Chapter Six

Title: Angels of the Silences

Author: E.A. Week

E-mail: eaweek at hotmail-dot-com

Summary: The tenth Doctor goes undercover at a small American college to unravel the mystery behind a brutal murder, but he's not the only incognito time-traveler on campus.

Category: Doctor Who.

Distribution: Feel free to link this story to any Doctor Who or fanfic site, or distribute on a mailing list, but please drop me at least a brief e-mail and let me know you've done this.

Feedback: Letters of comment are always welcome! Loved it? Hated it? Send me an email and let me know why!

Disclaimers: Copyrights to all characters in this story belong to their respective creators, production companies, and studios. I'm just borrowing them, honest! The story title and all chapter titles are shamelessly stolen from Counting Crows.

Story rating: This story is rated M for language, sexuality, and adult themes.

Possible spoilers: This story takes place after the fourth season of the new Doctor Who series.

Chapter Six

Friend of the Devil

The day before spring classes began, Cassie trudged through the snow to Dr. Smith's office. She lacked the enthusiasm even to try out the cross-country skis she'd been given as a holiday gift: she just wanted to get this appointment done and over with.

She pulled back her shoulders and tried to compose her face into an expression of studied nonchalance. She'd spent the three weeks of vacation visiting friends, attending plays and concerts, drinking in the culture and life of New York City—why should she be made to feel like a bumpkin by some poodle-haired computer technician?

The door to Dr. Smith's office stood slightly ajar, and Cassie knocked on the frame.

"Who is it?" he called.

She poked her head inside. "Me."

"Cassie! Have a seat! Tea? Banana?"

"No, I'm good. I just need you to e-sign my schedule so I can register online."

"Oh, right. What are you taking?"

Cassie handed over the printout of her spring courses, trying not to stare at him. She'd expected Dr. Smith to look happy, maybe even smug, assuming he'd spent the better part of three weeks getting laid. Instead, he looked tired and haggard and sad, of all things, deep black circles beneath his eyes. Even his hair looked dejected.

Maybe he was sick. Maybe he and Shira Nahar had split up, or better, that their romance had fizzled before it even got off the ground. Maybe—

"Why only three classes?" he asked.

"To give me more time for my thesis," Cassie said. "I have way more credits than I need—I overloaded a couple of semesters, plus summer classes and AP credits."

"Why don't you take my special topics seminar?" he invited. "It's a course in basic astrophysics."

"That thud you just heard is my jaw hitting the floor," she protested. "Astrophysics? Do I look like Einstein? Or Stephen Hawking?"

"Why not?" He pushed a piece of paper across the desk, a colorful flier announcing the seminar. "You've had at least a year of general physics, right?"

"Yeah, it's required for the bio major," Cassie said.

"Then you could handle this," he said, eyes shining. "Come on, Cassie—it won't be any fun without you."

"Could you maybe get more blatant with the flattery?" she laughed, though inside she was thrilled.

"How will the other students learn anything if someone as smart as you isn't there to help them?"

"Oh, stop!"

"Please?" he wheedled. "If I don't get at least ten students in the class, it'll be canceled."

Cassie remembered that Ethan Allen students could take three elective courses on a pass-fail basis. Since she wasn't a physics major, she had this option for Dr. Smith's class. She'd still have to do the work, true, but without the effort needed for a graded course. She'd planned to use the extra time to write her thesis and visit whatever veterinary schools to which she was admitted, but the prospect of seeing Dr. Smith for an extra three hours a week tempted her sorely.

Glutton for punishment, she thought, in more ways than one.

"Okay," she relented.

"Brilliant!" he crowed, turning to the PC monitor. In a few seconds, he'd added the course to Cassie's schedule, and with one click approved the whole thing. Cassie would receive a confirmation e-mail from the registrar's office. Her last semester at college—Cassie realized with a funny pang that she would never again register for classes at Ethan Allen.

"How was your holiday?" he asked, leaning back in his seat, cupping a mug of tea in his long hands.

"Good," said Cassie. "I slept a lot, saw some plays, visited my great-grandmother." Boldly she asked, "What about you?"

"Hmm?" The question took him aback. "Oh—went to London, caught up with some old friends." She waited for him to mention the wedding or his new girlfriend, but he didn't. Cassie's hopes continue to rise.

"I need to run," she said. "I'll see you in class tomorrow."

"Right," he smiled. Cassie left, swallowing hard. She knew he'd never open up to her, never view her as anything more than an intelligent child. And really, she should stop this fruitless mooning—he was old, she realized, older than he looked, maybe forty or even forty-five. He could be my father, she knew, but that hardly dampened what she felt. The heart wants what it wants. Even if it's a middle-aged Limey git who only owns two suits. Cassie trudged out into the snow, scolding herself with every step.

