Thankfully they made it to the next safe house well before the sun went down. It was another stone cottage, and Dylan began to wonder if that was her doing as well. Almost all of the safe houses were the same. Were they supposed to be her idea of sanctuary, of home? She tried to think about where she might have made that connection. The flat she lived in -- had lived in, she corrected herself -- with Joan was a red sandstone apartment surrounded by countless other identical buildings. Her gran had lived in the countryside in an isolated place before she died, but that had been a modern bungalow with over-fussy landscaped gardens dotted with ridiculous stone lions and gnomes. She couldn't think of anywhere else that had been like home.

Except, well, her dad had mentioned his place when they'd talked on the phone. A small stone house, he'd called it. Old-fashioned, with just enough room for him and Anna, the dog. Was this the image her mind had conjured up of that place? Perhaps her subconscious was trying to give her a little of the thing she'd hoped for but had never managed to attain.

Although slightly tumble-down, there was something comforting about the place, it felt almost like coming home after a long, hard journey. The front door was solid oak, weather-beaten but strong. The windows were encrusted with the sort of grime that accumulates through long-term exposure to the fierce Scottish weather, but they were wooden sash and looked in good repair despite the paint peeling from them. There was no defined garden, but a little paved path had been laid, leading up to the front door. Weeds and grass were peeking up through the cracks, but had not yet reclaimed the ground.

For a moment she imagined the door opening and a man walking out. In her imagination he was handsome, strong and kind-looking. She smiled at the thought, then realised that was all it was. She had never even seen a picture of her dad, couldn't remember what he'd looked like before he left. Shaking her head to chase these hard thoughts away, she followed Tristan towards the front door.

Tristan led the way inside and the cosy feel continued. This cottage did not have the same abandoned, disordered look the others had had, and Dylan wondered idly if it was because she was becoming more at home in the wasteland. There was a bed at one end with a table beside that which held a large but half-burned candle and an old chest of drawers. A table and chairs sat in the middle of the room, in front of the fireplace, and at the other end was a small kitchen with a chipped and grubby Belfast sink. Dylan approached it, eyeing the old-fashioned taps and wondering whether they worked. Her jeans were still encrusted with mud and the grey zippy top that she had chosen back in the flat before any of this craziness had started was now a patchwork of stains, mud splashes and little tears. She didn't even want to think about what her face looked like.

Although the taps were rusted and the sink was caked in mud, Dylan felt optimistic as she turned the cold tap. At first nothing happened and she frowned, disappointed, but then a groaning and gurgling came from under the sink. She stepped back warily, just as the tap spurted out a torrent of brown water. It bounced off the sides of the sink and just missed Dylan as she jumped further back. After a few seconds of spewing, the flow settled down into a trickle that looked fairly clean.

"Oh yes," said Dylan, looking forward to being able to have a wash for the first time in days. She splashed the water on her face, shivering at the icy temperature. Playfully she scooped up a handful of the water and turned to throw it at Tristan. She stopped short, the water falling through her slackened fingers to bounce off the flagstoned floor. The room was empty.

"Tristan!" she screamed, panic-filled. The door was standing open and, though it was still light, night was fast approaching. Did she dare go outside? She could not be alone again. That thought was her deciding factor and she started purposefully forward, just as Tristan appeared in the doorway.

"Where the hell did you go?" Dylan demanded, relief quickly turning to anger.

"I just… I was worried," she muttered, feeling stupid now.

She turned and waved at the sink behind her. "The tap works in here."

"What?" he asked innocently.

"There's still twenty minutes of light left. I'll stay outside and give you some privacy. I'll be just by the front door," he promised. "You'll be able to talk to me if you want to." He smiled reassuringly and walked back outside. She wandered over to the doorway and peeked outside. He was seated on a rock. He glanced up and caught her looking at him.

"You can shut the door if you want. I promise not to look if you want to leave it open, though." He winked, embarrassing her.

"I was just outside." He looked at her stricken face. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

She huffed and went to shut the door, but then thought better of it and left it open. Fidgeting where she stood, she thought about the idea of washing -- and she was desperate for a proper wash -- with the door open and him just outside. Uncomfortable. But then she thought about shutting the door and being alone inside. The terror of being abandoned was still too raw. Even the thought made her heart flutter with alarm. She decided to leave it slightly ajar, and closed it on his smirking face, leaving a small gap. Just in case.

Tristan gave her a half smile of understanding, then glanced back at the half-open door.

"I'm done," she mumbled.

"You done?" he asked, sneaking a quick look through the door. "It's just that it's getting dark."

Dylan nodded gratefully. She was still cold from washing in the freezing water. Again it took him a ridiculously short time and flames were roaring in the grate. He stood up and observed her.

