Layne was twenty-five. He knew the odds were stacking up mile-high against him.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Seemed like the Hecatean master-or former master, actually, since the Brit was technically dead-refused to be ignored.

Layne tightened his wet-fingered hold on the handlebar's rubber grips, then focused his attention inward to the bubble of static encircling Augustine, keeping them both safe from any accidental memory/personality merging.

Huh. Wonder if mental conversations fall under the texting/talking on cell phone no-no category while driving?

Deciding that they probably did, Layne compromised with his stunted sense of caution and reduced the Harley's speed, reluctant to pull over to the roadside.

Layne sent.

An image of Augustine as he'd appeared in life formed in Layne's mind. Tall and lean, with penetrating, deep-set gray eyes and an unruly shock of nut-brown hair that kept tumbling over them, the Brit was aristocratic and elegant-or had been, anyway-in a tailored pale gray suit and French blue shirt, a cigarette held carelessly between two long fingers.

Even inside Layne's head, the illusionist "spoke" with a lofty British accent. A blazing flash of white light freeze-framed the gray sky, then thunder cracked directly overhead. Layne's heart catapulted into his throat. "Christ!"

Ozone saturated the air. Layne felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. His skin prickled. Too fucking close. Blinking away retinal ghosts from his vision, he peered through the curtain of heavy rain, trying to make out the street signs.

Lightning illuminated another upcoming street sign. Rain beaded the letters: COTTONWOOD ROAD.

Bingo. Almost there. St. Cyr's place branched off from Cottonwood-a dirt driveway snaking down from the road.

Layne turned the Harley right onto Cottonwood, the pavement giving way to gravel. Reducing his speed to 30 mph, he shifted his attention back to Augustine.

A mental snort.