he saw the liquor cabinet. That, too, looked like it was in good order, thank God.

Harry hung up his coat and took a few more steps into the apartment. It was warm, courtesy of the furnace in the basement, and his bed was right down the hall. He felt like he could sleep for a year.

Except something wasn’t right. The hair on the back of his neck stirred. It was the feeling of being watched. The feeling that he was not alone.

Harry took another step into the room.

It was the feeling of magic.

He paused and studied the apartment, trying to discover the source of the feeling. A window at the back of the apartment allowed a finger of ocher light to scratch the edge of the hall. The rest of the apartment was layered in shadows.

Along the far wall, something moved. Harry paused. He could feel the magic now. Thick and clinging, like cobwebs or wet wool. When he tried to see what had drawn his attention, though, there was nothing there. Only a thicker patch of shadow.

In the back of his brain, he wondered if he was still mad.

The shadow moved again, taking a sinuous path across the rug.

Mad or not, that was enough to make Harry stumble back. He didn’t want to use magic. The corrupting effect of seeing the universe’s secrets, of peeling back the skin of reality, had already damaged him enough. On the other hand, he didn’t know how to fight a shadow. Hell, he didn’t even know if the damned thing was real.

The shadow kept coming.

Real or not real? Mad or sane?

With a pounce, the shadow cleared the coffee table and began to rush at Harry.

At that moment, Harry didn’t care if he was mad. He grabbed his coat, threw open the door, and ran out of the apartment. He barreled down the hallway, staring behind him, waiting for the shadow to emerge from the apartment.

Still running at full speed, he collided with something like a brick wall. The impact drove the air from Harry’s lungs. His feet flew up, and then he was falling.

He landed face-first on a wool coat.

Jesus fucking Christ, a familiar voice said.

Struggling for breath, Harry lifted his head. He didn’t think he could stand. He didn’t think he could do much besides try to find air.

Oliver lay underneath him, one hand pressed to the back of his head, staring at Harry.

And all of the sudden, Harry realized he was tangled up with Oliver, stretched out on top of the other man. There were things Harry should have been thinking about. The shadow that had chased him from his home. The lingering fear that he was still mad.

Instead of those things, though, Harry was thinking about how very different Oliver’s body felt. About how much had changed since the last time they had lain together.

Harry? You ok? Oliver got them both sitting upright.

In answer, Harry took a huge, honking breath. It sounded like a donkey testing out a trumpet.

I’ll take that as a yes, Oliver said with a smile. It was the first one Harry had seen on his friend’s face. What was that all about? Where were you going?

Harry looked back at the apartment. The door was open. The corner of his rug was visible. There was no shadow creeping towards him.

I was going to find you, Harry said. I thought I might catch you.

"Catch up to my cab? That I drove