(ii)

A loud popping noise startled River out of the pleasant doze she'd fallen into. She raised her head but realized it was only a piece of wood in the fireplace downstairs. The chalet consisted mostly of one large, open room, with a charming overhead loft for sleeping at one end, a half-wall permitting a view of the interior. A good-sized fire warmed the entire house.

After checking to make sure no burning embers had escaped, River settled herself back into the mattress, drawing up the covers and curling into the warmth of the Doctor's body.

"All right?" he murmured.

"Yeah," she said.

He sighed, stretched, and closed his eyes, slipping into the peculiar trance that for him passed as sleep. River never tired of watching him. Although he appeared to be deeply unconscious, he would wake in an instant if need be. Now, he seemed less asleep than in a state of contemplation, as if he'd descended into some underwater garden, to ponder weighty matters in which others could play no part.

In the orange light of the fire, his skin had a warm, ivory cast, dotted with charming, boyish freckles. River admired the lines and planes of his face. His ears and nose were too big, his chin too small, but oddly those imperfections added to his appeal rather than detracting from it. His breathing was even and steady, the rise and fall of his chest barely perceptible beneath the sheets and blankets. His bare shoulders were very slim, no wider than River's own. She marveled that he had room for one heart inside those ribs, let alone two. Unclothed, he was painfully thin. River normally didn't care for his body type, but for the Doctor, she made an exception: she loved his long, graceful lines. She suspected he'd also awakened some dormant mother hen instinct in her: she couldn't stop clucking and fussing over his health, coaxing him to eat more, although there certainly was nothing wrong with his appetite.

In bed, she'd found him loving and skilled, but reticent almost to the point of paralysis. The first few times they'd made love, River had taken all the initiative. She hated grilling him about his sexual history, but there was one question that had seemed too obvious not to ask.

"Have you been with a human before?" she'd asked after their first time, stroking his chest, running her fingers through the pelt of soft hair.

"Yes," he'd told her, but hadn't elaborated. River suspected his shyness might stem from some Time Lord prohibition against mingling with "lesser" species—she knew from both her studies and personal experience that such conditioning could take a lifetime to overcome.

Her greatest source of frustration lay in realizing there was nothing she could give him—physically or otherwise—that would assuage the monstrous grief at his very core. She could give him pleasure and companionship, even love, but those things would only ease his sadness, never completely heal it. For a woman who prided herself on success in all arenas of life, this immovable barricade was maddening. River knew she should let it go and accept that she couldn't solve all his problems, but it wasn't in her nature to surrender without a fight.

Now, there's irony for you, she thought staring up at the ceiling. She'd found a man who matched her so well on so many levels—intellectually, emotionally, sexually—but he was a time-traveling member of another species, far older than her, someone who'd experienced things River could scarcely begin to fathom, someone whose essential self was so remote as to be almost untouchable.

With a loud sigh, she turned onto her side and willed herself toward sleep. She still had a cover identity to maintain and a dangerous artifact to find, neither of which she could do well if she exhausted herself into a stupor.

(iii)

One of the biggest challenges in Cassie's research project involved the interference of crows. Almost as soon as she set out the small bags of peanuts, the aggressive birds would swoop in to investigate. She didn't want to make too much of a racket, lest she also scare off the squirrels, but somehow she had to get rid of the crows. At Exa's suggestion, she'd downloaded a sound file of a barking dog to her cell phone, and as soon as the crows landed, Cassie would play the canine ring tone. The trick worked like magic.

Down from a tree came the first inquisitive rodent, sniffing its way over to the collection of yellow and black bags. The most recent snowfall had left the ground covered with as much as four feet of snow in some places, and as she'd hoped, the peanuts provided a tempting easy meal. The big male squirrel scurried over to the bags and began to investigate.

Hunkered down behind a nearby snowbank, Cassie watched with her binoculars, taking notes in shorthand. The squirrel picked up a yellow bag, tearing into it with his claws and teeth, and finding it empty, discarded the paper. The squirrel next picked up one of the black bags. Cassie exhaled, watching the creature tear the paper and eat the peanuts inside. From then on, it ignored the yellow bags, choosing only the black ones. When another squirrel tried to get in on the feast, the big male rattled his tail and made loud warning noises. As he chased off the interloper, a third squirrel appeared, grabbed a black bag, and shot like a fuzzy gray rocket up the side of a pine tree with the bag in its mouth.

Cassie laughed, recording the behavior of all three rodents until the peanuts in the black bags had been consumed, and the animals left to forage elsewhere.

She'd been at this for weeks now, setting up her bait all over campus and in the surrounding woods, observing the feeding behavior of the squirrels. It rarely took more than one experience with an empty yellow bag for the animals to choose only the black bags—the ones that contained the peanuts. Cassie had spent a ridiculous amount of time opening and emptying paper bags and resealing the ends with glue; to be sure the squirrels weren't responding to the smell of the glue, she'd also had to open and re-seal the bags with the peanuts in them. Chelsea and Exa, bless their hearts, had offered to help with this tedious project, and the three of them would sit around watching television: Chelsea painting the bags while Cassie and Exa opened, emptied, and re-glued. By the time this is over, I never wanna see another peanut for as long as I live, Cassie thought, collecting the torn paper.