Eyeing the door uncomfortably, she stripped off her clothes and, using a sliver of soap that she found by the sink, began to wash as quickly as possible. It was absolutely freezing and she considered getting Tristan to start the fire, but knew that by the time it got going, it would be so dark that they'd both have to be inside for safety. Gritting her teeth to stop them chattering, she tried to be as thorough and as speedy as possible. There was no option but to put her dirty clothes back on. Dylan wrinkled her nose as she yanked on her mud-caked jeans. She was just pulling her T-shirt over her head when Tristan knocked on the door. Although the T-shirt was fairly baggy and not at all see-through, she snatched up her grey jumper and yanked it quickly on, zipping it right up to her chin.

He walked in quickly, shutting the door firmly. "I'll get the fire going."

Tristan smiled wryly and walked over to the chest of drawers. "There's some stuff in here. Not sure how good the fit will be, but we could try and wash your clothes if you want. Here." He tossed a T-shirt and some tracksuit bottoms at her. They were a little big, but the thought of being able to wash her own clothes was very appealing.

She nodded. "Wish I had a change of clothes, though," she sighed.

Dylan mulled it over and decided that going commando for one night was a fair price to pay for some clean clothes. She was going to have to change, though, and it was too dark to ask Tristan to go outside. She squirmed from foot to foot, holding the clothes against her chest. Tristan spotted her discomfort.

"How was the wash? Better?"

"No underwear, though," Tristan added.

"I'll go and stand over here," he said, crossing the room and taking up position in front of the sink. "You can change by the bed." He looked away from her and stared out of the small kitchen window. Dylan scurried over to the bed and, after a quick glance at Tristan to confirm that he was indeed staring in the opposite direction, she whipped off her clothes as fast as possible.

Tristan remained resolutely staring at the glass, but the dark outside and the firelight inside turned the window into a mirror. He could see Dylan pull first her jumper, then her T-shirt over her head. Her skin was smooth and pale, her outline travelling down from strong shoulders to a narrow, delicate waist. As she shrugged out of her jeans he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold on to some vestige of chivalry. He counted to thirty in his head -- slowly, making each number match a breath -- and when he opened his eyes again she stood there in the too big clothes staring at his back. He turned to face her and smiled.

Dylan widened her eyes, mortified at the thought of him getting a peek at her natty underwear. Why, oh why, hadn't she died in some glorious Victoria's Secrets ensemble?

"Nice," he commented.

She flushed and tugged at the T-shirt. She felt very awkward being braless. She folded her arms across her chest as extra protection.

"Want help with the washing?" he offered.

"No, s'okay," she replied. She grabbed the dirty clothes from the bed and held them tightly against her body as she crossed the room, trying to keep her bra and knickers hidden in the centre of the ball. She plonked them down on the counter and spent five minutes scrubbing the sink with an old scouring pad to try and clean off the muck before uncoiling the rusty plug chain and stuffing in the plug. She turned both taps on full -- although the stream from the hot tap remained icy cold -- but couldn't get more than a dribble. The sink was going to take an age to fill.

"Tell me the rest, Tristan." The way she said his name sent a little thrill through him. "What happened when they dragged you under?"

Dylan stood at the counter for a moment, but the heat of the fire lured her over to the middle of the room. Tristan was already seated at one of the chairs, leaning back comfortably with his feet propped on a stool. Dylan sat on the second chair and drew her knees up to her chest, balancing her feet on the edge of the seat. She wrapped her arms around her legs and looked over at Tristan. Now was the time to get the rest of the story.

"So," she said softly.

He looked over at her. "So?"

"It was dark," he began. His voice was low, hypnotic, and Dylan was instantly entranced by his words, seeing in her mind's eye everything he described. "They pulled me down through the ground, and I couldn't breathe. The dirt filled my mouth and nose. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought I was dying. It seemed to last for ever, just going down and down deeper into the earth. Gravel and stones scraped at me, but the force of the demons kept me tunnelling down. Finally, they pulled me through something and then I was falling. The demons were slashing at me again, cackling in delight and diving close to me so that I was twisting and somersaulting through the air. Then I hit something, something hard. I crashed into it and felt like I'd broken every bone in my body. Of course I hadn't, but the pain was excruciating. I couldn't move. The agony… I've never felt anything like it. The demons were swarming all over me, but I couldn't even defend myself." Tristan broke off suddenly, looking over towards the kitchen. "The sink's about to overflow."

He stared into the flames as he answered. Dylan felt that he wasn't seeing the fire, but was back outside with the demons.

