. . . and pierced the Veil.

Simple as that. He had looked for a way back, of course. If there was a hole there— and there must have been— surely he could find his way home again. In all of the fairy stories his grandmother had told him when he was a small boy in Derbyshire, those stolen away by the fairies eventually made it home again. But not Ollie Larch. He was never going home. He’d stumbled into a place where the Veil had, for a few nights, worn thin and become unstable, and he’d unknowingly pushed through it.

Its magic had touched him. He couldn’t go home again. Not ever.

At first it didn’t help at all to learn that he was in good company, that there were thousands upon thousands to whom the same thing had happened. But time changed his perspective. He met children whose pictures had ended up on milk cartons and men whose wives were sure they had taken off with another woman . . . not to mention women who were presumed to have been killed by their boyfriends or husbands. Of course, all of those things really did happen, but amongst the many such reports around the world each year, a small percentage had actually ended up here.

They were the Lost Ones, and whatever lives they had were left behind. New lives had to be built here.

“You don’t look old enough to have been sixteen in the early seventies,” Oliver told him.

Larch had smiled. “Ah, but that’s one benefit of living on this side, yeah? Longer days. Longer nights. Longer years. A body adjusts, after a while.” He took a sip from his teacup, frowned, and set it down to stir in a bit more honey before picking it up again. “Really, though, folks like myself are Newcomers. The Originals look down on us a bit. More than a bit, I’d say.”

“Originals?” Oliver asked.

“The descendants of the old lost races— the Atlanteans, you know? The Mayans and Incans especially, which is why I settled here instead of Yucatazca. Those of us who come over alone have to make do, make friends, start over. It’s different for the ones who come over en masse. Way back when there were the Roanoke Islanders, but there’ve been so many others, from the Norfolk battalion to those three thousand soldiers from Nanking. Not to mention the ships and planes and . . . well, it’s just I think it’d be easier not to have come over alone.”

The Englishman’s expression had become melancholy and Oliver wished he could have thought of something to say to comfort him. He could think of nothing that would not sound hollow even to his own ears. After a moment, he pushed the conversation onward.

“You know what makes little sense to me? The timing of everything. Atlantis disappeared long before the Mayans, and even they vanished before the Veil was created, if I’m understanding the history here at all.”

Kitsune stirred by the fire.

“You make too many assumptions,” she said. “There have always been worlds unseen, secret places and peoples. But once upon a time things were more fluid, passage back and forth simpler. The Veil came later . . . it was a . . . joining of many things, not only a barrier.”

“A line in the sand, really,” Larch added. “You stay on your side and we on ours, that sort of thing.”

Kitsune nodded solemnly and went back to lounging. She had startled Oliver by removing her fur cloak— something he had not imagined possible— and laying it over the back of a chair, and the black cotton clothing she wore outlined her lithe form in such a way that he could not fail to appreciate it. It took an effort to draw his gaze away.

“But there are crossings.”

“For the Borderkind, yes,” Larch said. “No one else is supposed to cross. Their rights were sort of grandfathered in, you could say. And we Lost Ones, of course. But we never wanted to come here and we can never go back. That’s the way the Veil works. Perhaps not for you, though, yeah? What’s your story, then?”

Oliver hesitated. He was perched on the edge of a faded sofa and now felt like retreating behind it. Still perusing the books in the cottage, near an archway that led into a small kitchen area, Frost paused and glanced over in concern. Kitsune perked up from her place by the fire, obviously curious how he would respond.

“Oh, come now,” Larch prodded. “I saw you skulking about and heard enough of your conversation to know that you’re not meant to be here, and I’m certainly aware what that means. If I’d had any interest in exposing you, I’d hardly have snuck after you in the dark.”

Oliver laughed and settled back into the sofa. “There’s that, true enough. All right, I’ll give you the story. But first . . . doesn’t it seem a remarkable coincidence that the one person who sees us, the one who invites us home for tea, is the one person who’s willing to help? Who isn’t looking to turn me over to be executed? And who happens to share my name?”

