Sergeant Hodge cursed fluently as he set foot in a hidden burrow and, by an acrobatic feat, only just succeeded in escaping a broken ankle. The area around the detention centre – correction, he supplied, make that former detention centre – was a lethal minefield created entirely by rabbits.

Why he, Sergeant Hodge, was here was a complete mystery to him. Quite apart from the perilous ground and the even more perilous state of the ruined buildings, the place was a smoking shell and, furthermore, a smoking shell that should have had nothing whatsoever to do with him. Here and now, in a fine drizzle that held every promise of building to a crescendo of hammering water within the next half an hour or so, it was difficult to accept that he was less than three miles from his small but well-ordained quarters at the garrison.

Military Intelligence - contradiction in bloody terms that they were, he thought savagely - had ordered Larkhill's garrison commander to investigate the incident for them. And of course the captain, master and impresario of the noble art of delegation, had suggested that his sergeant might like to take some men and get out and about in the fresh air.

The place is still fucking burning, he reflected, but dismissed it as a minor point of annoyance. Their first priority here wasn't to investigate the wreckage itself, but to search the area for a missing detainee.

Hodge had serious misgivings about that last word, which was why he'd almost instinctively dropped a pair of mental inverted commas around it. Two things were bothering him in equal measure. First was the fact that nobody, out of the very few Intelligence people he'd been in contact with over the last couple of days, seemed too eager to divulge the precise nature of the project that had been under way at the centre. Second concern was the reason behind the Larkhill detainment program; itself, once again, wreathed in hush.

Not that he'd joined the army to ask unnecessary questions, he concluded, but a question or two here and there was perfectly necessary, especially where the safety of his men was concerned.

The basic report he'd been issued with, as filtered through the distinctly selective ears and mouth of his captain, was that all but one of the detainees had perished in the explosions or the resultant fire, but that this sole survivor had fled amongst the chaos. Yes, he was reported to be badly injured and, in all probability, dead somewhere in the surrounding farmland. No, he isn't infected with anything. No, he isn't dangerous. Now hop to it and find the bugger, there's a good sergeant.

Not dangerous? thought Hodge. Bollocks. No such animal. He'd served two tours in the Gulf War where, he recalled bitterly, he'd had to organise the repatriation of the remains of two armed men who'd been slaughtered by some crazy Arab bastard with half a brick.

"Pearce!" Hodge bellowed, still eyeing the ruins. A moment later, his corporal appeared at his elbow, snapping to attention, a move that was only slightly spoiled by the fact that Pearce had dropped his foot into the same rabbit-hole that had almost done for the sergeant. On any other day, Hodge might have been in enough of an affable temper to comment upon this, but at a point in time when he could happily spit hot blood at all of his superiors, he let it slide.

"Yes, Sarge?"

"Get on the blower to the captain for me, will you? Tell him we need a few reinforcements out here, pronto. And if that chinless wonder thinks he's going to argue with me, tell him he can be the one to pass it onto Intelligence that we 'mislaid' their slippery little goldfish because we were seriously undermanned. Got all that?"

"Yes, Sarge," Pearce said, and then fetched up his radio; trying, with all due reserve of diplomacy, to translate the sergeant's request into Officer-Speak as he did so.

Not too far away from this conversation, V laid his arms on the kitchen windowsill and studied the milling goats in the pen across the yard. He'd remained inside the house so far, keenly conscious of the almost immediate presence of the military base and, more to the point, of the fact that if anyone came hunting him - as they were all but certain to - then he might have put Edward at significant risk.

His eyes drifted as his thoughts squirrelled around. If Edward's summary was correct, then he would be fit and well enough to take leave and move on within the next day or so. In point of fact, his energy was spiking already, and the pain of his burns had diminished to a manageable level even without the effects of the codeine, although he thought much better of telling his host this; the man was edgy enough as it was.

Man and dog came into view, the dog's occasional yaps muted through the window. Edward glanced up, and raised a hand to V, before he hefted the bucket of feed and began to sluice it into the trough in the goats' pen. The animals nudged and butted one another gently but firmly to establish a hierarchy around the food, and then sank their noses into it.

