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minutes. Do you understand?”
    â€œTen minutes is enough to retrieve what you need?”
    He stared at her, struck by the sound of the questions.
    â€œListen to me,” she said. “You’ve turned me into a lunatic. The Horde’s druids might practice their magic, but when have we ever? Never! This is like their magic.”
    True enough. The Horde druids were rumored to practice a magic that healed and deceived at once. Thomas had never seen either. Some said that Justin practiced the way of the druids.
    â€œTen minutes. Say it.”
    â€œYes, of course. Ten minutes.”
    â€œThen hit me.”
    She stepped forward. “You really—”
    â€œHit me!”
    Mikil swung the rock.
    Thomas blocked the blow.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she demanded.
    â€œSorry. It was reflex. I’ll close my eyes this time.”
    He closed his eyes.
    His head exploded with light.
    His world faded to black.

4
    THOMAS HUNTER awoke in perfect stillness, and he knew three things before his heart had completed its first heavy beat.
    One, he knew that he wasn’t the same man who’d fallen asleep just nine hours ago. He’d lived fifteen years in another reality and had been transformed by new knowledge and skills.
    Two, none of those skills, unfortunately, included surviving a bullet to the head, as was once the case.
    Three, there was a bullet in the barrel of the gun that at this very moment pressed lightly against his head.
    He kept his eyes shut and his body limp. His head throbbed from Mikil’s blow. His mind raced. Panic.
    No, not panic. How many times had he faced death over the last fifteen years? Even here, in this dream world, he’d been shot twice in the last week, and each time he’d been healed by Elyon’s water.
    But this time there was no healing water. It had disappeared with the colored forest fifteen years ago.
    A soft, low whisper filled his ear. “Good-bye, Mr. Hunter.”

    CARLOS MISSIRIAN let the last satisfying moment linger. A line from a movie he’d once seen drummed through his mind.
    Dodge this.
    Yes, Mr. Hunter, just try to dodge this. He tightened his finger on the trigger.
    Hunter’s body jerked.
    For a split second, Carlos thought he’d shot the gun and sent a bullet through the man’s brain, which explained Hunter’s sudden jerk.
    But there had been no detonation.
    And his gun was flying across the room.
    And his wrist stung.
    In one horrifying moment of enlightenment, Carlos saw that Thomas Hunter had slapped the gun from his hand and was now rolling away from him, far too quickly for any ordinary man.
    Nothing of this kind had ever happened to Carlos. It confused him. There was something very wrong about this man who seemed to retrieve information and skills from his dreams at will. If Carlos were a mystic, as his mother was, he might be tempted to think Hunter was a demon.
    The man came to his feet and faced Carlos on the opposite side of the bed. He had no weapon and wore only boxer shorts. He was bleeding from a fresh cut on his forearm that Carlos hadn’t put there. Curious. Perhaps that explained the blood on the sheets.
    Carlos withdrew his knife. Ordinarily his next course of action would be straightforward. He would either bear down on the unarmed man and slash his abdomen or neck, whichever presented itself, or he’d send the knife flying from where he stood. Despite the ease with which actors knocked aside hurling blades in the movies, deflecting a well-thrown stiletto in real combat wasn’t an easy task.
    But Hunter wasn’t an ordinary man.
    They faced off, both cautious.
    It occurred to Carlos that Thomas had changed. Physically he was the same man with the same loose brown hair and green eyes, the same strong jaw and steady hands, the same muscled chest and abdomen. But he carried himself differently now, with a simple, unshakable confidence. He stood tall, hands loose at his sides.