Larch lifted a finger. “First, I’d say you share my name, as I’m appreciably older than you are, my young Oliver.” Another finger. “Second, I’m hardly the only person in the village who’d be willing to help. I daresay you’d have plenty of allies here, though just as many enemies. That’s simply the way people are, as you know. Though on second thought, most of us are too apathetic to help the law . . . but nobody in Bromfield is going to fight for you, either. I’m happy to put you up for the night, give you some old clothes to help you go unnoticed, but if there are soldiers coming your way, I’m not going to chain myself to you to keep them from taking you away, right?”

He raised a third finger. “Coincidence? I’d call it luck.”

“I have a question,” Frost said, his breath pluming in the warmth of the cottage. His body glistened, reflective in the light from the fire. He held up a slim leather book. “Books are not easily come by on this side of the Veil. How did you manage to gather all of these?”

Larch sprang from his chair with childlike enthusiasm. “They’re wonderful, aren’t they? It’s been my main occupation since I first accepted that I would live my life here. Some of them I got from other Lost Ones, mostly Newcomers like myself, folks on shipboard who managed to have some of their belongings with them when they pierced the Veil. But most, I confess, I’ve bartered for over the years with Borderkind. Another reason I’m so pleased to meet you, Mr. Frost. And you, Miss Kitsune. I hope if the opportunity ever presents itself for you, you’ll consider . . . acquiring a book or two while you’re on the other side.”

Oliver gazed around the room, smiling at Larch’s infectious glee. He had not given the books a second thought, but put into perspective, the amassing of such a large collection was singularly impressive.

“You must know a lot of Borderkind,” he said.

Larch’s expression collapsed with regret. “Not so many as I did once.”

They all stared at him.

At length, it was Frost who spoke. “Then you know?”

“About the Hunters? There are rumors. Once again, apathy reigns supreme. So far, any violence has been far from the cities. The truth is, if you’re going to Perinthia, that’s probably the safest place for you.”

Larch shot a glance at Oliver. “Provided Mr. Bascombe can pass for a Newcomer.” He smiled. “Now then, you were going to tell me how you came to be here.”

“It involves the Hunters, actually,” Oliver replied. “One in particular.”

As he told his story, Kitsune rose from the hearth and went to Frost. Larch seemed barely to notice them, so enrapt was he with Oliver’s tale of a wedding averted and the arrival of the Falconer, and the man shuddered when Oliver began to speak of the demon in the cherry tree.

When he had finished with the story, Larch thanked him and rose from his chair, determined to get them settled in for the night as comfortably as possible in the small cottage. He had extra blankets for Oliver, he said, and for Kitsune if she desired it. There was only the single bed, in his own room, but his guests were welcome to sleep on any piece of furniture they deemed suitable. He did have pillows and cushions to spare, and he hoped they would be helpful.

The travelers accepted his hospitality graciously, but Oliver could see that whatever had passed between Kitsune and Frost was preoccupying them both. It was only when Larch had picked up after their late-night tea and prepared to retire to his bedroom that Frost spoke up.

“Mr. Larch, have you any idea where in Perinthia one might most readily find a Mazikeen?”

Larch crossed his arms almost petulantly. “You don’t want to mix with the Mazikeen, Mr. Frost. If you’re attempting to avoid undue attention, that’s hardly the way to go about it.”

Kitsune tilted her head so that her hair fell like an ebony velvet curtain across her face. “We will need their help. The risk is unavoidable. Can you help us?”

The man seemed as though he might continue to argue the point but Kitsune’s gaze either won him over or unsettled him enough that he surrendered with a shrug.

“There are places where trouble gathers in Perinthia. As there are in any city, in any world. The Mazikeen are trouble. Go to Amelia’s, well after dark. If you’re looking for trouble, it’ll find you there.”

CHAPTER 12

Oliver sits in his mother’s parlor, drinking cocoa with whipped cream on top. On the floor by the fireplace, Julianna curls languidly, relishing the warmth of the blaze. She lays her head upon her outstretched arms and gazes up at him with jade eyes. Something about this is not right. Several somethings. Her hair is tied back into a ponytail but in the firelight it has a rich reddish copper hue, like the coat of a fox.