The back door clonked as Edward returned, brushing grit from his hands, having as usual to step smartly around the boisterous Nelson.

"How're you doing, lad?" he asked, taking note of the fresh scar tissue now painting itself across V's right brow. It was thicker than it had been just that morning and, furthermore, appeared to be somewhat softer than any such scar he'd ever seen, although the same synthetic shade of baby doll pink.

"I'm well," said V, turning away from his study of the guzzling goats, "but I was dreaming last night." Edward leaned against the door, thrusting his hands into his pockets in thought.

"Am I to assume that's not a good thing, then?"

"I can't say for sure. I was dreaming about things I can't even remember; things I didn't dream about while I was a prisoner." V locked his hands together on the windowsill. "But then I didn't dream much at all while I was a prisoner."

"I'm not surprised. You had your own nightmares to deal with at the time."

"Perhaps."

Edward, all at once, felt as if he'd swallowed a cold cannonball that had pushed a surge of guilt up his throat and into his mouth like bile. He'd taken in an injured man out of instinct, but had almost immediately begun to fear that this action would lead to the unravelling of his security. Selfish, he understood, given that his patient's whole life, his only memories, were now comprised solely of a litany of abuse that had destroyed his childhood, adolescence and family and left nothing in their stead but further abuse.

"Edward?"

"What's that?"

"I'd like to go outside for a while, if I may. I'm afraid I can't offer you any justification than a simple desire for sun and fresh air on my skin, and if you feel it would run a risk for both of us, I'll concede."

It was either a coincidence, or the man was an incredibly talented telepath. Edward realised that there was nothing extraordinary about the request, nothing that he could humanely refuse, particularly given his sudden understanding of basic relativity and the scale of his troubles when set against his patient's. He knew he was already taking a chance by sheltering a fugitive; what more harm could even be done?

"If you like. It'll probably do you a power of good, in fact. Just wait for me to find the right time, yep?"

V nodded, graciously. "Of course," he said.

The woods around Larkhill were a bohemian ensemble of deciduous beech and silver birch, interrupted here and there by the occasional stubborn grove of spruce. These were a playground for jackdaws, which clattered vigorously but aimlessly in the canopy everywhere they sensed movement below.

All of this tremendous splendour of nature was quite lost on Sergeant Hodge. He had one boot half full of mud already, and this had done nothing to improve his temper; neither had the continuing rain. His two companions seemed to be making much better progress over the difficult ground than he but then, he supposed, they would. They were both half his age.

"Right, you two," Hodge grunted. "There's a farm just up ahead, we'll stop in there and have a word with the owner, find out if he's seen anything." And take the weight off our feet for a bit, too, he added silently. This bloody jaunt might be captain's orders, but nobody said we had to rush it.

He knew the farmer, anyway. The bloke had treated Hodge's wife's cats from time to time. He was a pretty good vet, by all accounts, if a tad morose when the mood took him, and no wonder, either, living out here all by himself.

Edward, glancing up through the window, saw the soldiers opening the farm gate. His heart thumped like a gerbil, and he darted a look at V, who was immersed in reading Candide while Nelson, unassuming as ever, mumbled and dozed at his feet, paws flicking now and then.

"Lad? Get upstairs right now. Hide in the sewing room. Go on."

V had far more sense than to request a detailed explanation; Edward's terror boiled beneath the apparent calm ease in his voice. He simply nodded, and slipped from the room.

Only when the stairs had fallen silent did Edward count to five, wring his hands in a vague attempt to stop them shaking, and open the door.

He recognised the sergeant after a moment's thought. He'd seen the man in his surgery a time or two, in the company of his wife, a very pleasant lady who nonetheless appeared to have far more cats than basic common sense would dictate to be prudent. The sergeant himself barely spoke to Edward, but right now, he seemed affable enough despite the rain that was flickering down on him.

