For a while he thought he heard music and maybe, although he wasn't sure, the sound of laughter; for a moment he thought he heard the quiet neighing of a horse. But when he strained, he heard nothing but the tires and the wind, and he inhaled with a shudder.

"What time is it?"

Beatrice said quietly, "A few hours before dawn."

He forced a laugh. "Just like a Western." He raised the window, cut off the noise. "So, do you guys have some kind of magical sixgun for me? Because if you do, I sure would like to see it about now."

"No sixguns, Mr. Falkirk," Harp said regretfully. "Or magic wands. Or magic spells."

The car stopped a hundred yards from the intersection.

"Well, that's okay. You guys going to be my sidekicks?"

Neither of the Harps answered.

He sat with his hands folded in his lap. He had already known the answer, but he had to ask anyway. With his hand on the door handle, he closed his eyes briefly, then opened the door and slid out.

What it always comes down to, he thought as he waited for his night vision to find his house; alone, what the hell.

Then he smiled, moved to the passenger door, and rapped a knuckle on the window until Beatrice lowered it. He leaned over and grinned at the dismay he saw on her face, at the unreadable expression on the old man's profile.

"You know," he said, shook his head and chuckled softly. He placed the back of a finger against Beatrice's cheek, and she leaned into it, for a moment, just a little. Then he took the finger away. "You know, you guys still haven't told me who you are. But you know something else? All that stuff you told me, about how you're not divine or supernatural?" He stepped away from the car. "That's the only thing about all this now that I don't believe for a second."

He made his way off the road without looking back, concentrating on keeping away from the cactus and the scrub, his home beginning to define itself in the dark he knew wouldn't last much longer. By the time he reached the back door, he had to remind himself to breathe; once inside, he had to order himself not to turn on any lights.

His previous sense of urgency had gone, leaving behind only expectation, and he wasn't sure if that was a relief or not.

He had no idea what was going on up there at Eula's house, or what had already gone on, but he had a feeling he didn't need to. As he dropped onto the couch and pushed his fingers back through his hair, he also wasn't so sure he actually needed to make a plan, since he had no idea at all what the hell he was going to do.

Or what, exactly, he was supposed to do.

It was all so overwhelming that it all seemed perfectly natural.

Just sitting here wasn't, however, especially when he smelled like he'd just spent several hours hanging around a pig sty. He could always go to bed, work things out once the sun rose, but it didn't take a genius to realize he wouldn't get any sleep. So to keep his brain reasonably on target, he stripped off his clothes and wandered into the bathroom, deliberately avoiding a look in a mirror, and took a shower as hot, then as cold, as he could stand it. Feeling the muscles in back and stomach, arms and legs bunch and relax. Grabbing a peek at his left leg because he just couldn't resist, then scrubbing the faint pink scar as hard as he could, daring it to hurt and cursing mildly when it didn't because he didn't really think it would, but what the hell, it was a shot, right? It was another shot at the old I'm dreaming explanation.

By the time he was dry and dressed, several internal systems reminded him that he hadn't eaten for hours, and it wouldn't do to drop from starvation weakness right in the middle of whatever comes next.

Without thinking, he flicked on the kitchen light and made himself a thick sandwich, washed it down with a glass of almost tart orange juice, and decided that maybe he really ought to have a plan after all. For what, he had no idea, and the Harps were obviously halfway to wherever it was that they disappeared to when they weren't busy telling him his life wasn't what he thought it had been.

He went out to the front porch, leaned against the post so that he could look up the street and, because of the night, not be seen, in case anyone was watching.

A soft glow and a soft wind.

His nose wrinkled as he smelled dry dust on the air, and he rubbed a finger across his upper lip, then scratched behind his ear.

You are, he thought, entirely too damn calm.

His stomach didn't agree, and neither did the ice-spiders that strolled up and down his arms, his spine, raising gooseflesh here and there until he hurried inside and dropped back onto the couch.

"Okay," he said to the living room. "Okay."

The chairs, the coffee table, the television on its cheap wood stand were too vague to look at in the dim glow from the kitchen. Highlights on the screen and on smooth wood surfaces gave the illusion they were made of dark glass, and when he turned his head slightly they seemed to shift, slipping toward him, slipping away.

