As the light dimmed, particles of colour began to form. They swirled around Tristan's head and settled on the ground, creating surroundings, creating the world that his next mission, the next soul, was soon to leave. As he walked, tarmac formed under his feet, black and shiny with rain. Buildings erupted from the ground on either side of Tristan. Lighted windows illuminated ill-kept front gardens, adorned with overgrown weeds and broken fences. The cars parked on the kerb and in the occasional paved garden were old and rusted. Heavy thudding music beats and raucous laughter spilled from open doorways. The whole place had an air of poverty and carelessness. It made a depressing picture.

As Tristan walked, the landscape around him slowly faded away to white. He barely noticed. The hills disappeared, disintegrating into sand that floated upwards and evaporated into a thin mist. The path he was striding along was replaced by a featureless surface that reached out as far as the eye could see in every direction. A white light flashed, blinding him at its zenith.

Tristan felt no excitement or thrill at the prospect of collecting the next soul. He did not even feel the disdain and indifference that had become habitual in recent years. He felt only the torturous ache of loss.

He stopped at the second to last house from the end of the street. Amidst the shabby, ramshackle buildings along the road, this one was surprisingly well cared for. There was a neat lawn surrounded by flowers. Stepping stones carved with birds laid an inviting path to the recently painted red door. There was only one window lit, in a room on the second floor. Tristan knew that was where the next soul was located, about to part from its body. He did not enter the house, but waited outside.

Several passersby looked at the stranger loitering outside number twenty-four. They could tell that he did not belong here. However, this was not the sort of place where you challenged an unfamiliar face, and so they continued on their way without comment. Tristan, staring unseeingly into nothing, didn't notice the quizzical looks; didn't register that they could see him. He was blind to their curious eyes and deaf to the mutterings that broke out a step or two before they were out of earshot.

He already knew everything he needed to about the person who had lived here. She had lived here alone for ten years, going out little except to work and make weekly visits to her mother who lived across town. She did not mix with any of the local people and they regarded her as snobby and aloof, when really she was just afraid of them. She had just been stabbed to death in her bed by a burglar who had expected to find more valuables than she had possessed and had murdered her in anger. Soon she would wake and get up, continuing her morning routine as usual. She would not notice that her jewellery box was missing, or that the smart digital camera for which she had saved for a year was no longer nestled safely in the dresser drawer in the dining room. She would decide to skip breakfast, thinking that she was slightly late. When she went outside, she would be greeted by Tristan and, one way or another, she would follow him.

All of this information was now assimilated in Tristan's mind. Facts and stories interweaving to make up the knowledge he needed to perform his job. He knew it, but he did not think about it. The journey of this soul would be completed because that was his role. He was here simply because he had to be. But he would feel no pity for this unfortunate creature. He would give her no sympathy or comfort. He would guide her, nothing more.

Nothing happened.

The moon was directly overhead, a stark white light that sought out and banished shadows. Tristan felt exposed in his raw and vulnerable state, as if every emotion and thought were laid bare, to be read by everyone. He knew that he would have hours to wait before the soul would emerge. He wondered how much longer he could go on. Every fibre of his being yearned to escape and hide, to give himself over to the pain and grief. His brain told his feet to move, to turn away and keep walking until he left his sorrow behind him.

"Dylan."

For the second time, tears sprang into his piercing blue eyes. Of course he would not be allowed to abscond his post. There was a higher order, a grander scheme of things. And his pain, his despair, his desire to relinquish this responsibility meant nothing. He did not control his destiny. He could not even control his feet.

She was aware of somebody behind her calling her name, but she didn't turn. Like the night she'd spent alone in the safe house, she couldn't tear her eyes away from the scene in front of her. If she looked away, Tristan was really gone.

"Dylan."

She flinched as the voice called to her again. She couldn't guess if it was male or female, old or young. It didn't sound impatient or urgent. It was welcoming.

Who was she fooling? He was already gone. He was gone and he wasn't coming back. She just wasn't quite ready to accept it yet. Dylan stared at the path defiantly. Her teeth bit down on her lower lip, cutting down hard enough to split the skin and taste blood. She didn't. Her senses were numb.

She didn't want to be welcomed.

"Dylan."

Dylan huffed, growing irritated. The voice was going to continue until she answered it, she realised. Slowly, reluctantly, she turned round.

For a second she blinked, confused. There was nothing there. Her mouth opened, ready to call out, hoping the voice would speak again, but she closed it slowly. What the hell did it matter?

She was about to turn back, to resume her sentry duty, gazing back down the path in the vain hope that Tristan would miraculously reappear, but as she looked away, something odd and out of place caught her eye. A light, glowing. For a second her heart leaped, thinking of the orbs she'd seen floating in the blood-red wasteland, but it wasn't the same. It grew and changed shape, elongating, forming. It smiled at her, and the expression, too, was welcoming. It sat in the middle of a pale, perfect face surrounded by a cloud of white-blond hair. The body looked human enough in shape, but not quite right. Like the glimpses of souls she'd seen, it was there but not there; half in, half out of focus.

