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agreement, Graham headed off into the darkness, singling out a particularly dense patch of shadow next to one of the timber bridge supports. He leaned his back against it and stood there listening for several seconds, hands slipped inside the pockets of his mac for warmth, then locked his knees and closed his eyes, consciously drawing a slow, steadying breath. As he settled into a comfortable level of trance, he began to visualize himself within a ring of darkly flickering light.
    He knew he should not be doing this. Alix would be furious if she found out. If the slightest thing went wrong, alone and outside the bounds of a formal protecting circle, he knew that the best he could hope for was a blinding headache. He might also endanger his thus-far meticulous cover if, despite Denton’s efforts, someone came upon him like this—and those were the more pleasant alternatives. At worst—
    He did not even want to think about the worst. The Second Road was neutral; it did not lead only toward the light. There were others just as adept as he, and even more adept, who walked other paths altogether. Hitler himself was said to be an initiate of one such black tradition that had spawned much of the racist aspect of Nazi doctrine. Furthermore, Graham’s research had uncovered hints that a very powerful black adept might be actively supporting Hitler—which was one of the reasons Michael had been sent into Germany a week before.
    Michael.… He fastened on the image of Alix and David’s younger son and let his Sight go out along the Second Road again, questing now for the Grafton and her six hundred souls, seeking some hint of their fate.
    Michael—slender and sandy-haired and just about the same age as his own son. Michael—cold and hurting, numbed limbs flailing in the icy waters of the Channel, chilled in heart as well as body by the company of corpses floating near him, though some stirred feebly.… Michael—
    Squinting in the glare of a searchlight, Michael raised an arm yet again and prayed that they had spotted him—and that an E-boat or submarine would not. His voice was hoarse from earlier screaming, but he managed a few harsh croaks as he let go of the spar to which he had been clinging and waved his arms again, splashing for all he was worth. This time he was sure they had seen.
    His leg throbbed even more than his arm as they hauled him aboard; he had nearly crushed it against a capsized lifeboat earlier when he tried to free a man who was tangled in debris. The man had drowned, anyway. He did not think the leg was broken, but it hurt incredibly as they brought him aboard and wrapped him in blankets and the cold began to recede. Hours seemed to pass before someone came to look at his injuries.
    They rebandaged his arm and pronounced his leg probably unbroken, but the pain of both had him almost gasping by now, all the worse for having been held at bay by sheer force of will during the hours in the water. Though he had begun shaking so badly that he nearly bit his tongue, he tried to refuse the painkiller they offered, for he feared to sleep and perhaps have them take away the precious pouch on his belt. He hoped the water had not ruined the contents.
    He never felt the needle in his arm—only the slow, drowsy, blessed warmth of morphine creeping over the pain and muffling everything. He dreamed just before he went under, and the dream momentarily shifted into nightmare.
    Dark shapes robed in black—masks covering eyes—a black-clothed arm descending, bright blade flashing—and blood welling up, spurting, spraying, spattering—
    The nightmare caught Graham by surprise, for he had not even been certain it was Michael he was brushing with his Sight. Just as he tried to pull back from what had been a hazy connection at best, he found himself hurtling along the Second Road and, with a jolt, being dropped into awareness of an altogether different place. It had been