Jack's eyes gleamed, like midnight ice. "Good. Been an age since I had a decent fight."

"Treadwell is a ghost," Pete said. "Like you so helpfully pointed out, he is already passed on. I seriously doubt a few lines of Irish and some witchfire are going to put a dent in his plans. Assuming angry ghosts have plans."

"Without a doubt," said Jack. "Haven't the foggiest what they are, but I don't think it involves rainbows and leprechauns doing a jig."

Pete put her mug into the sink and held out her hand to Jack. "What?" he demanded suspiciously.

"Give me a fag," she said. "I need it if I'm going to help you."

Jack conjured a Parliament, but held it back. "Pete… you don't have to be involved. Treadwell doesn't want you—I'm the one who called him, challenged him."

"Jack Winter," said Pete, "if you expect me to believe you have gone altruistic and noble at this late date, you must be around the fucking bend."

He handed her the cigarette and she lit it from the burner. "Can't put much past you."

"No," Pete agreed. She inhaled, exhaled, felt the slow burn down her throat. More cases solved over fags and tea than she cared to count. This should be no different. She shouldn't be panicking, but her stomach bounced as Jack rubbed the point between his eyes and sighed.

"Why did you?" she asked. "Why try to give me an out, after all that yelling you did about having to work with me in the first place?"

He smiled, grim. "Pete, I've gone to a lot of funerals. Forgive me if I didn't want to spend another Sunday in a wet graveyard and choke down warm pasta salad in some pub, because I know that flaky sister of yours wouldn't kick out for anything decent at the wake."

Pete dragged, watched the column of ash grow long and gray, and said, "You think I'm going to die."

Jack shrugged. "Someone is, luv. This isn't one of the times that there's a happy ending."

"Is there ever?" Pete muttered. She stubbed out the Parliament and threw it down the drain. Jack watched her, eyes narrowed.

"You having second thoughts?"

Pete turned on him. He wasn't calculating her any longer, wasn't weighing. His face was folded shut, but his eyes gleamed with a light Pete had never witnessed.

"I'm thinking that at least I won't die in a bed with needles and tubes stuck in me," she said, softer than a sigh. Jack unfolded himself from the wall and took up her hands. He'd gotten more solid, Pete realized, his hands heavy and the fingers free from tremors.

"It will end badly, Pete, but we'll be together this time around. I promise you."

"You're promising me, now?" She smiled a little, and the afterimage of Connor and the road she had looked down toward him faded.

"You promised me," Jack said. "Even if I'm a bloody liar, it's the least I can do."

"And are you? A liar, I mean," Pete asked. Jack let go of her and picked up his jacket.

"We'll find out."

Chapter Forty-three

"So we just hang around Highgate and wait for Treadwell to show up again?" Pete asked as they crossed into the Black in an alleyway behind a kebab shop.

"I have a distinct feeling that when Treadwell wants his presence known, he'll send me a message," Jack said.

The Lament's red door was shut, and no music drifted to Pete's ears. "Closed on Sundays," Jack said by way of explanation.

"It's Friday…" Pete started, but then shook her head. "Never mind."

Jack kicked aside the mud mat, and examined the square granite flower pots on either side of the door. "Ah, leave it out. Where does that ruddy publican hide it?"

"Looking for this?" Mosswood stood in the street with a newspaper under his arm, backlit by the gaslight on the corner. He swung a small iron key on a fob chain.

"Even better than breaking in," Jack said. "Need to speak with you."

"I should think so," said Mosswood. He opened the Lament's three locks and pushed the door wide, motioning Pete and Jack in. "The Black has been a veritable hive of gossip since your and Miss Caldecott's ghostly assignation."

"What's old chilly-boy after?" Jack asked.

"Why, your suffering, I imagine," said Mosswood. "Algernon Treadwell was not known for his humor in life, or his mercy. I once saw him put out a man's eyes for daring to meet his."

Mosswood stalked across the main floor and led Pete and Jack to a private room done like a club in leather wingback chairs and Persian rugs. Bookshelves lined the walls and an ornate fire grate nested in the corner. Mosswood muttered and green flames sprang to life.

Jack paced, examining the books, but Pete sat opposite Mosswood. "Thanks for your help."

"And who said I was helping you?" Mosswood raised his eyebrows and began to tamp tobacco into his pipe.

"You don't have a choice," said Jack with an unpleasant smile. "Treadwell will know I came calling on you. He won't believe you didn't help me, so you might as well."

Mosswood sighed and looked at Pete. "I see you made the choice to continue. Regretting it yet?"

Pete looked to Jack, who reiterated the question with his expression. "Not yet," Pete said honestly.

"I don't know how much time we have," Jack said to Mosswood. "Mind if I get on with it? Everything on my account, as per usual."

The Green Man sighed and puffed his pipe. "Do your worst."

Jack went to a set of apothecary drawers on the other side of the snug room, drawers that made up a dizzyingly vast section of shelf with their tiny, precise labels, and began opening them at random, examining their contents with the avid enthusiasm of a fetishist in an underwear store.

"Is there anything I can do?" Pete asked.

"Not until Treadwell shows up and tries to push me heart out through my nose again," Jack said. He took two leather pouches on thongs from a drawer and tossed one to Pete. She loosened the thong and looked inside.

"Salt?"

"Earth. Life," said Jack. "Wear it when we go back to the graveyard." He tucked what looked like charcoal into his pocket along with a fresh chunk of chalk. "Got to piss. Back in a moment."

"So we just sit here," said Pete glumly, when Jack had left.

"One word of advice." Mosswood tapped his pipe stem against his teeth. "Jack is taking everything with him that he can think of. Charcoal is a focus for mage talents. He's got the salt because he doesn't believe his shield hex will protect him. But the only certain way to exorcise Treadwell is the way it's always been. Take a coffin nail and drive it into the spot where he was buried."

"That seems awfully simple," Pete said. "Are you saying Jack doesn't—"

"Jack will try to make his point before he gets down to business," Mosswood said. "He has the unfortunate human vice of pride. I'm telling you this in case Jack doesn't get his chance to deal with Treadwell. For your own good, accept the possibility of that occurrence."

Pete looked into the fire. She tried to imagine facing Treadwell alone, Jack gone away, and couldn't. She knew her inability made her the sad, guileless little girl who couldn't protect herself, just as before. Pete swallowed a lump of bitter acid at the memory of her own trust, and how last time it had led to the end of everything.

Not this time, she promised. Treadwell won't take Jack away again.

The embers pulsed, and the fire snuffed out as the front door of the Lament creaked open and brought the knife-edged autumn gale with it. "I'll go shut it," Pete said, relieved to be out of the weighty silence of Mosswood's presence.

"Don't—" Mosswood started, but Pete stepped into the main room of the pub and immediately saw her mistake. Felt it, as the dark magic wrapped around her. Three sorcerers wielding the bruise-colored witchfire she'd come to recognize stood arrayed between her, the entrance, and any possible weapon behind the bar.