Holland, 2006

Rain ran in torrents down the pane, the view of the dead grey gardens blurred and distorted by the droplets. Marcus rested his forehead against the cold glass and closed his eyes. Another winter, another failed year. Beside him, taking up most of the space on the windowsill, was his journal, the page he'd turned to still blank. He'd been writing in it for many years, on and off, each month's entry the same.

Alone, still. No sign of any life this side of my prison walls. I think even the birds have left me. I found a rose, but not before it had been crushed under my boot.

And now it felt as if the sun had gone too. Winter was always the worst time. He spread his left hand, palm up, trying to flex the fingers that refused to respond to his will. Two had fused together, testimony to the last desperate fight, though he'd leapt into action too late. His thumb had been broken and had healed crooked, giving that hand the appearance of a claw, puckered, scarred, twisted. He never dared to look into a mirror anymore. But he felt alongside his jaw and dug angrily at the scarred skin where fire had burned him.

Inside, it consumed him.

Carrie carted in the last of her boxes and dumped them on the polished wood floor of her new loft apartment with a loud but happy sigh. Her boyfriend, Shane, came up behind her, his hands wrapped around a large fluffy bear.

"That's it, I think," she smiled, "just got to unpack now, but that can wait until tomorrow !"

"Sure," he said, "where do you want Mr Booboo ?"

Carrie cringed. Her childhood bear was precious to her, but every time Shane said its name, he managed to make it sound as if he were making fun of her. Booboo, Booboo, Booboo. She glared at him.

"Mr Booboo," she snapped, " can go over there on the shelf. Which is where you'll end up, if you don't learn some respect !"

"Oh, don't get crabby, it's only a bear !" he snorted, putting the toy down on the shelf where she'd said. "Anyway, if you're sorted, I need to get going. I start work in half an hour."

"Come by tomorrow, huh ?" she said, not really bothered if he did or not, if she was being honest. He'd been getting on her nerves lately, though she suspected her discontent was not all his fault. But she'd changed her job, and her home, and was still unsatisfied. There has to be more than this, she thought grumpily as she accepted a disinterested kiss from Shane and watched him close the door behind him. She looked round at her new home. She was five floors up and had a good view over the city, bathed gold in the setting sun's light. She was on the outskirts here, and less than two miles away the city gave way to the forests and lakes again. She liked hiking, and looked forward to heading up into the trees on balmy summer days, or brisk winter ones.

Home sweet home, she grinned to herself as she dug out her kettle and set it to boil for a mug of coffee long overdue.

Marcus pulled at his gates, rusted shut for fifty years. To his surprise, he'd managed to get round the curse by sleeping for some of that time, thanks to the residues of another, older curse not meant for him. But that had turned out to have its disadvantages, such as progress and not only of the weeds and rust. Somehow, somewhen, the city below him had grown. He wondered how that had managed to escape his notice.

"Bugger," he scowled, blistering his fingers on the rusty, cold iron. The gates refused to budge. Well, that wouldn't do. He assessed his boots, stolen a few years before he'd fallen asleep from a fellow German soldier whose plane had come down, blasted out of the sky by a Dutch gunner. They were sturdy. Good for kicking with. He kicked.

"Bugger !" he swore again, louder this time. The gates stayed put.

"Maybe if you oil the hinges ?" a voice whispered. He flung his arm out, hoping to connect with something, but he touched nothing but thin air. A ghostly laugh answered that.

"Perhaps one day you'll get bored with hanging around here, Peteka," he said mildly.

"I see you've woken up," Peteka said, "I came to see if you'd learned your lesson yet. From your disgusting language, I would guess not."

"And what lesson was that ?"

But there was no answer. Marcus scrutinised the bushes for any sign of the ghostly wizard, but there was nothing. No sound except for the wind. He went back inside for some oil to douse the hinges with. When he came back out, it had begun to snow, something he saw immediately it was only doing within the walls, whilst outside Spring still sprang, mild and sunny. He ground his teeth. For him, then, summer was not on its way after all.

Carrie stared in disbelief at what her friend was showing her. The images on the mobile phone flickered and blurred, but there was no mistake – it was definitely Shane. With another girl. Kissing her !

"He's a bastard, Caz," said Tarla gently, "you deserve better."

Carrie didn't answer. She was speechless with fury and hurt. So what that he bugged the hell out of her these past three months ? So what that she'd discovered she didn't miss him when he wasn't there ? How dare he be the one to…..argh ! She unclenched her fists with an effort and gathered her wits.

"He's so dumped," she hissed through her teeth, "just wait til I get my hands on him, the cheating sod ! And who the bloody hell is she ?"

"Umm….Andrea, I think, from his pottery class ?"

"Yeah, figures," Carrie said sourly, "I knew he only did that course so he could flirt ! Of course he denied it, lying bastard !" She stared again at the phone's display. Andrea was tall, Nordic, beautiful. Not to mention a bitch. Bloody bitch !

"To hell with men," said Carrie. "I think I'm going to go out and get drunk. Coming ?"

Marcus prowled the corridors of his house, looking for the place he'd last left Peteka's bones, years ago when he'd first come here and discovered the house occupied by enemies. He swore as he went, remembering that fateful evening. He ought to have known that killing a wizard wouldn't get rid of the pesky bugger. It certainly hadn't undone the curse, which was what he'd been banking on when he'd flashed his knife out and cut Peteka's throat. Typical that one of the people he'd murdered had turned out to know the old magic. Now Peteka seemed to think it funny to hang around and haunt him. Time to banish. Just need a witch…no, no, no, don't go there, they're as bad as wizards ! What a mess.