Still, at least she could be certain the squirrels were responding to the color of the bags, and it excited her that the animals living out in the woods learned just as quickly as those on campus, which presumably had more experience with human food sources.

Cassie stretched her cramped, cold muscles and put all her gear into her backpack: time to get going. The afternoon light was waning: in early February, the days were still short, and her breath puffed out in frosty white clouds. She latched her new skis onto her sport boots and pushed off, gliding across the snow and back toward campus. One thing she loved about Ethan Allen—and that she'd miss if she went someplace warmer for vet school—was the network of groomed trails all over campus and the vicinity, which made getting around on skis wonderfully easy.

This trail ended at the side street where the college-owned apartments were located. A lot of graduate students, adjuncts, and visiting scholars lived here—including Dr. Smith. Cassie unlatched her skis and shifted them under one arm before she ventured onto the road—plowed, of course, for the sake of people who needed to drive cars.

She knew that Dr. Smith lived at number 14, and when she passed by, she was startled to see a small car buried in snow in his driveway. Did he never use it? His apartment looked dingy and dilapidated, almost as if nobody lived there. He'd barely even cleared the walkway.

Cassie hesitated, then ventured up the walk. She knew his schedule well—it was posted right on his office door—and at this hour on a Thursday, he'd be instructing the intermediate cell biology lab. She peered in through the front window, but saw no signs of life.

I really am obsessed, she thought glumly, but nevertheless, she felt driven by a compulsion to find out just how serious he was with Shira Nahar. She'd glimpsed the two together from time to time, but reading their expressions and body language was difficult: if they were romantically involved, they gave almost no outward signs of it.

She tried the door and found it locked. Before she realized what she was doing, Cassie had drawn out her always-useful Swiss army knife. This model included a stainless steel pin, which she inserted into the cheap door lock. She tried a cautious twist to the right, and to her immense satisfaction, the door popped open.

Cassie leaned her skis and poles against the wall and undid the Velcro straps of her sport boots: if anyone came by and asked what she was doing—which she doubted; the street was deserted—she'd just say she was leaving off some things for her faculty advisor. Cassie didn't lie often, but when she needed to, she'd always been able to concoct plausible stories.

She recognized on some level that her behavior was obsessive, verging on stalker-ish, but part of her felt a guilty thrill at this illicit activity. Anyway, this opportunity to check out Dr. Smith's digs might not come again.

She padded through the apartment in stocking feet, shocked to find nothing—literally, nothing. The place was empty, not lived in. Cassie found no food in the fridge, no sheets on the bed, no water in the toilet. Everything was covered with dust. In the kitchen, she found a door that she guessed led to a basement. This was locked, also, but it yielded just as easily to her metal pin. Cassie flicked on the light and tiptoed down the steps.

The basement was musty but bare, containing only a washer, dryer, and a laundry sink. Hanging from a rope clothesline, she found two shirts on hangers. Apart from that, nothing.

Is he living with Shira? Cassie wondered. Where does he sleep? What does he eat?

She turned her head and spotted a kind of tall, wooden cabinet in one corner. It was painted blue, with small frosted windows at the top. Weird. A sign over the doors read POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX.

Did this belong to Dr. Smith? Or was it college property, just being stored here? Cassie could sense a quiet hum, and when she touched a wooden panel, she felt it vibrating beneath her fingers, as if there were a motor inside. Surprised, she tried to open the door. Locked. This time, the pin didn't work, and Cassie didn't want to force the matter, lest she betray her presence. She put away her jackknife with reluctance. Aware of the time, she returned to the kitchen, locking the door behind her, then put her sport shoes back on, locked the front door and pulled it shut, then gathered up her skis and poles. Utterly flummoxed, she made her way back to her dorm room, where she unloaded her gear and sat staring at the wall. She loved Dr. Smith's eccentricities, but now he struck her as an out-and-out weirdo.

On an impulse, she opened up her laptop and Googled "police public call box." It turned out to be a kind of old-fashioned communications device used by British police—essentially an empty box with a telephone on the outside. So why the hell would one of them vibrate like a giant motor? Cassie wondered. She checked a few other links, but the sites all gave her the same information: police boxes were relics of a bygone era.

Near the bottom of the page, one link caught her eye: the police box is said to be associated with a British secret agent code-named 'the Doctor.' Cassie rolled her eyes, but she clicked on the link anyway. She felt even more of an idiot when she realized the web page was called ALIEN VISITATIONS AND GOVERNMENT COVERUP CONSPIRACIES. All the usual suspects were represented: Roswell, Area 51, the Yeti, Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster. The sixth heading was titled, "The Doctor."