"You must have questions. Please, come with me."

"Who are you?"

"I am Caeli. I am here to greet you. Welcome. Welcome home."

The confusion melted into understanding. "I am sorry. You cannot go back. Your body is gone. Don't fear, you will see your loved ones again soon."

"Welcome," it chimed, spreading its arms out. Dylan scowled, annoyed that it was beaming at her in an indulgent way, like she should be happy to be there.

The smile was still in place, the arm outstretched. Two eyes, gold, pupil-less, but warm, not frightening, watched and waited.

Home? Home! This was not home. Home was the place she'd just left. Twice.

Slowly, determinedly, Dylan shook her head. The being -- it was unfair to call it a thing, yet it was definitely not a person -- looked at her in polite confusion.

"I want to go back," Dylan said calmly.

"No, that's not what I mean. The wasteland. I want to go back to the wasteland." Dylan looked around at the flat expanse of heathland still surrounding her. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that the horseshoe of hills remained. It seemed like she was still in the wasteland, strictly speaking, but since crossing the line, it wasn't the same place. Not at all. "I want…" Dylan tailed off. The being, Caeli, was giving her an incredulous look

Dylan folded her arms across her chest, lifted her chin. "No," she said, forcing the word out from between clenched teeth. "I want Tristan. I'm not leaving here until I see him."

Dylan's frown deepened. He wasn't getting what she was trying to say at all.

"You do not need him any more. He has fulfilled his role. Please, come with me." This time the being turned, pointed behind him. A doorway of sorts had appeared a little way down the path: a five-barred gate, a wide cattlegrid at the base. It looked ridiculous hovering there without a purpose, without a fence stretching away from either side of it.

"You have made the crossing," he said enigmatically.

"I'm sorry, but that is not possible."

"Where is my ferryman? Where is Tristan?" She tripped a little over his name.

Caeli looked as though he didn't understand the question. "It is not possible," he repeated. "Please, come with me."

"Why?" Dylan shot back.

He took a step to the side and gestured once again to the gate behind him. He smiled patiently, waiting. Dylan had the feeling he would stand there, calmly and serenely, until she moved.

No, a small part in the back of her head screamed. He said he loved you. He meant it.

But what would be the point?

Would he stop her? She rose to her feet, and took one half-step back, gauging his reaction carefully. Caeli continued smiling, tilting his head a little to the side, eyebrows coming together slightly in puzzlement. Another step. Still he didn't move. Just watched. She was free to ignore him then.

What would he do if she ignored him, tried to go back the way she had come, back to the lake?

Tristan wasn't there. Tristan had lied to her. He was probably already with his next job, the next soul.

Taking her eyes off him for a moment, she risked a second fleeting look behind her. The hills were still there. She thought she could just make out the outline of the final safe house, hazy through the line that divided the two worlds. There was no sign of the wraiths, no sign of danger. She could stay there.

He'd probably already forgotten about her.

Maybe. Maybe not. There was no way to know the truth. And if Tristan wasn't coming back, what was the point of lingering here?

The being smiled at her warmly, waiting until she'd drawn level before turning and walking beside her along the path.

Sighing, Dylan unfurled her arms, letting them fall loose to her sides. Her hands throbbed, the blood rushing back into her fingertips. She hadn't realise how tightly she had them clenched around her, like she was holding herself together.

"This is the records room. I thought it would be a good place for you to start, to find the souls who have come before you. Those who have died and found their way across the wasteland."

"Okay," she whispered, taking first one step, then another, in Caeli's direction. "Okay."

They reached the gate, but when Caeli pulled it aside, it wasn't just the rusting metal bars that shifted. It was as if Caeli was cutting a hole in the world. In the space where the gate had been, was now a window onto a whole other place.

"Please." Caeli spoke quietly, indicating that Dylan should step through.

"Where are we?" she whispered, on the other side.

It was a gigantic room, almost without proportions. She couldn't see the walls, but it felt inside somehow. The floor was clean, colourless.

"How?" Dylan murmured, intrigued despite herself.

As soon as the word left her lips, order started to assert itself. The edges of the room contracted, forming definable walls, walls that were lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves heaving with heavy tomes. A carpet materialised beneath her feet, thick and dark, made for grandeur and muffling footsteps. She had a strange sense of déjà vu as she stared around her, the image stirring up echoes of a visit to a library with Joan; cavernous and quiet and mazelike to her ten-year-old eyes. She'd got lost and been found crying beneath a desk by a kindly janitor. Was this another one of those projections of her mind, like the wasteland?

