Dylan knew the moment they crossed the threshold into the safety of the cabin because the noise stopped instantly. Tristan slammed the door behind him and immediately dropped her to her feet, almost as if having her in his arms had scalded him. Leaving her standing there, her mouth gaping wide in shock, he walked quickly to the window and stared out of it.

Pulling her hands away from her face, Dylan examined her arms. Even in the almost-dark, she could see criss-crossed scratches all over her skin. Some had barely grazed her, but others had gouged deeper, causing small droplets of blood to ooze through. Her skin stung all over, burning. Still, the pain hardly registered as the adrenaline that flooded her system made her hands tremble.

The cabin, like the cottage the night before, was sparsely furnished. There was a bench along the back wall and Dylan stumbled over to it. She dropped heavily onto the rough wood and hid her head in her hands, small sobs escaping from between her fingers as she tried to control the rush of fear that coursed through her veins, making her heart thump erratically. Tristan glanced over, an unfathomable expression on his face, but he refused to leave his lookout post by the window.

They stayed like that for a long time -- Tristan statue-like and composed, back at the window; Dylan curled up in a ball on the bench, occasionally crying and gasping quietly, the after-effects of the adrenaline rush. There was no sound from outside. Whatever the things had been, they seemed to have retreated for now.

This cabin also had a fireplace, and after a few minutes Tristan crossed over and bent down to it. There were no logs, and Dylan didn't hear the sound of a match scratching, but there was quickly a fire blazing in the grate. The flickering gave the cottage an eerie atmosphere as shadows played frighteningly against the walls. Dylan didn't question the sudden arrival of the fire, though there was no natural explanation for how it had been lit. There were too many more important, impossible thoughts in her mind, jostling for space. Those ideas niggling at the back of her consciousness were fighting to break through, demanding to be heard. She had so many questions she didn't know where to begin.

Eventually Dylan lifted her head. "Tristan."

He didn't look over. He seemed to be bracing himself for something.

"Tristan, look at me." Dylan waited, and finally he turned his head, slowly and unwillingly. "What was that?" She tried to keep her voice calm, but it was still husky from crying and it cracked a little as she spoke. Her green eyes shimmered as tears still loitered, but she held his stare, willing him to be truthful. Whatever those things had been, Tristan had recognised them. He had been speaking to himself when he'd muttered, "They're here", and he had known what would happen when she let go of his hand. How had he known? What else was he hiding from her?

Tristan sighed. He had known that this point had been coming, but had hoped to postpone it as long as possible. But there were no parlour tricks or games that could gloss over what had happened. Dylan had seen and felt those things. They could not be explained away as wild animals. He had no choice but to be honest with her. He wasn't sure where to start, how to explain in a way she would understand, how to break it to her and yet cause the least amount of pain.

Sitting close enough to feel her breath on his face, he turned his head and gazed into her green eyes, a luscious, deep green that made him think of forests and nature, and felt a twist in his stomach and a tightening in his chest. He didn't want to hurt her. He wasn't quite sure why, but he felt a yearning need to protect this one, more than he'd ever felt for any of the others.

Reluctantly he crossed the room and sat down on the bench beside her. He didn't look at her, but stared at his interlaced fingers, as if hoping to find the answers there.

Normally, when revealing the truth became an unavoidable necessity, he just blurted it out. He told himself that a short, sharp shock was better than drawing it out painfully. But in reality, it was because he didn't care. Whether they cried, sobbed, begged or tried to bargain, there was no changing things. He just turned off and waited it out until they accepted the inevitable, and then the two of them could go forward together in mutual understanding. But this time… this time he didn't want to.

"I wasn't on the train."

He saw her pupils dilate slightly, but there was no other reaction. She already knew this, he realised. She just didn't know what the deception was.

"Dylan, I haven't really been honest with you," he began.

"I was…" Tristan's voice trembled and died. How to say it? "I was waiting for you."

He paused, gauging her response. He expected to be interrupted by a stream of questions, of demands and accusations, but she just waited, still as stone. Her eyes were pools of fear and uncertainty; she was afraid of what he might say, but determined to hear it nonetheless.

"You weren't the only one to walk away from the crash, Dylan." His voice had dropped to a whisper, as if he could lessen the blow by turning down the volume. "You were the only one not to."

Her eyebrows puckered together in confusion, but she didn't speak and he was glad of that. It seemed easier for Tristan to get the words out without hearing her voice. He refused to do her the disservice of not looking in her eyes, though.