Accounts vary with regard to the identity of the British man whose code name is 'the Doctor.' He is said to typically pass himself off as a scientist or traveler. He has been associated with UNIT, a military branch of the United Nations that deals with extraterrestrial threats. A blue police call box is associated with this traveler; sources wishing to remain anonymous claim the box disguises alien technology. Others say that the Doctor himself is an alien. There are numerous references to this man and the blue box throughout recorded human history. Given the variation in his physical description, it is also possible 'the Doctor' is a code word or alias for a number of British special agents. He also is said to use the name John Smith for everyday purposes.

"No way," Cassie muttered. "This is lame." She returned to the Ethan Allen homepage, aware that her heart was pounding and her hands had grown damp with sweat. "God, I'm so fucking stupid to believe this."

But John Smith? Who always insisted people call him "Doctor?" Who had a vibrating blue police call box in his basement? And was brilliantly intelligent, but apparently rootless? Was this too much coincidence?

For all you know, he's a nut job who created that web page himself.

Cassie needed to talk to someone else, someone who'd listen without laughing, someone whose discretion she could trust. In the past, that would have been Dr. Cavanaugh. Now it would have to be someone else. Cassie threw on her boots and coat, grabbed her room keys, and went whirling out of the dorm.

Ethan Allen's least popular dorms were the ones on the outskirts of campus, including Crumpacker Hall, where Cassie had lived as a freshman. Most kids hated the half-mile trek to classes, especially when the weather was bad, but Cassie had loved the big old heap, which made her think of how Manderley must have looked in Rebecca: gray stone covered with ivy, and a multitude of beautiful windows, whose glass shimmered in the light. Crumpacker was a favorite dorm of standoffish types and proud iconoclasts, as well as underclassmen who wanted single rooms.

Deborah Katz worked as the head resident of the dorm, in addition to her duties as the college's Jewish chaplain, and Cassie recalled that Debbie was usually in her suite at this hour of the afternoon. A girl working the bell desk let Cassie into the musty foyer.

"Is Debbie around?"

"Yeah, she's in her apartment," the girl said.

Down a gloomy corridor, and off a smaller hallway to the left, was the HR's suite. Cassie tapped on the door, which stood slightly ajar.

"Deb?" she called. "Debbie?"

No answer. After a few moments, Cassie knocked again, more loudly. "Debbie?"

Silence. Cassie pushed open the door, and a cold breeze touched her face. Open window? Cassie ventured into the small apartment. Nobody in the tiny living room. Nobody in the kitchen, either, though the makings of a light supper lay out on the counter. A pot of water boiled on the stove; Cassie switched off the gas.

"Deb?"

Sliding French doors opened from the kitchen onto a tiny patio outside. The doors stood open, and a bitter wind gusted into the apartment. Cassie stared around the kitchen. One chair seemed violently askew; and Cassie realized that uncooked ziti lay all over the floor. A half-empty Prince box lay nearby. Something had interrupted Debbie's cooking.

Cassie went to the French windows and looked out onto the patio. She saw that someone had come through the snow drifts—more than one person—and it looked like something had been dragged through the snow as well.

She stepped outside and began following the trail. "Debbie?" she called. The trail weaved and bobbed, but otherwise headed straight into the woods.

She became aware, also, of the silence and her isolation, the encroaching darkness. And then she heard the raucous caws of crows. A few of the black birds were circling over the woods. Cassie remembered the raven, and her heart began to pound with a queer, sick-making fear. Her hand slipped into her pocket, and she fumbled with the buttons on her cellular. Please be in, please be in.

"John Smith."

Cassie almost fell over from sheer relief. "It's me," she wheezed.

"Cassie? Where are you?"

"In back of Crumpacker," she gulped. "Debbie's gone. The door was open, and she's just gone. And the crows—"

"Stay where you are," he ordered. "I'll be right there."

Cassie disconnected and stood with her teeth rattling, listening to the carrion-eaters' ugly din. Faster than she would have thought possible, she heard faint crunching footsteps, and a voice called out to her.

"Here," she managed.

He came around the corner, long coat over his suit, minus the scarf: he must have left his office in a hurry.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I came to see Debbie Katz, but she's not in her apartment. There was pasta all over the floor, and the door was open. And look—you can see something heavy was dragged through the snow, into the woods. Listen to the crows."

He looked and listened, assessing the situation, eyes grim. "Let's go have a look. Don't step in the tracks. The police won't be happy."

They skirted the trail, plowing through the thigh-deep snow until they reached the woods, very dark, full of indigo shadows. They followed the noise of the crows, which was louder than ever beneath the thick, muffling canopy of snow-covered pines.

"Stay here," Dr. Smith said, coming to an abrupt halt.

Cassie waited while he pushed forward into a clearing. Six or eight crows flew up, like a great, black shadow, their angry screams filling Cassie with a sense of hopeless dread. She remembered that she'd felt this way in the meditation garden when she'd found the vandalized artwork—only this was infinitely worse.