"Afternoon, sir. I'm Sergeant Hodge, this is Corporal Pearce and Private Flynn," he said, waving an airy hand at his companions. "May we come in? I need to ask you a few questions about the recent incident at the detainment centre." Keep quite still, Edward told himself desperately, but he nodded as best he could, and stood aside to allow the men into the kitchen.

"Thank you, sir, nice to have a fire going on a day like this, eh?" the sergeant said. He'd be here all afternoon if he had his way. This kitchen was as comfortable as his slippers. He looked down, and noticed Nelson for the first time. The dog had woken at the sound of the knock on the door, although he was not that easily disturbed from his naps, and had almost immediately settled back down again, eyes crinkled.

Now, he was regarding the soldiers with eerie intensity. Hodge watched, but he didn't see so much as one tiny flicker. The dog didn't pant, blink, sigh or twitch; he merely stared and stared. Hodge, hugely disquieted, was the first to look away, and he had the ludicrous but somehow pervasive idea that the dog knew it had won, somehow. He shook himself, and grinned chummily at Edward instead.

"Would you and your men like a cup of tea, Sergeant?" Edward asked, hoping for an affirmative answer and, thus, the chance to busy himself with something routine. "And please, do sit down."

"That'd be lovely, sir, and thank you." Hodge replied, and parked himself on the sofa. Pearce and Flynn remained standing and, Edward noticed, seemed extraordinarily ill at ease. Join the club, boys, his overstretched brain commented.

V had left the door between the kitchen and the hall standing ajar, although it wouldn't have been strictly necessary. Over the past two days, he'd been noticing that his hearing had been getting better. Much better. Last night, he'd lain wakeful on the sofa in the kitchen through the night, exploring his surroundings without use of his eyes. He'd heard Edward's snores upstairs, and the shuffle of a mouse or two in the goat shed next door. Exerting himself, he'd even heard a fox panting slightly in the yard outside.

In comparison to this, hearing the voices from the kitchen was simplicity itself, door or no door. There were three newcomers. He'd separated their footsteps easily enough, although so far, only one of them had spoken and, in fact, was continuing to speak. V breathed slowly, and listened carefully.

"Lovely tea, sir, thank you. Now," Hodge went on, pausing to move a book that he'd inadvertently sat on, "I wonder, could you tell me what you might have seen or heard, the night of the fire?"

At least, thank God, making the tea had given Edward time to avert his eyes and think of a story. He folded a kitchen towel around his hands, and composed himself.

"Not all that much, Sergeant, to be honest with you. I usually walk the dog for the last time around midnight, so I was out in the field on the hill when I saw the fire. I thought I might be able to help, so I cut through the wood. I didn't see anyone, though, and after a bit I decided to go home."

Too trite? Too hasty? Edward had no way of being sure. To his own terrified ears, it had sounded like a mad, disjointed ramble of desperate words, but as he inhaled shakily, he saw that the sergeant gave every appearance of satisfaction with the explanation.

Hodge drained the last of his tea and reached down, absently, to stroke the dog. Nelson ignored the approaching hand, shifted his bulk from the floor with an affronted grunt and flopped down by the fire, well away from the sergeant. Here he dropped his chin on his paws and continued to direct that steady, glassy, thoroughly bewildering stare at the soldiers.

"Thanks for everything, sir," he managed, while tearing his gaze away from the dog's once more, and once more with that peculiar feeling of a battle lost. "We won't take up any more of your time. But if you do see anything unusual, would you please contact our captain straight away?" Hodge scrawled a phone number in his notebook, tore the page out and placed it on the kitchen table. Edward glanced at it, but left it lying just where it was.

"Of course I will, sergeant."

Edward saw the men to the gate and waved them away. Hodge merely set his head against the drizzle and marched off, but the corporal knitted his brows as he directed a short but pointed look back at the farmhouse, and at Edward himself. Then he, too, turned and set off back for the wood.

Pearce allowed his superior to move ahead, and it was only once they were under the damp cover of the tree line again that he stopped in the lee of a young tree and lit a cigarette.

