Ever.
“Dylan!” A yell, but he didn’t sound alarmed or worried.
She spun around, directed the torch beam down the length of the tunnel.
“Yeah?”
“It’s safe. Can you bring the other bag?”
Right. For some reason she thought he would’ve come back to collect her, but that was stupid. And unnecessary. He’d checked the tunnel, for goodness sake. There were no wraiths; there was no danger.
“Get a grip,” Dylan muttered to herself.
Hiking the other bag up onto her shoulder, she started down the tunnel.
It didn’t take long, just ten or so steps, before its claustrophobic tightness wiped out all sound from outside. The gentle whisper of the wind, the occasional caw of a bird. The distant thrum of traffic driving along the road. It was all deadened in here. There was only the sound of her breath, quick and nervous, the rustle of her jacket and the crunch of stones shifting under her feet. The scuttling and scratching of things – rats, mice, bats – shying away from her presence.
It took far too long and no time at all to reach Tristan’s side. He was down on his haunches, torch propped up on a sleeper, rummaging in his bag.
“Here?” Dylan asked, confused.
This wasn’t the crash site. That was at least a hundred feet away.
“This is as close as I want you to get,” Tristan said. “Last time, you told me you felt a pull. Like something was trying to haul you back to the wasteland. Do you feel it now?”
Dylan thought about it, concentrating on her chest, her heart. It was beating faster than normal, and she felt a strange compulsion to keep moving, but not that terrifying yanking sensation.
“No,” she said. “I’m OK here.”
“Good.” He stood up, a curl of rope in his hand. “I’m going to tie one end to the line here. If it goes really taut, or I start yanking on it, pull. As hard as you can. But don’t,” he stepped forward, ducking down to stare into her eyes, “go past this point. Got it?”
Dylan nodded obediently. Of course, if it came down to it, she would follow the rope through the portal until she found Tristan at the end of it, but there was no need to tell him that.
Tristan finished tying the rope around his waist, then bent and double-knotted the other end to a metal coupling, yanking to make sure it was firmly attached. As soon as he let go and stood up, Dylan went to hold on to the rope where it met the metal.
“You don’t need to do that,” Tristan told her. “Wait until you see me yanking on it.”
“I want to hold it,” Dylan confessed. “I’ll be able to feel you moving, it’ll make me feel better.”
“All right.” Tristan hiked both bags up over one shoulder, leaving his other hand free to hold the heavy torch. He began to walk away, but turned back suddenly, stepping close and pressing a quick but firm kiss against her lips. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
TWENTY-SIX
It will be fine, Tristan thought. It will be fine.
Still, walking away from Dylan took a monumental effort. He didn’t want to take her into the wasteland with him – nothing in this life or the next could make him do that – but he didn’t like her out of his sight when he knew there were wraiths around.
He had no idea what was going to happen to them and the weird connection they shared when he slipped into the wasteland, but he’d committed to this plan now, and he needed to see it through. There was nothing else to be done, not if he wanted to appease the Inquisitor and save both their lives.
He was angry with himself – incredibly angry. If he’d just done the decent thing and delivered Dylan across the wasteland and to the line with cold detachment like he was supposed to, like he always did, then she’d be safe there now. Dead, but safe. He’d never have known her smiles, her gentle touch and the kisses that made him feel like he was drowning and flying all at once, but that wasn’t important. He loved her, and so he should have made her safe, not tried to take more than he was ever meant to have. A life, a soul to love.
But there was no turning back the clock. All he could do was try to fix the mess he’d made, and hope he and Dylan came out the other side alive.
Despite his determination, he still paused on the threshold of the wasteland. What if, once he went through, he was torn apart from Dylan, linked to a new soul, thrown to another edge of the wasteland, never to find the tunnel again? What would happen to Dylan then?
What if, when he stepped through, he simply severed the link between them and killed them both?