"Is it her?" she called, tongue thick in her mouth.

"It's bad," he said, returning to her side. "Don't look." He already had his cellular in hand, making a call.

"Charlie? It's me. I'm in the woods outside Crumpacker Hall. You'd better ring the police and get them here as fast as you can." A pause. "It's Deborah Katz. She's dead."

(iv)

River had been waiting up in the living room, and now she jumped when the Doctor walked in, kicking snow off his feet. The legs of his trousers were soaked through. He unwrapped the long scarf, looking exhausted to the bone.

"Bloodletting," he said without preamble. "Just like Lucille Cavanaugh."

"Any signs written in blood, any warnings—?"

"No, nothing. No bite marks, either. No energy traces from cross-dimensional travel. She was dragged from her home and slaughtered like an animal in the woods."

"God." River watched him shuck out of the wet trousers, hanging them over a kitchen chair. He stripped out of his jacket and the layers of shirts he wore beneath it. River handed him a thick, terry-cloth dressing gown. "Sit down and get warm."

She fixed him a mug of hot chocolate, a sweet beverage Earth humans liked in cold weather, and sat with him on the sofa while he warned his feet by the fire.

"They came through the woods from the highway," the Doctor said. "They knew where she lived and targeted her." His voice shook with anger.

"No clues where they came from, no traces, nothing?"

He shook his head. "There were tire tracks at the side of the highway where they'd parked their car, but there are hundreds of vehicles that could've made those tracks. The only certain thing is that it must be someone local. Whatever the Mouth of Quincunx is—an entity, a source of power—it's taken over someone who lives in this vicinity. It might even be someone who works here on campus."

"Is there any way to learn who?"

"I'd have to read everyone on campus and in town. It isn't practical."

"You can read minds?" asked River.

He didn't answer at first, playing with the nap of his dressing gown. "Only when I have to," he said after a moment.

"Well, I'd say this qualifies as an urgent situation," she said. "I know you wouldn't want to interfere with people's free will, but would you rather sit around and wait for the bodies to pile up?"

He shook his head. "It's not that simple."

"What would it take?"

Turning on the sofa, he said, "Look at me."

Surprised, River turned to face him. His gaze, like a warm searchlight, seemed to melt into her own, and River had an uncanny sense of merging with him. Then he put his hands on the sides of her head, his fingertips pressing into her temples.

This is what it takes, she heard him say. He was there, inside her mind, looking around at her thoughts, her dreams, her ambitions, her fears, all her petty neuroses. In a flash, it was as if he'd experienced her entire life, living it vicariously alongside her.

River yelped and jerked away.

"It wouldn't really work, trying that with a few thousand people," the Doctor said.

River couldn't stop staring at him. "That's—that was unbelievable." He picked up his mug and sipped more hot chocolate. She ventured, "You're a lot more powerful than you let on."

"Yeah." He didn't look happy.

"Why don't you...?" She trailed off, aware of how crass the question would sound.

"What, why don't I use my abilities for my own gain?" He shook his head. "It's not how I work."

"So, all you do is travel and explore things?"

"It usually gets more complicated than that."

"Can't you put some of your brainpower to work to find that damned artifact?" she asked. "Or at least the people it's controlling? Do you want this whole community turned into a blood bath?"

"Of course not!" He glared at her over the top of his mug. "But there's no Time Lord magic I can pull out of a hat, no wand I can wave to find out who's behind all this."

"So we're right back to just watching and waiting."

"We know a little more now. The local police will caution area clergy and their congregations to exercise caution. Hopefully people will listen."

"Still, that only buys us time."

"They're working toward something," the Doctor said. "The devotees of Quincunx—whatever we want to call them—they have an aim in mind, and it's not a pretty one." He set down his mug. "It learned. The entity—it must've learned from the experience on Jahoo not to act too quickly. That might explain why the violence here has been so random." The Doctor's words tumbled out, disconcerting River with their enthusiasm. She tried to tell herself it was solving the problem that excited him, not the violent and senseless death. "On Jahoo, it moved too fast. Here, it's been biding its time, sowing fear and despair. Once it has the population too cowed to act, it'll make some grand, ugly gesture."

"You said its followers have an aim—what is it?"

"They're clearing the way for a new god," the Doctor said, "in time-honored fashion. By destroying every vestige of existing faiths and murdering their practitioners."

"What about Lucille Cavanaugh? She wasn't a religious woman. Why target her?"

"She was a scientist, though," the Doctor said. "She might've seen things that piqued her curiosity, and she was trained to put pieces together in a certain way. She must've realized something was amiss, but she wouldn't speak out because of what she perceived as a paranormal element. So she left that cryptic message for Charlie, hoping to talk the situation over with him—someone rational and intelligent, someone who wouldn't dismiss her worries out of hand."

"What if it's him?" River blurted.

"Who, Charlie?" The Doctor sounded astonished. "Charlie Holland?"

