Dylan had rocketed out of the chair, thrown herself forward to the door, toes nibbling at the threshold. The wraiths had screamed in anticipation, but she’d stopped just short, staring out.
Tristan. She could see him. Him. Not as a pulsing ball of light, but a person, a body, a face. Dylan smiled, gulping in air as if she hadn’t breathed since… since he’d left her. He was running, pulling at something as the picture cleared. The landscape stopped flickering, and solidified into the heather-clad wilderness she’d known before. The other souls disappeared, the wraiths dimming to shadows. Only their hissing and crowing stopped her running out to meet him.
As she watched, she realised he was towing another soul. She couldn’t see who it was. They were distorted, not quite as transparent as the other souls she’d seen, but still not quite real. Half in, half out. A woman. She was running too. Dylan felt a stab of jealousy when she saw they were holding hands.
That’s when she’d shouted out, shouted his name. She’d had to do it one, two, three times to be sure he’d heard her, but at last he’d looked up towards the safe house. She’d waved energetically, delighted and frantic – because Tristan and the soul were cutting it close, just as she had done – and he’d seen her. She’d seen it in his face. Shock. Horror. Joy. All at the same time.
And he’d dropped the woman’s hand.
It was instantaneous. The twisting, writhing shadows, that had hovered above them like their own personal thundercloud, descended on the woman in a thrashing swarm. She panicked, clawing at empty air. Dylan watched, her hand still wrapped over her mouth, as they took hold. It was more horrific, more solid, more real than watching the soul being taken into the depths of the lake.
And it was all her fault.
They grabbed the woman’s hair, her arms, attacked her torso, all in the blink of an eye. Tristan turned almost at once, saw what was happening, and Dylan watched as he tried to save her. He reached up, seemed to be trying to pull at the air, but nothing happened; the demons continued their assault on the woman. Astonishment flickered across Tristan’s face, but a heartbeat later a determined scowl had wiped it out. He waded in, hauling wraith after wraith off her, but they simply circled back and came again from another angle. Dylan stood in the doorway, her hand reaching out in sympathy, and gazed as the soul was dragged down beneath the surface.
Guilt tumbled over, crushing her with its weight. She’d killed the woman. Whoever she was, Dylan had killed her. Did she have a husband? Children? Had she counted on seeing them again? A flash of Eliza, waiting endlessly for someone who was never going to come, screamed in her brain. All because she had shouted out. She clapped her hand over her mouth to stop herself calling for him again. It was too late though, the damage was done. The woman was dead.
What had she done?
Tristan didn’t turn to look at her, but stared down at the spot in the long grass where the soul had disappeared. He didn’t seem to notice the remaining wraiths, who were circling him like sharks, teeth bared, ready to rip into their prey.
He still didn’t react when one swooped down, tearing at his shoulder. Or the next, which smashed into his face. Dylan gaped. Was that blood, running down his cheek? Why wasn’t he moving? Why wasn’t he doing anything to defend himself?
Why wasn’t he running for the safe house? For her?
Another wraith went for him, and another. Then more. They seemed delighted at his apathetic stance. Without realising it, Dylan threw herself from the doorway and was pounding down the path before her brain caught up with her actions. It was very dark now. The fire burning in the cottage behind her glowed much more brightly than the dying light of day. If he didn’t move, if she didn’t reach him…
“Tristan!” she gasped, flying towards him. “Tristan, what are you doing?”
Wraiths were whipping round her face, but it had never been easier to ignore their darting movements.
“Tristan!”
At last he seemed to come awake. He turned, still besieged by the smoking black shadows, and his face, blank at first, seemed to come alive, like waking from a trance. He reached for her just as she barrelled into him.
“Dylan,” he breathed. Then he took control. “Move!”