The words were spoken clearly, but they seemed to float in Dylan's brain, refusing to settle into meaning. She tore her eyes away from his in an attempt to process what he was telling her, staring at a broken tile on the floor.

"I'm sorry, Dylan," he added, not as an afterthought, but sincerely. Although he didn't understand the reason, he hated inflicting pain on her, wished he could take it back. But there was no undoing what had been done. These things were set in stone. He did not have the power to change them, and it would be wrong to do so even if he could. It was not his place to play God. He watched her blink twice, saw the realisation settle into her being. Any second now the flood of emotion would begin. He hardly dared to breathe, waiting on tenterhooks. He was afraid of her tears.

She surprised him.

Tristan shifted uncomfortably beside her, waiting for a reaction. A full minute passed, then another. She didn't move. Only the occasional tremor of her lips stopped her from being a statue.

"I'm dead?" she asked finally.

"I think maybe I already knew, somewhere."

No, that wasn't quite right, Dylan thought. She hadn't known… but somewhere deep down, her subconscious had been keeping tabs on all the things that were wrong, all the things that just didn't add up. Things that were too weird, too strange to be real life. And though she couldn't explain why, she felt no terror at finally acknowledging the truth. Only relief.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Expecting an outpouring of anguish, he lifted his arms out towards her. However, she remained oddly calm. She nodded and sighed, then smiled a tiny smile to herself.

She thought about never seeing Joan or Katie again, of never meeting her father and enjoying the relationship they might have had, of never having a career, a marriage, children. She felt sadness tug at her heartstrings, but overshadowing these mournful thoughts was a sense of inner peace. If it was true, and she knew in her bones that it was, then it was done and unchangeable. She was still here, she was still her, and that was something to be thankful for.

"And those things?" Dylan gestured towards the window. "What are they?"

"The wasteland," Tristan replied. She looked up at him, waiting for more. "It's the land between worlds. You have to cross it. Everyone does. Their own personal wilderness. A place to discover the truth that you have died and come to terms with it."

"Where am I?" she asked quietly.

Although the noise had gone, Dylan was sure that the strange creatures had not left. They were simply waiting, biding their time and hoping for another opportunity to attack.

"What do they do?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

Tristan shrugged, unwilling to answer.

"Demons, I guess you'd call them. Scavengers, wraiths. They try to snatch souls during the crossing. The closer we get to the other side, the worse the attacks will become as their desperation grows."

"Tell me," she pressed. It was important to know, to be prepared. She didn't want to be in the dark any more.

He sighed. "If they catch you, which they won't, then they pull you under. The ones that they've caught, we never see again."

Dylan stared into nothingness. She was horrified by the thought of becoming one of those things. Screaming, desperate, violent; they were hateful creatures.

"And once you're under?" Dylan raised a questioning eyebrow.

"I don't know exactly," Tristan replied quietly. She grimaced, dissatisfied, but sensed he was being honest. "But when they're finished with you, you become one of them. Dark, hungry, crazed. Monsters of smoke."

"And you?"

"Are we safe here?"

She accepted this quietly, but Tristan knew there would be further questions, more truths that she needed to know. And he would give them to her, where he could. She deserved that much at least.

That was all she said, but it implied a thousand questions. Who was he? What was the life that he led? What was his place in this world? Tristan was forbidden to reveal most of these answers, and in truth he didn't know all of them, but there were some things that he could tell her, some things that she had a right to know.

"Yes," Tristan answered quickly, wanting to reassure her as much as he could. "These buildings are safe houses. They can't come inside."

"I'm a ferryman," he began. He had been staring at his hands, but he sneaked a quick look at her face. It was simply curious. He took a deep breath and continued. "I guide souls across the wasteland and protect them from the demons. I break the truth to them, then deliver them to wherever they're going."

"And where is that?"

He looked up, and this time there was a definite sadness in his eyes. "I honestly couldn't tell you. Thousands, hundreds of thousands, probably. I've been doing this a long time."

Dylan looked incredulous at this. "But how can you know that it's the right place? You just drop people off and walk away? For all you know, it's the gates of hell!"

He nodded indulgently, but there was a finality about his answer. "I just know."

A key question. "I don't know." He smiled ruefully. "I've never been."

She pursed her lips and looked unconvinced, but didn't argue the point further. Tristan exhaled a relieved breath. He didn't want to lie to her, but there were some things that he just wasn't allowed to share.

"How many people have you…" Dylan paused, unsure how to phrase her question. "… guided over?"