"How long has he lived in this community? People like him and trust him—"

"No, no, no. No, no, no, no, no." His expression hardened into obstinacy. "I know Charlie. If he was possessed, acting under the influence of an alien entity—I'd know."

"Without reading him, how can you be sure?"

Voice rising on a note of indignation, the Doctor said, "Oh, so I should just walk up to him and say, 'Charlie, if it's all the same to you, I think I'll just probe your mind a bit and see if any nefarious extraterrestrials have taken up residence.'"

"It could be him, though."

"It could be the boy who pours coffee in the college center!" the Doctor countered. "It could be anyone, and they're going to seem completely normal to everyone around them!" He was angry, verging on hysterical. "I won't turn this into a witch hunt!"

"Well, what are you going to do, then?" River demanded.

His face relaxed, and he offered her a semi-apologetic little smile. Leaning over to kiss her forehead, he said, "A bit of unobtrusive surveillance," he said, smile widening into a cocky grin. "You up for it?"

She hopped to her feet. "Let me find you some dry clothes."

(v)

A knock on the door interrupted Cassie's attempts at homework. "It's open," she called.

Chelsea slipped inside. She didn't seem too happy. "Look at the latest asshattery," she said.

"Is 'asshattery' a real word, or did you make that up?"

Chelsea held out the latest edition of the campus newspaper. "It's a real word. It refers to the activities of people who can best be described as 'asshats.'"

For the first time in days, Cassie smiled, but the moment of humor faded when she looked at the headline.

"Oh, get real," she said. "Do people really believe atheists and secular humanists are waging some kind of bloody vendetta against true believers? They'll be burning witches before you know it."

"This is New England—we don't burn 'em, we just crush 'em to death under big piles of rocks," Chelsea said.

"Oh, don't be gross."

"No, it's true. There was this one guy in Salem—"

Cassie held up her hands. "I don't wanna hear this."

"There's a campus-wide meeting in the auditorium tomorrow," Chelsea said. "To talk about the situation. Mostly it's gonna be campus security and Dr. Holland trying to convince us we really are safe."

"While at the same time telling us to keep our doors and windows locked, and letting us know there'll be increased foot patrols."

Chelsea sat on Cassie's bed. "A few kids already withdrew."

"I bet their parents made them."

"Have yours said anything?" asked Chelsea.

"No, they just called to make sure I'm all right. I'm so close to graduation—they're not gonna make me leave now."

"Are you?" asked Chelsea. "All right?"

"No," said Cassie miserably. "I can't sleep. I'm having nightmares. I'm counting the days 'till spring break, so I can sleep in my own bed for a week."

"I'm glad we're up on the third floor," Chelsea said. "At least nobody can get in through the windows."

"At least in theory." Cassie didn't tell Chelsea about one recurring nightmare, in which an unspeakable evil in the guise of a raven or a crow came crashing through her dorm room window.

"So, who do you think is doing all this?" asked Chelsea.

"Some crazy person with a religious vendetta. Some poor schmuck who probably was abused by uber-fundamentalist parents and went bonkers. Like in a Stephen King novel."

Chelsea laughed. "In that case, they'd be just the opposite, targeting the non-believers."

"The victims so far have been a Quaker, a Jew, and a bunch of pagans," Cassie said. "All women, too. I'd bet money it's a crazy woman-hating Christian."

"But in the meditation garden, the statues of the Virgin Mary and St. Francis were wrecked," Chelsea said. "And every student religious organization's office was trashed, all of them."

"Okay, so it's a nut-job Protestant," Cassie said. "God knows, this country has enough of 'em."

"Vermont's so liberal and tolerant, though," Chelsea protested.

"Usually, but it's not a wacko-free zone. It only takes one person to cause trouble."

"It's not just one person. The footprints outside Crumpacker showed that two people dragged Debbie through the snow." At Cassie's stricken expression, Chelsea said, "Sorry, sorry!"

"No, you're right. That's even worse—more than one person. Think of them, sitting around, plotting who to kill next." Cassie shuddered.

"What about your project?" asked Chelsea. "Doesn't it freak you out, being alone in the woods like that?"

"I only need to collect data for another few weeks," Cassie said. "There's a girl in my seminar, Ronica Kenney, and we're pairing up—I'll go with her when she's birdwatching, and then she'll go with me the next day to look at the squirrels. For the on-campus observations, it's not a problem."

"Good," said Chelsea. "I was gonna say I'd go with you if you needed someone."

Cassie hopped up to give her friend a hug. "Thanks," she said. "I appreciate that."

"C'mon," said Chelsea. "Let's go get supper."

(vi)

A bright spot came a week later when Cassie received an acceptance letter from Tufts. Barely able to contain her excitement, she skied back to the dorm at top speed and ran pell-mell up the stairs to the third floor. Chelsea and Exa were both in their rooms, and they emerged at the sound of Cassie shrieking with happiness.