There was no way to know. Taking a deep breath, he reached for the darker, colder atmosphere of the wasteland – and stepped into it.
Nothing happened.
That quick realisation had breath rushing from Tristan’s lungs. He knew he was alive, still in Dylan’s wasteland, and, as far as he could tell, that meant Dylan was fine too. Putting a hand down, he felt at the rope around his middle. It was an irrational thought, but he had the strangest feeling that the tether he’d created – the physical connection it made between him and Dylan – was preventing the debilitating effects of separation. He gave himself a moment to bask in relief before he got to work.
Moving just a couple of feet from the gateway, he dropped to his knees, threw the torch on the ground, and unzipped both bags. With cautious haste, he arranged the various bottles and wires around him within the torch’s glow. He had only a rudimentary knowledge of what he was attempting, but hopefully Dove’s instructions would be enough. The key was in initiating the chemical reaction, similar to dropping a Mentos in a bottle of Coke.
With agile but slightly shaking hands, he balanced the little tub of crystals above the container of liquid. He then set up a device similar to a mouse trap – once the timer counted down, it would spring open and tip the crystals in. And… kaboom.
When he had everything ready, he backed up very, very carefully and then grabbed the jerrycan of petrol. Taking great pains not to get any on himself, he doused the area around his little science experiment – the walls and the sleepers and everything in between – with gasoline. Then he sent up a prayer… and pressed the timer.
Thirty seconds. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.
Satisfied that the clock was working, Tristan turned and began hurrying towards the portal. He grinned, unable to believe how easy it had been… and a bare second later he felt the talons gripping his shoulders, shredding his jacket and piercing his skin.
A wraith.
Tristan’s first thought wasn’t a thought at all, more a paralysing eruption of panic. It shot through him like lightning, flooding him with adrenaline.
It was too late to stop the bomb – this wasn’t a fancy professional job, it was held together with duct tape, and once he’d set the timer, there was no going back. He had to get the wraith off him now.
He whirled, trying to get the creature in front of him, but its claws were embedded in his clothes, his flesh, and it turned with him, trying to tip him off balance. Snarling with frustration and anger, Tristan reached up to grab at its talons, planning to yank it down so that he could get to its vulnerable eyes, its neck. But he couldn’t get any grip at all. His hands passed right through the wraith’s savaging claws as if – as if he was human. A soul in the wasteland, rather than a ferryman.
The panic surged back, stronger than ever. He knew that an ordinary soul had no way to fight off a wraith. Without their ferryman, it was inevitable that they would be dragged down beneath the ground, their essence consumed until they became another one of these loathsome, mindless creatures. The only remote possibility of survival was escape.
Logically, his brain knew that. But unadulterated fear had made his body take over, and it wasn’t listening. He thrashed and twisted, writhed and wrestled, trying desperately to keep his feet so that the thing couldn’t drag him under. How many seconds were left? Twenty? Fifteen?
Ten?
He couldn’t dislodge the wraith. He couldn’t even touch it. He’d st
ill be struggling here when the world – the tunnel – exploded. If that didn’t kill him, the fire would.
An almighty yank around his middle sent him to his knees. He sprawled across the gravel, his elbow connecting with a sleeper in a shock of pain. Above him the wraith gave a gleeful cackle of joy and swooped, punching straight through his stomach. The sensation made him contract every muscle, forcing the breath from his lungs. Hauling in more air, he tried to get his hands and feet under him, the sharp stones cutting into his palms, but the wraith had a hold of him again and was pulling, pulling, pulling. The ground beneath him seemed to be melting, like thick treacle. It was all Tristan could do to lift a hand, shift a knee forward…
He was sinking.
He was going to die.
The yank came again, dragging him forwards, hauling him up. It freed him for a blissful moment, but the wraith worked its teeth into him, pulling him back. Under.
Another yank. Then another. Tristan felt like he was being broken in half. Blasting forward in a jolt, he felt the air change as he passed through the hole they’d torn in the veil.
