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is particularly galling and I’m equally annoyed that he thought I’d faked my freak-out. Doesn’t he realise how close I was to the brink? I shake my head and sigh.
    The ring of scorched stones around the long-dead campfire is next to me. When I finally stand up, dusting myself off, I inadvertently kick a stone out of place. I bend down to return it to its position and notice the scuff marks on the ground. I purse my lips and look closer. They seem fresh. Someone has been hanging around here recently – probably tonight, in fact ‒ and I know it wasn’t Dante.
    My stomach churns at the thought that it might have been Ashley, waiting to confront me once more. She was determined that I stay away from her, though, and it’s unlikely she’s had a sudden change of heart since I last saw her. I hope it was Bron or Esme. Either of them might help me with the mystery of the dark cloudy beast.
    I give up on waiting for Dante to stop jerking off (and sincerely pray that’s not what he’s doing) and plunge into the dense woodland. I know from past experience that it’s a bad idea to touch any of the trees as they tend to be icy cold, so I take my time, keeping my eyes trained on the ground for further signs of a trail.
    It’s not long before I pass the first tree with a crooked Z carved into the trunk. Apparently it’s one of the signs that I’m a dreamweaver. By being able to alter the appearance of a Dreamland constant, even something as weak-arsed as a silly mark in a tree, I can do more than any other Traveller. If I follow all the marks, I’ll eventually end up in the bright sunshine of the town. It’ll make a nice change from darkness. Dark shapes attacking me, dark alleys, dark Dante, dark thoughts…
    I scowl. How things can change in a day.
     

Chapter Three
     
    A lie can run round the world before the truth has got its boots on.
    Terry Pratchett, The Truth
     
    I make a beeline for the pub, ignoring all the wide-eyed looks I receive from other Travellers. I march ahead with my shoulders pulled back, trying to quash the nervy butterflies attacking my stomach at the thought that Ashley might see me. No one approaches me directly. Even Kevin, Ashley’s friend and one-time Department stooge, allows me to pass without a word. It’s just as well. I don’t even pause at the multi-coloured fountain where Dean Salib’s statue gazes down. I’m on a mission.
    The second I push open the door, the hubbub inside dies a death. Every head turns in my direction. I force a smile, wondering what they’re all thinking and what’s been said about me. I’d like to say that it doesn’t bother me and that I’m more than used to feeling isolated but it still burns.
    At least Bron’s burnished head is visible in the far corner. He makes a point of avoiding the stares and beckons me over with an easy grin. It’s a relief to see a friendly face. Bron looks like someone who’s permanently willing to be your best friend. He’s good-looking, with tanned skin and sparkling blue eyes; he wouldn’t look out of place in a glossy American magazine. I rather think, however, that I prefer dark and brooding. Goodness knows why. I suppose I’ve never been one for taking the easy route.
    ‘How’s it going?’ I ask as I pull up a chair. And then, even though I know the answer, ‘Any sign of the Department?’
    Bron shakes his head. ‘Nada. There haven’t been any strangers at all. Three outliers in the last week but that’s it.’ He looks at me curiously. ‘Is that why you’ve been keeping your head down?’
    I decide against mentioning my forays into different dreams in search of some fun and murmur noncommittally.
    Bron points at my forehead and the dried blood that’s crusted over half of it. I grimace and take a napkin, dabbing ineffectually and brushing away his worried looks. When the buzz of conversation around us returns to normal level, I focus on what’s really important. ‘Listen,’ I say, keeping my tone low