"Look—Tufts!" With shaking hands, Cassie extracted the letter from its envelope and thrust it out for her friends to see.

"Ohmigod!" Chelsea squealed, and Exa thumped Cassie's back.

"What next?" she asked.

"I have to go there for an interview," Cassie said. "I can pop up to Boston during spring break." Glancing at the time on her cellular, she said, "Maybe someone's still in the admissions office." She dropped her things in her room, and with shaking hands thumbed the buttons on the small phone.

Twenty minutes later, she emerged from her room, feeling better than she had for months.

"It's all set," she said. "I have an appointment on the Tuesday of spring break."

"Sweet," said Exa. "Congratulations. You worked your ass off for that."

"My top choice." Cassie bounced on the balls of her feet. "Ohmigod, I'm so psyched. I can't believe it. I should call the 'rentals and let them know."

The best part, she thought, as she speed-dialed her parents' number in New York, was knowing an escape lay ahead. Any sentimental pangs Cassie had felt about leaving Ethan Allen had been utterly extinguished in the past few weeks. Cassie thought with fierce longing of Tufts University's veterinary school campus in suburban Boston, which seemed to her the very essence of a safe haven. She wished she were there right now.

(vii)

The warning alarm on River's wrist strap went off on a Sunday morning. She'd been whisking eggs, and she set aside the dish to flip open her vortex manipulator. Up popped an image of the town's largest temple, the one with a tall, pointed aperture on its roof—a "steeple," the Doctor called it. One of the sensors they'd installed had been tripped.

"What is it?" He emerged from the bathroom, toweling dry his hair.

"Suit up, Pretty Boy," she said, switching off the stove and grabbing for her coat. "There's trouble in town. A heat sensor just went off."

(vii)

When they reached the village green, smoke was pouring out of the church roof.

"That place is two hundred years old—it'll go up like a tinderbox!" the Doctor shouted, tearing down the road, River alongside him. "Where is everyone?" he asked, head turning from side to side. "Why haven't they cleared the premises?" He bolted up the front steps and grabbed the handle of the big, wooden door.

"Locked," he grunted, pulling out the sonic screwdriver and holding it up to the lock. Nothing happened. "Deadlocked!"

From inside came a muffled thud and a loud, panicky shouting.

"They're trapped!" River realized.

"Where's the fire department?" the Doctor gasped. "Someone should've called this in by now!" A crowd of slack-jawed onlookers had begun to gather, pointing and staring.

"Don't just stand there!" the Doctor bellowed. "Someone, run for help, now!"

A couple of kids scurried away.

River assessed the structure: most of the windows, made of that funny colored glass, were too narrow and too high off the ground to use safely as an escape route.

"There must be another way out!" she said.

"Windows!" the Doctor yelled. "Around the back!" They raced down the sidewalk, the burning building on their right. River could hear the fire now, the roar of greedy flames, and she could smell the acrid smoke.

A large, modern structure had been built at the back of the church: here, the windows were bigger and lower to the ground. River saw faces pressed against the glass, eyes huge, bulging with terror.

"They're locked in!" she realized.

"Not for long!" The Doctor aimed the sonic screwdriver at a nearby vehicle, and a compartment in the rear popped open. He stuck his head inside and withdrew a long piece of metal.

"What's that?" asked River.

"Tire iron! For the windows!" He opened a second vehicle and helped himself to another tool, which he handed to River.

He ran to one of the windows and gestured for people to stand back, then swung the tire iron right into the glass. The window shattered, broken glass flying everywhere. River did the same at a second window, and within moments, they'd cleared away all the jagged, broken edges. They could hear the shrieking din of a fire alarm. When River climbed inside, she saw to her horror that the room was full of small children, most of them crying and hysterical.

"Sunday school," the Doctor said. He addressed the older and calmer of the two adults. "Who are you?"

"Leslie Moran," she gasped. "What's going on? We can't open any of the doors! They're supposed to open automatically when the fire alarm goes off!"

"No time!" the Doctor said. "Explanations later! Leslie, I'm putting you in charge here—get everyone out through the windows!"

"There's a nursery in the next room!" the second woman moaned. "The connecting door's locked and won't open! They're all trapped!"

The Doctor slapped his tire iron into her hands. "Break the window and get them out," he ordered.

A dazed light came into her eyes, as if she'd only just realized it was within her power to save herself and the children.

"Right!" she said, and ran to climb out the window. Leslie was already assisting the children, one by one, through the empty casement.

"River, come on!" the Doctor shouted.

She followed him down the nearest corridor. The fire alarm was unbearably loud in here, a shrill, buzzing echo in her ears. The end of the hallway was blocked by a pair of closed wooden doors. The Doctor tried the handle, but the doors wouldn't budge.

"We need to get people out before the roof collapses!" the Doctor said, flinging open doors at random along the length of the hallway. "This is the effect the Mouth of Quincunx has on them—it's sapping their courage and willpower, their ability to think clearly. Ah-ha!"