He lay there for the briefest instant, stunned, before his brain registered the furious, frenzied shrieking of the wraith behind him. It had piggy-backed across with him, talons sunk into Tristan’s side. He was no longer in the wasteland – he could touch it now. He got his arms beneath him, lifted up… and a burst of sound slammed him flat again.
The bomb.
There was a blaze of light as flame licked through the portal, singeing the hair on Tristan’s head, then there was utter darkness. Utter silence. Tristan held still, hardly daring to move.
“Tristan!” His name echoed around the tunnel. “Oh my God, Tristan, are you all right?”
Jerking his head up he stared, speechless, at the outline of the girl standing in front of him, the tunnel mouth in the background turning her into nothing more than a silhouette.
Still, there was no mistaking who it was.
“Susanna,” he croaked. “You’re here.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Dylan stood motionless in the dark of the train tunnel. Beside her, a boy who looked about the same age as Tristan shifted and fidgeted, but she ignored him. Her gaze was fixed dead ahead, where Tristan, her Tristan, was staring, mouth agape, at a pretty, dark-haired girl.
The rope that tethered them hung loosely in her hands, but Dylan hadn’t been the one to haul Tristan back to safety. She’d tried – God, she’d tried – but it had been ripping through her grip, skinning the palms of her hands. She’d been about to lose control of it when she was roughly shouldered aside and the girl – Susanna – took a much firmer, stronger hold and yanked Tristan back through. Just in time.
They were lucky. A second later, and Dylan would have lost him. A second later, and Tristan would have been caught in the blast. But watching the way the two of them were gazing at each other now, Dylan didn’t feel very lucky.
“Tristan?” she called hesitantly.
She wanted an explanation. She wanted to get between him and the girl.
“Stop!” Tristan shouted. “There’s a wraith!”
Dylan planted her feet, flicking her torch all over the tunnel. “Where?”
She hadn’t seen anything fly past her but then… she’d been distracted.
“It’s here.” The cause of her distraction took a step to the left and kicked at something on the dirt and gravel floor. Her voice was low and accentless, but strangely compelling. “It’s dead.”
Tristan sighed and leant against the wall of the tunnel. “It must have got caught by the blast. Here,” he gestured to a thick length of metal by Dylan’s feet. “Pass me that.”
She handed it to him wordlessly and, after climbing stiffly to his feet, Tristan lifted the hunk of steel above his head and smashed down with all his strength. There was no blood, but wisps started to appear above the two lifeless hunks. The four of them stepped back while the wraith disintegrated into a cloud of back poison.
There were a million questions running through Dylan’s head as she watched Tristan and the girl standing over the wraith, but first she had to check… “Did it work, Tristan?”
“I don’t know.” Tristan turned, facing the space where the tear was. Dylan noticed he was avoiding Susanna’s gaze. “One way to find out.”
Lifting both hands up, he felt for a change in the air, the subtle difference that denoted a move into the wasteland. For two, three cautious steps, he met with nothing. Nothing at all.
The portal to the wasteland had closed.
“I think we’ve done it!” Tristan said, continuing to poke and prod at the impenetrable doorway.
“Really?” Dylan stepped forward eagerly, but Tristan held out a hand to keep her back. “It’s OK – I don’t feel it like I did before. There’s no pull.” She came forward until she stood shoulder to shoulder with him, feeling for the veil herself. When she was done, she dropped her hand and very deliberately intertwined her fingers with his.
She took a moment to glance back and take in Susanna’s reaction. The tunnel was too dark to really see, but was that a hint of consternation on her face? Of jealousy?
Jack’s face, at least, was utterly blank. Uninterested. He stood beside Susanna, but somehow also apart. Dylan turned back to Tristan.
“We did it,” she whispered.