Also, his mother is in the room, standing by the Gaudí floor lamp and reading from a tattered Agatha Christie novel, open in her hands.

“Mom?”

She turns to him, a curious smile on her face. There is intelligence and love and humor in her eyes, and he misses her so badly that his dreaming heart breaks.

No, he won’t think of dreaming.

“Should you be here?” he asks.

His mother chuckles softly, shaking her head and rolling her eyes just a little, as she’d always done when her son had surprised her with his precociousness.

“Where else would I be?”

“It’s . . . I’m so happy to see you.”

Oliver tries to get up off the sofa but he cannot. He looks down and finds that his lower body has been frozen in a block of jagged ice. The fire blazes and he can feel its heat, but the ice is not melting. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees something move by the fireplace, darting across the edge of his vision, but when he glances over, there is only Julianna. She has not moved, but her expression has changed.

Her lips are peeled back, revealing black gums and long yellow teeth, rows of deadly fangs.

“Julianna?”

“You ruined it all. My life. Did you think I’d just hide in my room and cry? I’m going to hurt you the way you hurt me. And then I’m going to forget you. What are you, after all? You’re not Oliver Bascombe, you’re just Max Bascombe’s son. I can’t believe after the life you’ve lived, you don’t see that.”

Pain sears his chest. Oliver hisses and looks down to see his shirt is torn. Blood seeps from fresh claw marks that have striped his flesh.

“Oliver.”

He turns to face his mother, shaking his head in confusion.

“Drink your cocoa,” she says indulgently. “Drink up.”

He shakes his head again, mumbling some rebellion, and glances back to find that Julianna is gone. The fire is out. Snow falls in the empty fireplace, hissing on cinders.

Oliver is startled by a sudden banging at the window and as he looks over, the glass shatters but does not fall. Instead it turns to snow and a winter wind blasts into the parlor, swirling it around. The room is dark now. No fire, no Gaudí lamp. He seeks his mother in the darkness but she is not there.

The ice that had held him down is gone.

He staggers to his feet, squinting against the storm that blasts into the room, and stares out at the darkness. At the blizzard. It is not the bluff overlooking the Atlantic he sees, not the yard in which he and his sister played as children.

Outside there is only sand.

Some distance away, his father stands and stares at him. Oliver feels trepidation at the sight, and a kind of dread that he has not felt since he was a small boy, curled up beneath his covers, eyes moist with fear at the scratching of a branch against the window and the sounds of an old house shifting.

Max Bascombe has been altered, somehow. Oliver expects him to sneer, to shout and proclaim and dismiss, but even from that distance he can see that his father is doing none of these things. Instead he is pointing. He is cupping his hands to his face and crying out to his only son— yes, their eyes meet, and Oliver sees that his father is trying to communicate with him— and yet his words are lost in the storm, in the snow that swirls in the air and never seems to touch the endless, shifting sand.

His father is sinking, the sand slowly swallowing him, but he seems not to know this. He only cries out to Oliver, fearful, as though trying to warn him.

Something moves under the sand.

Oliver wants to go to his father, to tell him to watch for whatever circles, sharklike, under the cascade, but he is trapped by his father’s urgency.

At last, dread trembling in him, he begins to realize that there, in the darkness, he is not alone. His mother is gone. Julianna is gone. His father cannot reach him.

Something touches his shoulder, needle fingers digging in, and begins to turn him around.

The snow blowing through the window is sand now, and the grit of it fills his eyes, stinging him.

Close them. He knows he must close them.

But the thing in the darkness is pulling him round to see now, and he wants to see. And, after all, he does not feel sleepy at all.

“Oliver.”

* * *

“Oliver.”

He awoke, sucking in a deep breath as though in his sleep he had ceased inhaling, and his eyes snapped wide. In the darkness a cloaked figure loomed over him and he could still hear the dream echo of its voice in his head, saying his name. An outstretched hand reached down toward him and only then did he break free of the lingering effects of the dream.