He needed to take a break, to pause and gather his thoughts. It disconcerted him. Tristan had never been caught before, had never been overpowered by the demons. He'd told Dylan that protecting the soul came first, and that was true, but only to a point. Self-preservation always took over, and so sometimes souls were lost. Not this one, though, she was too special. He would sacrifice himself to keep her safe, and these pains were a small price to pay.

"Oh." Dylan had been mesmerised by his words and the look in his eyes, and had forgotten about the trickle of water slowly filling up the sink. She scurried out of the chair and, with some difficulty, twisted the rusty tap until the water stopped. She dipped the soap into the freezing water and rubbed it vigorously between her palms, trying to coax some suds out of it. She managed to make a decent lather before the slither gave up and crumbled into tiny pieces in her hands. Next she grabbed her clothes and dunked them in the water. She left them to soak and skipped back across the room, plonking herself down opposite Tristan and looking at him expectantly. He smiled slightly. Was this how it felt to be a parent, telling a story at bedtime? Only this story was more likely to give nightmares.

"How did you get away?" she asked.

"You needed me. That brought me back. I… I didn't know that could happen -- it never has before -- but you called to me. I heard you. I heard you, and the next thing I knew, I was back at the entrance to the valley. You saved me, Dylan." He stared at her, eyes warm and full of wonder.

He smiled. "You."

"What?" Dylan looked at him, aghast.

"Why did it take so long?" she whispered. "I waited for you all day."

"I'm sorry," he murmured softly. "I came back at the other side of the valley. I…" he shifted uncomfortably. "I was moving a little slower. It took all day to walk to you."

Dylan opened her mouth, but shock robbed her of speech. An image flashed into her mind of herself, cowed on the floor, her back holding the door closed and crying for Tristan. Is that what had done it? That was insane, impossible. But then she thought about the odd things that had happened in the last few days. Clearly things could happen in this world that bent the laws of reality.

"I was so glad to see you. It was terrifying being alone. But more than that…" Dylan blushed and looked away from him into the flames. "I was frightened that they were hurting you, wherever you were. And they did." She reached out to touch his battered face, but he pulled away.

There was no clothes horse, so Dylan turned the chairs so their backs faced the flames and she hung her clothes over the backs and arms to dry. She tried to find a discreet place to hang her knickers, but in the end gave up and settled for a spot that at least ensured they would be dry. With the chairs taken up, there was nowhere to sit except the bed. Tristan was already there, lounging lazily and watching her with a strange expression on his face.

"Thanks, but I can manage," she mumbled, pushing past him.

"I'll help you hang them." Tristan wandered up behind her and his voice in her ear made her jump, dropping her bra on the stone floor. He bent to pick it up for her, but she snatched it out of his reaching hand.

"We need to get your clothes out of the water or they won't dry in time," he said. Dylan pulled her arm back quickly and dropped it in her lap. She stared down at her knees as her cheeks burned and her stomach twisted. Tristan saw the embarrassment and rejection on her face and felt a stab of regret. He opened his mouth to say something comforting, but Dylan had already spun away and hurried over to the sink, hiding her humiliation by pounding the dirt viciously out of her clothes. Thankful to have a task that would keep her eyes away from him, she took her time wringing every drop of water out of each item.

There was one final consideration, and it was a clincher. He could not follow where she was going. He would have to leave her at the border, or, more correctly, she would have to leave him. If she did feel for him, then to give now what he would soon have to take away was cruel. He would not put her through that. He must not act on what he felt. He looked at her, saw her watching him with those green eyes, dark as the forest, and felt his throat constrict. He was her guide and protector. Nothing more. Still, he could comfort her. That much he could allow himself. He smiled at her and held out his arms.

In fact, he was fighting with his conscience. Dylan was only a child, compared to him little more than a baby, really. The feelings he had for her were inappropriate, wrong. As her protector, he would be taking advantage of her vulnerability if he acted on them. But was he so much older when he lived in a world where he never experienced, never grew? And what was age to a soul that would think and feel for eternity?

He was sure she had feelings for him, he thought he read it in her eyes. But he could be wrong. The care she showed for him could be nothing more than fear of being alone. The trust she put in him could be merely borne out of necessity -- for what other choice did she have? Her need to be close to him, the way she wanted to touch him, could be nothing more than the comfort a child yearns for from an adult when they are afraid. But he could not be sure.

Dylan crossed over to him shyly and climbed onto the bed, curling up into his side. Absent-mindedly, he stroked her arm, sending a tingle jolting into her core. She dropped her head onto his shoulder and smiled to herself. How could it be that here, in the midst of all this chaos and fear, having lost absolutely everything, she suddenly felt… whole?