"Sarge?" he said, softly. Hodge brought himself up short in annoyance, and turned back. "What is it? We're getting pissed on here, in case you hadn't noticed," he pointed out, his tone bleeding sarcasm.

"That bloke was hiding something." Pearce said.

"Oh? Oh yes, Corporal? And what would make you say a little thing like that, pray tell?"

"Couple of things," responded Pearce mildly, the cigarette tucked under his top lip. "One, he told us he hadn't seen anyone. We hadn't actually told him we were looking for anyone. And two, he wasn't curious. Why not? I know for a fact that the civvies round here've gossiped about that place since it was first put up. Here he's got a chance to ask us all about it. He knows we won't tell him, yeah, but he'll ask anyway. Human nature."

Hodge's mouth had twisted itself into a hard, thin line throughout this brief recital. It was all perfectly true, but that wasn't the point at stake. The point at stake was that he shouldn't have needed any of it pointed out by a corporal. He'd been distracted by the tea and by that bloody dog and by the overriding desire to make a botch job of this whole stupid mission and get back to the base.

"All right. It's only a suspicion, mind you, but what we'll do is watch the place for a while and see what happens. You might be right, you might not, you might even turn into a magpie for all I know. So we watch, okay?"

"Okay, Sarge," said Pearce, ditching his cigarette and shooting Flynn a glance.

The farmhouse remained silent for long minutes after the soldiers had left. Edward very carefully placed the towel on the table, next to the piece of paper the sergeant had given him. Then, lifting back the curtain, he studied the landscape outside for a time. The soldiers were gone, and the rain had finally taken its leave. Across the low, easy valley, above the wood, the sky was gradually cultivating a spreading patch of pale, clear blue.

The door creaked behind him, and he turned to see V re-enter the kitchen.

"Thank you, Edward," he said, softly. Nelson heaved himself off the floor by the fireplace, and waddled over to V, nudging at his hand. V smiled, looking down, and patted the dog's head.

"Don't thank me, lad. I told you that. I just do what's right. You think I'd have handed you over to them?" Edward breathed out. "Anyway, if you still want to go out, I have to take the goats up to pasture. You'll come with me?"

"I would like that, yes," V replied, with a small and decorous bow of his head.

Nelson, usually about as obedient as a rubber ball on a stray ricochet, sat at Edward's heel for once as he unlatched the gate of the goats' pen. There were eight nannies in the pen, and four adolescent kids. They milled about by the gate, blocking one another's way with soft, annoyed bleats, until they had finally emerged into the yard. Then, with a surety borne from long experience of Edward's routine, they headed for the main gate and stood in a gently jostling crowd by the fence. Nelson, who had always fancied himself as a herding dog in spite of the fact that any one of the goats would sooner spit in his eye than obey him, trundled away to attempt to round them up.

Edward was about to set off after his dog, when he noticed that V seemed profoundly distracted.

"Everything all right, lad?"

V had donned a long, hooded coat of Edward's, and his eyes glinted like a chimera's in the shadow of the hood. Now, though, he pushed it back and waved a hand at the pens.

"Are we leaving someone behind?" he asked. Edward followed the line of V's finger, and snorted.

"Good god, yes. That's Lucifer, I don't take him out with the others, he's a bloody menace."

"Lucifer? A name with some deep personal experience behind it, I must presume."

"You presume right, yep."

The billy had reared onto its statuesque hind legs and was directing a venomous gaze at Edward, at its departing harem and, it seemed, at the world in general. V studied Lucifer intently. There was no denying that it was a very handsome animal, with deep-ridged horns that ran a graceful curve back over its neck, a long and satin coat patched with grey, brown and white, and a smooth, cream-coloured Mandarin beard that almost reached its knees. Its slotted golden eyes, however, were suffused with enough abiding animal belligerence for the entire herd and more besides.

Edward, recalling events much later, eventually came to the conclusion that his reaction had been delayed by the sheer, unthinking assumption that nobody could be that stupid. However, so it was that he only stood and stared as V took half a dozen short paces and unlocked the gate of the billy's pen.