Whatever had paralysed him before was gone now. Wrapping one hand around her lower arm and squeezing so tightly it hurt, he bolted back the way she had come. The wraiths screeched and snarled, but he was moving so fast they couldn’t find any purchase, and their claws were helpless to snag at Dylan, yanked along in his wake. A metre at a time, Tristan pushed and fought against their grabbing talons and biting teeth. Head down, jaws clenched, hand firmly wrapped around Dylan’s wrist, he drove them towards the safe house.
“What the hell are you doing here?” He rounded on her the instant they were inside. The clamour from the wraiths faded into the background and the cottage was quiet and tranquil but for the anger that seemed to emanate from Tristan’s every pore.
“What?” Dylan looked at him, confused. Wasn’t he pleased to see her? The icy fire in his eyes said no. They glowed as they stared at her. Not a trick of the light, it was frightening.
“What are you doing here, Dylan?”
“I…” Dylan opened and closed her mouth, but no sound came out. This wasn’t how she had imagined this conversation. There was a lot less hugging and a lot more coldness.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Tristan continued. He started to pace in an agitated manner, running a hand through his hair and then gripping a handful. “I took you across, right to the line. You weren’t supposed to come back.”
A strange feeling crept over Dylan. Her cheeks grew hot and her stomach squirmed. Her heart was thumping at erratic intervals in her chest, hurting her. She dropped her eyes before Tristan could see the fat droplets that were trickling towards her chin.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the flagstoned floor. “I made a mistake.”
She could see that now. The words he had said had been nothing more than lies to get her safely across. He hadn’t meant any of it. She thought of the soul he’d just been ferrying, the woman she’d accidentally killed with nothing more than her own stupidity; thought about the way they’d been holding hands as they’d run from danger. Had she swallowed Tristan’s lies as easily as Dylan had? Her gaze burning into the ground, she suddenly felt incredibly childish.
“Dylan.” Tristan said her name again, but much more gently. The change in his tone gave her just enough courage to look up. He’d stopped pacing, was scrutinising her with much softer eyes. Embarrassed, she scrubbed at her cheeks, sniffed back the tears that still lingered. She tried to look away as he approached, but he walked right up to her until he was close enough to rest his forehead against hers. “What are you doing here?” he murmured.
The same words, but this time a question, not an accusation. This one was easier to answer, if she closed her eyes, if she didn’t have to look at him.
“I came back.”
He sighed. “You weren’t supposed to do that.” Pause. “Why did you come back, Dylan?”
Dylan swallowed, confused. Now that his anger was gone, now that he was touching her, his face just in front of her, if she had the nerve to lift her eyes, she was back to being muddled. There was only one way to discover the truth. She took a deep breath.
“For you.” She waited for a reaction, but there wasn’t one. At least not that she could hear. She still didn’t have the courage to open her eyes. “Did you mean it? Any of it?”
Another sigh. But that could be frustration, embarrassment, regret. Dylan trembled, waiting. Something warm pressed to her cheek. A hand?
“I didn’t lie to you, Dylan. Not about that.”
Her breathing spiked as she processed his words. He’d meant it. He did feel what she felt. Dylan curled her lips up into a timid smile, but she held a tight rein on the warmth building in her chest. She wasn’t sure she could trust it, not quite yet.
“Open your eyes.”
Sudde
nly shy, Dylan hesitated for a moment, then dragged her eyelids back. Taking a deep breath, she looked up until she met his gaze. He was closer than she’d thought; close enough for their breath to mingle. Still holding her cheek, he drew her face forward until their lips pressed together, blue eyes still boring into hers. He held her there for a moment, then pulled away and curled her into his chest.
“I didn’t lie to you, Dylan,” he whispered into her ear, “but you shouldn’t be here.”
Dylan stiffened, tried to pull away, but he held on tightly, refusing to let her move.
“Nothing’s changed. I still can’t go on with you, and you can’t stay here. You saw what happened to that woman. Sooner or later, that would happen to you. It’s too dangerous.”
Dylan’s breath caught in her lungs as she processed his words and an avalanche of guilt smashed down on.