Entirely way too calm, you jerk; entirely way too calm.

Still, the ghostly images drove him back into the kitchen, where he poured another glass of juice and sat at the table, staring at the radio he had unplugged the other night.

Curiously enough, what bothered him, what began to unnerve him and annoy him as he sat with his hands cupped around the glass, wasn't the business with Eula, or what he was supposed to do about it; it was the way he had assumed, back there in the car, that he was, in fact, supposed to do something about it.

No options had been offered.

There were always options.

From a cupboard above the sink he fetched a cheap ashtray, one that had been in some hotel or other until he'd slipped it into his suitcase a couple of lifetimes ago. He put it on the table, walked around the table once, a finger trailing along the surface, then took a pack from the drawer next to the sink, sat, lit a cigarette, and followed the smoke's plume as it made its way toward the ceiling like a sidewinder's ghost Options: He could ignore it all, keep his life simple, add to his stash and ... He snorted. Sure. Right. Sometimes options weren't options at all.

He could borrow Jude's gun, walk up to Eula's, knock on the door, shoot her right between the eyes, and end it right now. Tempting, but too easy. Much too easy. He had never read the Bible except for excerpts in church, but he had a powerful inclination that someone like her wouldn't be stopped by something so simple.

He could always run, but like the old cliche says, he sure couldn't hide. Besides, running would mean abandoning Jude and the girls. He was perhaps a fool, but he wasn't an idiot.

His gaze shifted absently to the long ash on the cigarette. When he twitched his finger, the ash fell onto the table in two long pieces, like, he thought, a column fallen from some ancient temple.

Which made him think of something else: accepting the premise of Eula's nature had to mean that she wasn't demonic, wasn't satanic, wasn't a creature loosed from the bowels of Hell. Which meant... he put the cigarette down, pushed at it with a finger until it fell into the ashtray. Which meant she was, theoretically, one of the Good Guys.

He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head sharply, and fished another cigarette from the pack and lit it, blew smoke, and decided he wasn't clever enough to handle stuff like that. He was a gambler, not a philosopher; just keep it straight and simple, don't get yourself lost in a Biblical swamp.

Halfway through the second cigarette, it occurred to him that neither Sir John nor Beatrice had actually said he had to fight. They had made a great point of telling him about the others, Chisholm and Bannock and those who were with them, but they'd said nothing, not really, about actually standing up to Eula Korrey. In fact, Beatrice had straight out told him he had to go find these guys, right? Didn't she say that? That he had to go find these guys?

He sat up.

Yet if he did, if he tried . . .

"Son of a bitch."

He looked around the kitchen, hoping something on the counters, in the cupboards, on the floor, in the air, would warn him away from the conclusion he had reached.

"No."

He crushed the cigarette out so furiously it fell apart, tobacco spilling across the table.

"No."

He was halfway out of his chair when someone pounded on the front door, then shoved it open. He tried to move quickly, but his feet tangled with the chair legs, knocking it over sideways, forcing him to grab the table's edge so he wouldn't fall as well. By the time he was able to stand again, the girls were in the room, yelling at him. Their eyes were swollen from crying, cheeks flushed with helpless anger. Starshine's hair was loose and wild, strands clinging to her face; Moonbow's T-shirt was smudged and damp with tears.

"Where were you?" Starshine demanded in a near scream, slapping his chest as hard as she could while grabbing for his arm.

"We thought you'd left," Moonbow yelled, grabbing his other arm. "Where were you? We thought you'd left."

They couldn't decide which way to pull him, and so practically tugged him over the table before he could brace himself and yank himself free. "Stop it!" he snapped. "Damnit, stop it!"

They froze, lips quivering, breath coming in hard hitches.

"What the hell's going on here? And what the hell are you doing up so early?"

Moonbow tried to answer, couldn't, and Starshine, glaring, teeth bared, said, "You left. You left us."

"I left," he said tautly. "I'm back. You haven't answered my question."

Moonbow shook her head. "What's the matter, Trey? Don't be mad. What's the matter?"

His right hand shoved at his hair, while the fingers of his left tapped stiffly against his leg. Having finally understood what the Harps expected him to do, he hadn't realized how furious he was until the girls had charged in, cornering him, accusing him, pushing him on the defensive. He couldn't take it out on them, they had nothing to do with it, didn't even know about it, and he held up a hand to keep them silent until he was able to muster some semblance of calm.