Nelson's reaction, gestated in blind reflex, was more immediate; he'd been on the receiving end of Lucifer's breathless, head-down charges once or twice. His ears jerked spasmodically at the sound of the opening gate and then, with just one confirmatory glance at this tableau, darted behind the rest of the herd for some protection.

Lucifer's hooves clacked on the threshold of the gate, and it lowered its horns, bringing their points into play. Edward, by this time, had managed to rouse himself from his horrified trance, and was darting forward to pull V out of the way of more bodily harm than he even dared contemplate.

"Wait," V said, evenly, and there was something so tranquil in that one word, and in the ease of V's stance, that Edward halted in his tracks and cast his eyes at Lucifer.

The animal had raised its head again. This in itself was unheard-of; in the normal course of things, Lucifer's head usually stayed down until some other unfortunate living creature was rolling in pain in the dirt. Not this time, however. It shook its beard, and scraped one hoof, but there was every sign of a grand bluff about its movements and, after half a minute – half a minute that seemed, to Edward, to extend itself to cover many strained hours – the billy took several careful, tottering steps backward and settled itself down onto a heap of straw. V, wreathed in silence, closed and latched the gate once more.

Edward hadn't realised how long he'd been holding his breath until white stars began to pinwheel across his field of vision; now he exhaled with a slight groan.

"You stupid sod," he gasped, at last. "What'd you think you were doing?"

"Testing a supposition," V said, briefly, pulling the hood back up again and turning to face the other man. Edward saw the starpoint gleam of those eyes once more in the gloom beneath, and shied from it.

"Well I…" he began, "I just…well, please don't 'test your suppositions' with my livestock again, lad. Got that? That's a bloody dangerous animal. What if you'd been wrong?"

"I apologise, Edward. Truly I do, but I did not hold any belief that I could be wrong."

"Okay." Edward ran a hand through his hair, leaving it stood up at a curious angle on one side. He ignored this. "Let's just get up to the pasture, okay, and we'll say no more about it."

"I thank you. And," V conceded, "I give you my promise that my rash actions are at an end."

Nelson withdrew from behind the herd at last and, seeing that his nemesis was once again contained, directed a small, defiant bark at the pen. Lucifer's slanted eyes swivelled in his direction, and he quietened down, panting apprehensively. Edward nudged the dog with his foot.

"Come on, you," he said, good-humouredly. "Get'm moving."

From between the trees, Private Flynn watched all of this with some consternation. He hissed over his shoulder to his superior as he saw the goats stream out across the grass.

"Sarge, they're going out. Shall we move in?"

Hodge, loitering in the undergrowth behind, shook his head.

"No," he added. "We'll wait until it's getting dark."

Flynn knew better than to employ the word 'why' at this juncture. It wasn't a word that had much to do with career prospects in the army. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and watched the small party move off up the distant track and, presently, out of his sight.

The sun had almost dipped below the horizon by the time the three returned to the house. The goats had been left on the hillside for the night and for the next day's grazing; they could, Edward assured V, more than take care of their own in the meantime.

Nelson, his priorities clear, barged past the both of them as the door was opened and flopped down in front of the fire once more. The evening was developing that sharp, coppery tang that promised frost before sunrise, and he wanted to get ahead of the game and get nicely warmed up in advance.

While Edward made them some tea, V returned to the bookshelf upstairs with some of those volumes that he had already finished. He paused in the act of replacing a book on the shelf and turned, catlike, his eyes narrowing with predatory concern, as he heard the strident bang on the back door. He crept to the edge of the landing and stood frozen there, his ears carefully attuned.

Edward wrenched the door back; it was either that or see it broken down, and he knew that the end result would be just the same either way. The sergeant shouldered through, but all trace of his former geniality was lost now. He raised his gun, and motioned to Edward to step back.

"Sorry about this, sir," he said, and something in his voice did indicate that this was the case, "I know you probably did it for the best. But we have to take him in." And you, Hodge quietly added. If we don't take you with us now, Intelligence will come and do it sooner rather than later, and they won't be polite about it, either.