“I killed that woman,” she mouthed into his shoulder. There was no volume in the words, but Tristan somehow heard her.
“No.” He shook his head, the motion rubbing his lips against her neck. The skin there tingled. “I killed her. I let go of her hand.”
“Because of me—”
“No, Dylan,” Tristan cut her off, firmer now. “She was my responsibility; I lost her.” He took a deep breath and the arms coiled around her tightened, almost uncomfortably. “I lost her. That’s what this place is. It’s a hell-hole. You can’t stay here.”
“I want to stay with you,” Dylan implored.
Tristan shook his head at her gently.
“Not here.”
“Come back with me,” she begged.
“I told you, I can’t. I can’t ever go there, I…” Tristan made a frustrated noise, his teeth snapping together.
“What about the other side, then?” Dylan pulled back again, fighting against his grip when he tried to hold on to her. “My world. Come back across the wasteland with me, back to the train. We could…”
Tristan stared at her, his eyebrows drawn together in aggravation. He shook his head slowly, placing a finger on her lips.
“I can’t do that either,” he said.
“Have you ever tried?”
“No, but—”
“Then you don’t know. The soul I spoke to said—”
“Who did you speak to?” Tristan’s eyes narrowed.
“An old woman, Eliza. She’s the one who told me how to get back here. She said we might be able to, if we—”
“Might,” Tristan echoed dubiously. “Dylan, there’s no going back.”
“Do you know that?” she pressed. Tristan hesitated. He didn’t know, she realised. He believed. That wasn’t the same thing.
“Isn’t it worth a try?” Dylan asked. She chewed on her lip anxiously. If he really, truly had meant what he’d said before, if he honestly loved her, wouldn’t he want to try?
Tristan turned his head from side to side, his expression forlorn, sombre. “It’s too big a gamble,” he told her. “You believe this woman because she’s told you what you want to hear, Dylan. The only thing I know is that you’re not safe here. If you stay in the wasteland, your soul won’t survive. Tomorrow I’m taking you back across the lake.”
Dylan shuddered at more than just the thought of crossing the water again. She took a step back, folded her arms across her chest. Her face was set in a stubborn mask.
“I don’t want to go back there. Not alone. I’m going back to the train. Come with me. Please?” She made the last word a plea. It was. She had no intention of going to the train on her own; it was completely pointless without him. This whole thing, everything she had risked, it had all been about getting back to him. She hadn’t known, either, not for sure, but she’d still done it. Wasn’t he willing to take a chance, too? A chance for her?
She watched Tristan lick his lips, swallow; saw the hesitation in his face. He was wavering. What could she say to tip him over the edge, to make him give in?
“Please, Tristan. Can we just try? If it doesn’t work…” If it didn’t work the wraiths could have her. She wasn’t going back across the line alone. Better not to mention that though. “If it doesn’t work, you can bring me back. But can we just try?”
He screwed up his face, torn. “I don’t know if I can,” he said. “I don’t choose… I mean, I don’t have free choice, Dylan. My feet, they’re not mine. Sometimes they make me go where I have to. Like…” He hung his head. “Like when they made me walk away from you.”
Dylan considered him. “You’re still my ferryman. If I ran from you, if you couldn’t make me come with you and I ran, would you have to follow?”
“Yes,” he said, drawing out the word, not seeing where she was going.
Dylan smiled at him. “Then I’ll lead.”
Dylan knew she had not entirely convinced Tristan, but he did not try to talk her out of it. Instead they sat close together on the single bed and he listened to her describe everything that had happened to her since he’d left her at the line. He was fascinated by every detail, never having seen any of the things she’d experienced. He smiled when she told him about her visit to see Jonas, although his eyes darkened when she confessed that it had been the Nazi soldier who had taken her to Eliza and helped her open the door back to the wasteland. Caeili interested him greatly, too, and his eyes widened in surprise when Dylan explained about the books in the records room.