Tristan let go of her hand and went to his waist, where he began to work at the tight knot of rope around his middle. Dylan saw his fingers tremble slightly as he worked at the tangled mass. It had saved his life. If it hadn’t been tied around him…
The same thought seemed to occur to Tristan. He gave up untying himself and dragged her into a tight embrace.
“Tristan?” Dylan spoke tentatively, one of her hands stroking through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Who is—”
“You saved me,” he mumbled, his face buried in her neck. “If you hadn’t pulled on the rope, the wraith would have had me. I couldn’t fight it.”
“You would have.” Dylan tried to reassure him, but a hard lump set in her throat. He didn’t know. He didn’t know that she wasn’t the one who managed to yank him to safety. She could feel Susanna’s eyes on her – along with the inexplicable silence between this new girl and Tristan, even though they clearly knew each other.
“No,” Tristan denied. “I couldn’t get a hold of the wraith. And there were only seconds left on the bomb. If you hadn’t pulled me through, Dylan, if you—”
“It wasn’t me.” The truth came blurting out even though she tried to hold it in. “I didn’t save you.”
Tristan stiffened for a moment in her arms before drawing back. “What?”
“I didn’t save you,” Dylan repeated. “It was her.” The words tasted like ash in her mouth. “Susanna was the one to pull you back through.”
Detangling himself from Dylan, Tristan turned to Susanna. His real saviour. Then he repeated exactly what he’d said before, his voice holding the same stunned shock.
“Susanna. You’re here.”
Shock, Dylan thought, and something more.
“Let’s get out of the tunnel,” Tristan said. “Then we’ll talk.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
The human girl stayed close to Tristan as he led them out of the tunnel. Susanna watched them, noticing the tight grip she had on his hand, the quick, discreet glances she kept shooting back at her. Behind her, Jack tripped along. It wasn’t like him to be so quiet, to let someone else take charge. It probably wouldn’t last very long.
The lashing rain had stopped. Now the sky hung low and angry. Susanna glanced up at it as they stepped out from beneath the arched opening to the tunnel – and promptly walked straight into the broad strength of Tristan’s back.
“Oof! Sorry,” she mumbled, bouncing back unsteadily into the path of Jack, who shifted to avoid her rather than catch her. Instead, it was Tristan who shot out an arm to prevent her falling. His grip was strong, the heat of his hand soaking through the damp woollen
fabric of the cardigan she wore.
It was the first time he’d ever touched her.
Though they’d known each other for centuries, he’d never, ever touched her.
If the same thought occurred to Tristan, she couldn’t read it in his eyes. Or his face. Whatever he was thinking or feeling about discovering her here, in the real world, with him, was completely hidden.
When he was sure she had her balance, he let her go.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Mutely, she nodded. Opened her mouth, then closed it again. What to say? Every moment, every late-night encounter they’d shared, gazing out at the wasteland, or up at the stars, watching the wraiths gather, had been shared in silence. There had been no need for words.
She needed words now. “Yes, thank you.”
“Tristan.” The girl standing beside Tristan was still clinging to him like a limpet. Something passed between them and Tristan turned back to Susanna.
“This is Dylan,” he told Susanna. “She is—”
“The soul you used to cross over,” Susanna finished for him. “I know, I saw.”
“I didn’t use her,” Tristan scowled. “We did it together.”
“So you’re a ferryman too – like him?” Dylan chipped in.
“Dylan,” Tristan said. “This is Susanna. Yes, she’s another ferryman.” Tristan’s eyes flicked over to Jack and then back to Susanna, one eyebrow raised in a silent question.
“This is Jack,” Susanna offered.
“Hi.” Dylan offered him a tentative smile and Jack gave her a brief chin jerk in response. His eyes were watchful, wary, and mostly focussed on Tristan.
Tristan dismissed Jack with the tiniest shrug of one shoulder and then turned back to Susanna, piercing her. “What are you doing here?”
Susanna startled, shocked by the question, though she supposed she should have expected it.
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