"You do what you have to do, Sergeant, and so will I," Edward retorted, his voice flat, keeping the tremor at bay. Hodge struggled with a brief, potent spear of admiration for the man, but he nodded at his subordinates regardless.

"You two search the house. And you, sir," he turned to Edward now, "you just come with me, and be nice and quiet, okay?"

When their sergeant had left, leading the old man outside on the point of his gun, the corporal eyed Flynn, and pressed a finger to his lips. Then, message understood, he jabbed a finger at the ceiling. Flynn paused, started to mouth a query, but then he heard it too; a tiny creak from the beams, barely even there at all. He nodded in understanding, and the both of them passed through into the darkened hall.

The tenebrous staircase lay straight ahead of them, both the darkness and the silence swirling around it, so tangible they could almost be touched. Flynn glanced at his corporal, but that one glance was enough. He hefted his gun and started up the stairs first, cringing heavily at every squeal from the ancient treads.

The landing was brighter than the staircase, at least; the last pale threads of twilight were creeping into the house through the stained glass window at the far end, although the predominantly red glass of the window lent a distinctly hellish tint to the scene. Four doors met their gaze, all closed, but as they moved towards the nearest, one of the furthest doors swung inward in near silence. Looking at one another with the briefest stab of bewilderment, Pearce and Flynn stepped carefully down the hall.

They had not gone three paces, however, when a figure stepped out into the crimson light, silhouetted against the glow from the stained glass window. Its head was lowered, almost penitent, and it made no further move and it said nothing, nothing at all. Flynn jumped like a mouse on a hotplate, but he brought his gun up nevertheless, and trained it on this disconcerting mannequin.

"All right, mate. Just you stay right there, and get your hands up," he demanded, his voice echoing with a bravado that he suddenly realised he'd left far, far behind, all the way back at the camp where he'd gone through basic training.

The shade ahead of him didn't comply, didn't give any indication that it had even heard him. He spotted the corporal's urgent hand signal out of the corner of his eye, not daring to turn away from this tableau any more than he had to, and edged forward, gun still pointing.

"I said, get your hands up," Flynn repeated, hoping against hope that he wouldn't be given any reason to fire. He felt, with a lurch in his gut, that he already had reason enough. So it was with a stifled sigh of gratitude that he saw the figure raise its hands, smoothly and slowly. So wrapped in relief was Flynn that he didn't see the knife in one of those gloved hands until it was too late.

Some part of him watched this slow-motion dance as the Stygian figure raised its head at last; saw the ivory complexion, saw the black eyes, saw the mocking smile. He saw the figure's arm uncurling. He saw the blade, which gleamed scarlet in the very last ray of sunlight as it flashed across the landing. Then he saw nothing else.

Pearce had been unable to move, unable to raise his gun past Flynn in the narrow passage. Now, as the private gurgled and crumpled at his feet, Pearce let his reflexes take over, and he backed away in terror as he tightened his finger on the trigger.

Not nearly time enough; the figure was already moving, as quiet as a prayer, its cloak swirling and billowing around it like the wings of Belial, filling the passage. Pearce thought he heard a short laugh of triumph, and he raised his gun with a speed born of despair, but there was an abrupt glottal snarl from behind him, and he felt teeth like daggers tighten on his wrist and sink right through to the bone.

Caught between the maddened dog and the angel of death before him, Pearce whimpered just once before a hand tightened about his neck and lifted him from the floor as if he were stuffed with straw. The shadow regarded him dispassionately for a second, head cocked, empty eye sockets colder than a traitor's grave; and then it snapped his neck with one powerful, convulsive twist.

V dropped the body without ceremony and breathed out at last, inhaling his own dusky scent behind the mask, stood amongst the human litter of his endeavours. He stooped, pulled the knife from Flynn's throat with a glutinous tug, and stroked Nelson's head as the dog clambered over Pearce's corpse, his tail lashing furiously.

"This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine," V murmured, turning the sticky blade over and over.