Caeli spoke softly beside her. "I am sure you have family, friends that you would like to find?" He waited a beat. "Would you like me to help you locate anyone? Your Grandmother Moore? Your Aunt Yvonne?"

Dylan stared at him, shocked that he knew the names of her relatives. "You can find anyone?" she asked.

"Anyone who completed the journey, yes. We have records of every soul. Every ferryman has a book of those that they have guided over."

"Tristan's book," Dylan repeated.

Caeli paused for a moment before responding. "That is not the purpose of this place…" he began.

Dylan turned to the being, a light suddenly shining in her eyes. "I want to see Tristan's book," she told him.

The being looked far from happy, his features a mixture of concern and disapproval, but he led her around looming shelving units and past countless books until he reached a dark corner. He reached for a shelf that was empty apart from one huge tome. It was a faded green colour, with pages gilded in gold. The corners appeared worn, soft, as if a thousand fingers had lifted the cover and leafed through.

"Here is your ferryman's book," Caeli told her, laying it down on an empty table. "May I ask what it is you are looking for?"

What? Dylan stared across the room as she processed Caeli's words. But she wasn't thinking about finding her grandmother or her aunt, who had died of breast cancer just three years earlier. She had another idea.

Dylan didn't reply, not entirely sure of the answer herself. Instead she reached out and lifted the front cover to reveal a ledger. Entry upon entry filled the page. Row after row of souls penned in with a neat hand. There was a name, an age, and a date on every line. Not their birth date, Dylan realised with a shock. It was the day they had died.

Where was Tristan, right now? Had he reached the first safe house yet?

Wordlessly, Dylan flicked through the pages. Name after name after name. Hundreds. Thousands. Countless souls who owed their continued existence to Tristan. And she was just one name amongst that sea. Grabbing a thick chunk, she waded through the book until she came to blank paper. Working backwards, she found the final entry. Hers. It was bizarre, looking at her name written in a more elegant script than she could have ever managed. Was this Tristan's handwriting? No, it couldn't be. Next to it had been entered the date she'd taken the train. She touched her finger to the next blank line and wondered what name would grace the space.

Dylan sighed and went back to flipping through the book, opening it to a page at random. She didn't want to think about Tristan ferrying another soul. He was her ferryman. Hers. She smiled ruefully. That was a difficult thought to believe faced with the ledger in front of her. She scanned through the list. Frowned.

"Excuse me… Caeli?" She faltered a little calling the being by his name. "What does this mean? Why has the name been scored out?"

There was no answer. Dylan looked to her left, wondering if she had been abandoned, but the being stood there still. He was looking away from her, but seemed to be staring at nothing.

"What's this?" she asked, pointing to a line near the bottom of the page. The entry had been scored out, the name all but obliterated by a thick black line of ink.

Disarmed by his golden stare, Dylan momentarily lost her train of thought. The mystery of the crossed-out entry slipped to the back of her mind.

"That soul is not here," he responded, still looking away from her. Not there? Were they the souls lost to the wraiths? If Dylan looked, would she find the little boy in here, the one who'd died of cancer, that Tristan had dropped running from the demons? She opened her mouth to ask, but Caeli turned his head and fixed her with a dazzling smile that halted her. "Why are you interested in this book? If you tell me, I can help you."

"I'm looking for someone, but I don't know his name. He was a soldier. A Nazi soldier."

Dylan blinked, a little surprised at herself. That hadn't been why she'd asked to see the book, but the idea had just popped into her head and she knew at once that, subconsciously at least, that had been her plan all along. She wanted to speak to someone else who knew Tristan. She wanted to talk about him, with someone who knew him like she did. The young soldier from World War Two had been the soul who had stuck most in her mind from all the stories Tristan had told her.

"Do you know every soul in here?" she asked, pointing to the book.

The being dipped his head in assent.

She expected the being to shake his head, tell her he would need more than that, but to her surprise he moved to the desk, flicked confidently through the creamy sheaves until he came to the page he wanted.

"Here." He pointed to the second to last line. "This is the soul you want."

Dylan leaned across him, peering at the scrawled name.

"Jonas Bauer," she murmured. "Eighteen years old. Died February 12, 1941. Is that him?"

Caeli nodded.

Eighteen. A boy and a man. Who would Tristan have been for him? How would he have made Jonas follow him?

Dylan bit her lip, thinking. Eighteen. He was only a few years older than she was. Somehow, when she'd imagined this soul, she'd seen him as a man. But he could still have been at school. She thought briefly about the seniors at Kaithshall. The school captain, the prefects. They were just immature, silly little boys. She couldn't imagine them wearing a uniform, holding a gun. She couldn't imagine them standing up to someone, knowing the decision would sign their own death warrant.

Dylan lifted her head from the page, gazed at Caeli. "I want to talk to him."