Street Magic

right," said Jack, pulling out a chair and straddling it backward. "I need to pick your leafy brain, Mosswood. Brought you the requisite offering and everything, just like a proper druid. Sorry for the lack of white robe and virgin, but Pete's sheets are all striped and I wouldn't presume to guess as to her eligibility for virgin."
    "Sod you," Pete responded, flicking Jack the bird.
    Mosswood picked up the ale and sniffed it with distaste, his prominent nose crinkling.
    "Get off it," said Jack. "You know it's your favorite."
    "It is a sad day when a Green Man's allegiance can be bought for an inadequately washed pint glass of malted hops and stale yeast," said Mosswood with a disapproving curl of his lip. "But such is the way of the world, sadly. I accept your offering. What the bloody hell are you bothering me over, Jack?"
    "Problems," said Jack. "Got a nasty, nasty ghost or hungry beastie on the prowl—some misty tosser with an appetite for little children. I need to find him, and find a way to hurt him bad before I exorcise the bastard back to the Inquisition."
    Mosswood looked up at Pete, who stood awkwardly by his elbow, not sure she was invited into a conversation that had obviously picked up just where it left off the last time the two men had seen each other.
    "Sit down, my dear," he said with a small smile. "Don't let this foolish mage's ramblings inhibit you."
    "Oh," said Pete, "I don't." She pulled out the remaining chair and sat. "Thank you."
    "She is considerably lovely," Mosswood told Jack. "And polite. What in the world is she doing with you?"
    "Funny, you git," said Jack with a humorless smirk. "How about telling me what I need to do to flush out this bugger?"
    Mosswood relit his pipe, taking tobacco that smelled like shaved bark from a leather pouch and tamping it down carefully with his thumb. The pipe was carved from a black wood, slightly glossy, the nicks from the knife that had wrought it visible, a tiny story along the well-rubbed stem and barrel. "What you want to begin your search is a Trifold Focus. I do not know of any in existence, but I'm sure one of your other… sources will be more than happy to oblige the information for the price of an immortal soul or two."
    Jack drained his Newcastle and gave Pete a satisfied grin. "I told you he'd come through."

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Chapter Twenty-one

    They walked out of the fog and found the Mini waiting. Big Ben chimed midnight once more and Pete said a silent thank-you to be away from places where the air was not the same and she could feel invisible eyes on her all the time.
    Jack sat closemouthed during the ride and he was chalk colored by the time they reached Pete's flat. "You all right?" she inquired when he stumbled and fetched against the wall just inside her door.
    "Yeah…" Jack's jaw set. "No. No, I'm not." He made a run for the bathroom and Pete heard him retching miserably.
    It was so easy to forget, when Jack was sarcastic and smoking a Parliament, throwing out smiles and pinning her with his hard eyes, how she'd found him less than a week ago. Skinny, wasted, and his body still screamed for a fix even now.
    Pete hesitated for a few more seconds, listening to Jack choke, then nudged the bathroom door open with her toe and crouched beside him, placing a hand on the back of his neck. Jack's skin was cold and slick, like he'd just been pulled from a pool of oily, lifeless water.
    "Don't… don't…" he gasped, finally managing to draw a breath. The loo stank of old ale and sweat with an undertone of something darker, burned from crossing a barrier that flesh was not meant to. "I'm all right," Jack muttered, sitting back on his heels and wiping the sweat away with the flats of his palms from his face. "It takes a lot out of you. Crossing to and from the Black. I'd forgotten how fucking difficult that is."
    "I feel fine," said Pete quietly.
    "Well, aren't you bloody well special," Jack snapped. Pete stood and held out her right hand, trying not to let it shake with anger that Jack might take for timidity.
    "Give it to me."
    "Give what to you?" Jack muttered, leaning his head back against the tile wall and breathing through his nose. He hadn't stopped sweating even though rain was washing the windows of the flat with intermittent sleet and Pete's fingers were cold because the radiators were turned down.
    "Your goddamned stash, Jack!" Pete bellowed, picking up her container of hairbrushes and clips off the basin and flinging it at him. Her anger