He stopped, his nose inches from the barrel of a pistol.

"You can't do that," he said.

"Yes, I can," said Peteka, materialising behind the gun, "I can do any damn thing I want, unlike you ! And you can get any notions of banishings out of your head, Marcus – I ain't going anywhere."

"Poof !" said Marcus, making a shooing gesture. Peteka laughed.

"It'll take more than that," he said, "Oh, just so you know – there's a curse on my bones. Anyone who touches them dies horribly."

Marcus grimaced. "It might be better than having you haunt me for the rest of time," he said, "But just in case you're telling the truth, I'll lay off. No bone hunting for me."

"I believe you, millions wouldn't," snorted Peteka. The gun dropped to the floor as he disappeared, and Marcus bent to retrieve it and tucked it into his pocket. Gotta get outta here ! If it kills me ! I've had enough !

He decided to go and try the gates again.

Carrie stared up at the tall iron gates, and the house that was all but concealed behind them by ivy and oak. It looked as run-down as a house could possible look, but why it should have been left like this, she couldn't imagine. Who'd let a massive place like this go to rack and ruin ?

Trying to shift the gates resulted in nothing but bruised hands, but shinning up the ivy-cloaked stone walls was no problem for a nimble girl, which she was. She landed the other side in a tangle of weeds and a molehill, and brushed herself down. Right. Now what ? Inside, or out ?

Inside won, but mostly because it had started to snow. Now that's odd, it shouldn't be snowing this time of year ! She stared at it, puzzled, as it settled on her outstretched hands.

"It's not real."

She stared at her hands, then at the speaker. He stood in the doorway, one hand wrapped around an ancient can of engine oil, the other stuffed in the pocket of his army greatcoat. He raised an eyebrow at her. "How did you get in ? The gates don't work."

"Sorry, am I trespassing ?" she asked, puzzled. Who on earth would live here ? The place is a ruin, practically. "I climbed over the wall," she added. He rolled his eyes and came down the steps towards her. He looked not quite forty, with dark hair grown long and unruly, and sardonic brown eyes. His mouth was wide, firm – a mouth that had been used to laughter, judging from the lines playing about the corners. He looked down at her.

"You're trespassing," he said, "but I don't mind. But it might not be good for you. So you go, ja ?"

"No," she said firmly. That startled them both. No ? What the….! "Are you going to oil the gates ?"

"I don't think it will make any difference, but yes," he said, "perhaps you can leave that way then. Come and see."

"You seem awfully eager to get rid of me," she said, "I mean, I totally understand, it's your house and all that, but…."

"It's not me you need to worry about," he said grimly as the oil can flew out of his hand and dashed itself against a tree. "Fine," he muttered, "have it your way !"

Oh great, a lunatic, Carrie thought, maybe he's right, I'd better go. "Not to worry, I'll get over the wall again," she said cheerfully, and set her hand upon a protruding stone to pull herself up. Immediately she found herself flung backwards onto ground turning icy with snow. Fear began to creep into her heart as she looked at the strange man. He stared back, his mouth open in shock. Then he swore.

"You bloody bastard !" he thundered at the air. "Let her leave !" He stood, as if waiting for an answer, then swore again and stamped back into the house, leaving her on her back in the snow.

She tried the wall again, and again, and again, but each time she was flung back. Finally she sat in the melting snow and sobbed. The lunatic came out again.

"You'd better come in," he sighed, "sorry about this. I'll explain in a…" he shut up suddenly, his words muffled, and she looked round to find him with his hand clamped firmly over his mouth, his eyes wide with fury. She opened her mouth to ask him what the hell was going on, but he shook his head at her. He extended his other hand to her instead, and froze. So did she, staring at the awful mess that had once been a hand. He jerked it back.

"Well, come in or stay there, it's all the same to me !" he barked, but she followed him in anyway, despite his sudden temper.

She didn't have any choice, it seemed.

"I'm Marcus," said Marcus, once he'd regained his temper and established some warmth and comfort in the kitchen, surprised that Peteka didn't object. Though why Peteka wanted her to stay was a mystery to him. He'd been only too eager to try and help the others escape when Marcus and his cronies had come calling. There was a rusty dark stain on the wall above the girl's head. Marcus' trigger finger twitched. That had been his doing. He felt sick.

She looked at him over the rim of her mug. "Carrie," she said by way of introduction. "What happened to your hand ?"

He pondered telling her, and decided it would probably only get him into trouble.

"Engineering accident," he said finally, "I got burned."

"Ah."

Go on, try it.

"Yes, it's a funny story, actually, I was working on this plane, in the war, and …faah..".it was no use. His tongue twisted itself into impossible shapes and his lips wouldn't work. He couldn't even slip the truth into a lie. No pulling the wool over Peteka's eyes. He slammed his fist on the table. "I won't tell her, then !" he shouted. Carrie flinched.

"It's best if you don't ask questions," he said. "I can't tell you, as you see."

"And I can't leave, either ?" she asked miserably. He saw the tears welling in her eyes.

"If it's any consolation, I won't hurt you," he said. And in his head, he heard Peteka's voice, mocking. I believe you. Millions wouldn't.