Street Magic

way," Pete warned. "The way I see it, you didn't put Treadwell back where he belonged before, and I have no reason to think you're up for the task this time."
    Jack rubbed his gut in mock-pain. "You do go for the vulnerable spots, luv."
    "We're going to find out what Treadwell wants," Pete said firmly, pulling the kettle off the burner when it squealed. "And then, that other day is going to come, and you're going to tell me how you survived him the first time."
    "Is there ever anything you're not absolutely certain of?" Jack added sugar to his mug.
    "Any number of things," said Pete. "None of which have to do with you."
    "I don't know what Treadwell wants." Jack sighed. "He's been hovering between this world and the land of the dead for a dozen years, just gathering rage, and power with no rhyme or reason behind it."
    Pete sipped her tea. It was stale, and the water tasted like minerals. "He's seen you now. He knows you're still about."
    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?"