“You saw a book of my souls?” he asked.
Dylan nodded. “That’s how I found Jonas.”
Tristan considered that for a moment. “Were there many empty pages left?”
Dylan stared at him, baffled by the question. “I’m not sure,” she hedged. “It was about two-thirds full maybe.”
Tristan nodded, then caught her confused expression. “I just wondered whether… if I filled my book, whether I’d be done,” he explained.
Dylan didn’t know what to say to that, to his words or the painfully sad look that came into his eyes when he said them.
“It’s strange,” he said, after a long moment of silence. “I can’t even decide if I’d like to see it. If I had the chance, I mean. How would I feel, looking at all those names?”
“Proud,” Dylan said. “You should feel proud. All those souls, all those people, they’re alive because of you. You know what I mean,” she said, elbowing Tristan gently in the ribs when he shot her an amused look at her choice of words. If they were still thinking and feeling, then they were alive, surely?
“I guess that’s true. When you weigh it up, I ferried more souls than I lost.”
Dylan’s breath caught in her throat, thinking of the deleted records.
“I saw names with a line through them,” she said quietly.
He nodded. “They are lost souls. Souls taken by the wraiths. I’m glad they are recorded somewhere, and it is only fair that their names are kept close to the one responsible for losing them.”
A small sob worked its way from Dylan’s lips, but she strangled it quickly. Tristan turned his head to look at her, his eyes concerned, curious, and she had to confess her thoughts.
“There should be a book for me, then,” she whispered.
“Why?” Tristan looked puzzled, not understanding what had painted the anguish across her face.
“Today,” she croaked. “That was my fault. That woman’s soul should go against my name.”
“No.” Tristan shifted round on the bed, took her face in both his hands. “No, I told you. That was my fault.”
Fat, hot tears slipped down Dylan’s cheeks and coated his fingers as she shook her head in denial. “My fault,” she mouthed.
He wiped her face clean with his thumbs, gently pulled her around until their faces rested together; forehead to forehead, chin to chin. Guilt still churned in Dylan’s stomach, but suddenly it didn’t seem so overwhelming. Not when she couldn’t breathe, not when her skin was tingling everywhere that he was touching her; her blood boiling and racing around her body.
“Shh,” Tristan crooned, mistaking he
r ragged breathing for crying. He half-smiled at her, and then closed the final millimetres between them. Gently, slowly, he prised her mouth open, his lips brushing softly against hers. Against her will, he pulled away for an instant, gazing at her with cobalt fire, before pushing her back against the wall as he sought deeper, hungrier kisses.
When the dawn broke, the sky was clear and blue. Dylan stood on the threshold of the cottage and looked up at it gratefully. This wasteland was a thousand times better than the desert furnace she’d endured before. Tristan, too, gave a wry smile when he emerged and saw the weather.
“Sun,” he commented, staring up at the glittering sky.
Dylan just smiled impishly at him. Her eyes were bright and shining, screaming a green much more vibrant, much more beautiful than the hues of the wasteland. Tristan couldn’t help but smile back at her, despite the lead firmly lodged in the pit of his stomach.
This wasn’t going to work. But Dylan simply refused to believe that. He was afraid of her crushing disappointment, the disappointment he knew in his very bones was coming, but for now he tried to put it out of his mind. She was here, for the moment she was safe, and he should try to enjoy the extra time he got to spend with her. This was more than he’d ever dared to hope for.
He just hoped it would not end with a quill delicately erasing her name from a page in his book.
“Let’s go,” Dylan said, striding down the path away from him. The valley looked wide and inviting, bathed in early morning light, but Tristan lingered in the doorway, watching her go.
She walked maybe a hundred metres when she realised there was no crunch of gravel echoing her own footsteps. He saw her stop, head half-cocked, listening for him. After a second she whirled around. Alarm widened her eyes before she caught him, right where she’d left him.
“Come on,” she called, smiling encouragingly.
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