Hodge was plagued with a spiralling sense of dread. His head flickered back and forth between Edward, who stood by the gate, still held at the end of the sergeant's gun, and the looming, twilit bulk of the farmhouse.

"What the fuck's keeping them?" he muttered, his hands shaking imperceptibly. He reached a fragile decision, and with a sharp command to Edward to stay put, started back towards the house.

He was halfway across the yard when the stained glass window above scythed out into the night, disintegrating into a shrieking cloud, the exquisite rendering of St. George reduced to glittering fragments that poured over Hodge like lethal raindrops. He covered his head desperately, but too late, and one wicked shard sliced his cheek to the bone as V landed gracefully in front of him and swept back his cloak.

"Jesus!" Hodge yelled, and swung his gun up once more, but it was knocked from his hand with effortless ease, while a gloved fist slammed into his chest with bone-cracking force, and he felt something vital splinter somewhere inside him. He landed on his back in the gravel, and the spectre swooped on him, one hand pinning him down, the other withdrawing a blood-slicked blade from the recesses of its clothing. Hodge froze, his eyes darting like rabbits. He coughed up a crimson bubble.

"God, please…" he gasped, wanting to focus on the knife, but finding himself transfixed by the beneficent, softly smiling visage above his own, the mask that hinted at human compassion but betrayed nothing but imminent death.

V studied his prone victim, and then leaned down until the mask was all that Hodge could see.

"Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once," he whispered, and then slammed the knife down with cruel speed, running it clean through the sergeant's heart in one stroke. The body bucked once beneath him, and then slumped.

Edward had fallen to his knees, swathed in horror at this mediaeval scene. He kept his head bowed, shivering like a wounded stag, as V appeared before him and offered his hand.

"Edward? They did not harm you?" he asked, his voice soothing. At long last, Edward raised his head. His eyes were wide, and lined with red. Only blind instinct made him reach out and take V's proffered hand, and then climb to his feet, as unsteady as a newborn calf.

"No. No, they didn't," he stuttered, taking several steps back, and almost falling as he did so. V moved forward and slipped a solicitous arm around the older man's shoulders, leading him back to the house.

Nelson circled them eagerly as they entered the kitchen, and V set Edward down on the sofa as gently as if he were handling fine porcelain. The old man ran a hand over his face again and again and again, almost as if this would wipe his memory along with his vision.

"What you did…you…" he said, but V laid a hand on his shoulder.

"What I did was what had to be done. My coming here put you in great danger, but now I have righted that wrong."

Edward looked up at the statuesque figure standing over him, his eyes almost pleading.

"Where are you going to go?"

"To London. A storm is coming, and I must set my sails if I'm to outrun it. There's work to be done." For a moment, Edward thought, V raised his head as if listening to a voice that only he could hear. Perhaps that was indeed the case.

Something urgent caught Edward by the heart, and he rose, and found a notepad and a pen on the dresser. V watched him scribble something, and tear it out.

"Listen, lad," Edward said, his voice preternaturally calm, "Take this. When you get to London, contact my son, he'll help you. He's got good connections. Please?" V reached out and took the slip of paper, quite gracefully, nodding his thanks as he did so. Edward adopted a wry grin, and went on, "Although what he'll think about seeing you in that get-up, I just can't imagine."

Stowing the paper away in his tunic, V laughed pleasantly, and then grasped Edward's hand and shook it. Nelson parked himself at V's feet and pawed his leg, whining softly. V bent and took the dog's head between his hands, and even through the mask, their gazes locked.

"Take care of Edward, my friend," he said, in a low voice that none but the two of them could hear. Nelson lapped his tongue, catching the mask across the cheek, just once. V straightened up, cast a warm look over both man and dog, and then swept out into the encompassing night.

The moon rode the clouds above him as if they were horses, and at the edge of the forest, he paused and extracted the paper that Edward had given him, unfolding it, reading what had been written there. There was a telephone number, and an address, and a name.

Gordon Deitrich.

Humming a soft, lilting adagio to himself, V moved on, while the trees whispered at his passing.