What he wanted to say was, "Look, kids, I've had a really crappy day, okay? I've been shot, left in the desert to maybe die, sort of kind of healed myself I think maybe, punched out a guy I thought was a friend because he's working for a woman who really isn't who you think she is, and I'm not in the mood for your goddamn kid hysterics."

What he said was, "Tell me."

There was a brief silence before Starshine blurted, "Momma, Trey, it's Momma. There's something real wrong with her. Something bad."

2.

1.

T.

rey had too many images and no reliable information as he followed the girls at a run through the house and across the street. He was aware of their footsteps on the dirt, of the still-blowing wind, of the night that hadn't cooled off as much as it should have for this time of year. He was aware of the way his lungs wouldn't work exactly right, causing him to gulp air despite the shape he was in. He was aware of a spreading heat across his face, of a midnight chill in his stomach, of a muffled steady roar in his ears that had nothing to do with the girls' constant desperate chatter, making no sense, only saying that Jude had gone out around eleven and returned shortly afterward, crying, pushing them away, racing into the bedroom and locking the door behind her.

"We saw your light," Starshine said, slapping open the front door.

"We were watching," Moonbow told him, practically shoving him inside.

A few long strides took him to the arch; another took him to the bedroom door, where he knocked and said, "Jude? Jude, it's Trey, you all right?"

The girls stayed back, holding hands, doing their best not to cry.

He knocked again. "Jude?"

A voice on the other side, but he couldn't make out the words.

"Jude, I can't hear you. Let me in, okay?"

"Don't touch me!" Jude screamed. "Stay away! Don't touch me!"

Jesus, he thought, and looked over his shoulder. "She tell you anything? Anything at all?"

Moonbow shook her head. "I couldn't understand her. She was . . . she was ... I couldn't understand her."

"She went to see Eula," Starshine said, fear and anger in her voice; "We made her a deal. She wanted to see Eula, but she had to go see Roger first."

"What? Why, for God's sake?"

Moonbow sank to the floor, crossed her legs, grabbed her knees. "Momma wanted to be better." Her voice quiet, each word an effort. "She said Eula would fix the others, and she wanted to be fixed, too."

Aw, Jesus, he thought; dear God, aw Jesus.

Starshine knelt beside her, an arm around her shoulders. "We made her a deal. We said she could go if she'd see Roger first and find out why he wasn't with them. She promised us. She said you'd left again. She promised us." Her face twisted; she swallowed hard. "Where were you, Trey? Why weren't you here?"

He looked back at the door. "Jude, let me in."

She screamed something incomprehensible, and something thumped hard against the door. A shoe, probably; it made him jump.

He straightened, inhaled slowly. "Jude, I'm not kidding. If you don't unlock the door now, I'm going to break it in." The girls made a sound like a whimper, or a stifled scream. "I'll do it, Jude. The kids are scared to death, and I'm telling you, I'm not doing so well out here myself." He leaned closer. "Jude. Please. Unlock the door."

He stared at his feet, at the tiny gap between the door and floorboards, nodding when he heard the lock turn over, wondering if the kids could hear her crying.

"Stay here," he ordered.

They didn't move.

Another deep breath, and he opened the door just wide enough for him to slip in; when he closed it again, he waited until his eyes adjusted to a faint light that slipped past the partially ajar bathroom door. Jude sat in the corner on the other side of the bed, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins.

"Don't touch me," she warned when he stepped around the footboard in order to see her more clearly. "Stay away. Don't touch me."

A gentle question: "What happened, Jude?"

"Don't touch me, please don't touch me."

Left hand on the footboard for balance, he lowered himself into a crouch, balancing on the balls of his feet. "I won't, Jude, I won't. Tell me what happened."

She tried to make herself smaller. "I'm going to die. Don't touch me. I'm going to die."

He blocked most of the bathroom's light; it was like looking at her through dark gauze. "You're not going to die, Jude."

She shook her head. "Yes, I am. I saw him." Her voice rose, near hysteria. "I touched him." Her voice fell, near sorrow. "I'm going to die."

"Talk to me, Jude. Man of action, remember? Maybe I can help, but you gotta talk to me."