"In technical terms, I've never really lived," he replied, a wistfulness in his eyes. Quickly that gave way to a more guarded expression. He had already let slip more than he should. Mercifully, she seemed to read that in his expression, and asked no more questions.

"How old are you?" Dylan asked.

This was a question that he could answer, but didn't want to. He sensed if she knew the truth, if she knew how long he had lingered here -- not learning, growing and experiencing the way a human did, but simply being -- then the delicate connection between them would break. She would see him as old, someone strange and other, and he found that he didn't want that. He attempted to make a joke out of it.

"How old do I look?" He held out his arms and offered himself up for inspection.

Looking around, Dylan took notice of her surroundings properly for the first time.

"Sixteen," she said, "but you can't be. Is that when you died? Can you not age?"

The cabin was just one long room, with mismatched furniture suffering the wear and tear of long abandon. Still, it was in better repair than last night's cottage. The doors and windows were still intact and the fire burning strongly in the grate had warmed the room. Besides the bench that Dylan sat on with Tristan, there was an old bed, devoid of blankets but with a mattress. Although it looked like it had seen better days, and was coated with numerous stains, it was inviting at that moment. There was also a kitchen table and sink at the other end.

Stiffly she stood up -- she must have been sitting on the hard bench for longer than she'd realised -- and crossed the room to the little kitchen area. She felt grimy, uncomfortable. She wanted a wash but the sink looked ancient, like it hadn't been used in years and years. Up close it didn't appear any more optimistic. Both taps were covered in rust. Still, she grasped one and twisted. Nothing happened so she tried the other. When it stuck as well, she increased the pressure, feeling the edges of the tap digging into her palms. She felt something start to give and so squeezed and twisted a little harder, hope burgeoning. With a scrape and a clunk, the top of the tap came away entirely in her hand, the metal weakened by rust.

Dylan nodded, guilt alleviated, and tossed the broken piece into the sink. Then she turned and walked quickly over to the bed. She felt Tristan's eyes on her, and when she twisted round to sit down on the mattress, noticed his gaze was evaluating her.

"Oops." She turned and grimaced at Tristan showing him the broken cap.

He grinned at her and shrugged. "Don't worry about it. That tap hasn't worked in years."

"What good will crying do?" she asked, with the wisdom of a much older soul. She sighed. "I'm going to try to sleep."

"What?" she asked, smiling slightly. Now that the truth was out in the open she felt, oddly, much more comfortable around him. It was as if the secret had been a wedge keeping her in the cold.

Tristan's face was confused, unsure of her meaning, but it made him happy all the same. He watched her sleep for a long time, looking at the shadows of the fire flicker and play across her face, untroubled in unconsciousness. A strange longing to touch her, to stroke down her smooth cheek and brush away the hair that fell over her eyes, came over him, but he didn't move from where he sat. It was simply her youth and vulnerability that was bringing out these feelings in him, he told himself. He was her guide, her temporary protector. Nothing more.

He couldn't help smiling back at her. "I'm just astonished at your response, that's all. Not one tear." His voice tailed off as her smile fell, and sadness took its place.

"You're safe here. I'll keep watch."

And she did feel safe, knowing he was there, alert. Her protector.

"I'm glad it's you," she mumbled, just as sleep overcame her.

They didn't speak, but it didn't feel uncomfortable to Dylan. They were content just to be near each other, and words would have ruined the peace of this beautiful place.

They were not in the wasteland, but Dylan had the strangest feeling she'd been here before. They were in a forest. It was filled with large oak trees with gnarled trunks and wide, sprawling branches that interwove to create a canopy above them. It was night, but the moonlight filtered down through the trees, dappling gently and casting rippling shadows as the leaves swayed in the breeze. The light wind ruffled her hair, tickling her neck and shoulders. The floor underfoot was a carpet of leaves that rustled as they walked. At some point recently it must have rained, because the air smelled slightly of dampness and nature. Somewhere to her left she could hear the faint trickle of a slow-running stream. It was absolutely exquisite.

Dylan dreamed again that night. Although her encounter with the demons had given her ample fodder for a nightmare, they didn't feature. Instead she dreamed of Tristan.

In the dream, Tristan held her hand as they walked, slowly weaving in and out of the trunks, following no set path but simply choosing a winding route to nowhere. Her skin seemed to burn where his hand touched it, but she was frightened even to twitch her fingers in case he let go.

In the cottage, as she slept, Tristan watched her smile.