"What?"

"Fire equipment!" He hefted a large wooden tool with a metal head, a triangular wedge that had been sharpened on one side. "Axe! Come on!"

Back at the double doors, he began to swing the axe, face contorted with demented fury. The wood started splintering beneath the blows, and as small holes opened up, wraith-like wisps of smoke curled through.

With an almighty explosive crack, the wood split down the middle, and three blows later, the entire locking mechanism fell out. The Doctor and River threw themselves against the doors, which flew inward under their combined weight, stumbling into a smoke-filled foyer. Through the sooty clouds, River could see the forms of people, doubled over and coughing.

"Everyone out!" the Doctor bellowed, striding through the crowds and grabbing people by the shoulders. Steering them toward the doorway, he said, "Out, out, out—through the classroom windows!"

Choking and gasping, people obeyed him, responding to the unshakable authority in his voice. River followed him into the main sanctum, where more people—too many—huddled, choking and moaning, too paralyzed even to drop to the floor, where the smoke was less dense.

"Everyone out!"

River dashed down the central aisle, yelling for people to evacuate. They were slow, maddeningly slow, almost torpid in their movements, like climbers at high altitude with insufficient oxygen, but at least they began moving.

She found a young man in clerical robes huddled near the altar at the front, rocking himself back and forth.

"This won't help anything!" she screamed at him. "Get up! Get moving!"

"We're all going to die!"

She hauled back and smacked him hard across the face. "Not if I have any say in it! Now, help get people out of here!"

He seemed to come back to himself, blinking, as if awakening from a nightmare.

"Oh, God," he whispered. "Oh, God, what am I doing?"

The Doctor was yelling for River's assistance: there were two elderly parishioners in wheelchairs, both nearly unconscious from smoke inhalation.

She barked at the clergyman, "You take that one, I'll take this one!"

"All right!" he said.

The Doctor was rounding up the stragglers, herding them toward the exits. "Those two first!" he insisted.

Staying doubled over low, River pushed the elderly woman toward the back of the building. By now, she was desperate for fresh air, and her eyes were burning. A few members of the congregation, having come to their senses, were guiding people out through the windows, assuring an orderly evacuation. When they saw the old man and old woman, they ordered the crowd to part ranks, got the infirm pair to the windows, and helped eased them outside.

River covered her mouth with her scarf and fought her way back to the main sanctum. From overhead, burning chunks of wood and hot cinders had begun to rain down. She found the Doctor alone, at the dead center of the room, staring upward, frozen.

She stared up also, and what she saw made her blood turn to ice: the roaring red flames had assumed the shape of a grotesque face: a huge, yawning mouth, and above it, two fists; below it, two knees. A searing red tongue of fire extended from the mouth, aiming for the immobilized Time Lord.

"No, you don't!" River thundered, bounding to the Doctor's side in three leaping strides. She grabbed his arm and yanked him away; he stumbled, but then caught himself. Keeping a firm grip on his arm, River steered him out of the sanctum, dodging burning debris, and they raced toward the back of the church. Behind them, the roar of the fire mixed with the horrific alien bellow of a thwarted monster.

The final parishioners had just cleared the windows. River pushed the Doctor ahead of her, and got him outside, then climbed through the casement into the blessedly cold, clear winter air. They didn't stop, scrambling up over a snowbank that was almost as high as the Doctor's head, sliding on their backsides down into the street. Coughing, they ran down the road toward the town common and safety.

The roof of the church collapsed then, heavy bells clanging as the steeple tower dropped into the main sanctum. The entire structure was engulfed, crimson flames and black, sooty clouds belching toward the blue sky.

(viii)

River didn't think she'd ever stop coughing. Every breath hurt, like someone had kicked her repeatedly in the ribs. Back at the chalet, she brewed a large pot of tea and finished cooking breakfast. The Doctor, who'd fared better, set out dishes and utensils, then fussed about converting a few oranges into a liter of juice using River's food processor.

Neither of them discussed the fire or the apparition they'd seen in the flames on the church ceiling. As soon as the tea brewed, River poured herself a large mug and dosed it with lemon. When the eggs were cooked and the bread toasted, she and the Doctor sat down to eat, not saying anything, save a few perfunctory remarks about the food.

After ascertaining nobody was hurt, the pair had slipped away from the scene to avoid awkward questions. Judging by murmurs in the crowd, River gathered that the town's firefighting equipment had been disabled, and by the time a truck got to the scene, the building was already lost.

"They planned this," River said. "The biggest church with the biggest congregation. They disabled the firefighting equipment. Then they locked people in and torched the place."

The Doctor said, "I'll bet they had the roof rigged in advance and detonated the materials remotely. It might even have been set up weeks ago, waiting for the right moment to strike."

"We're lucky nobody was killed. It was horrible, the way people were so passive, like their willpower had been leached right out of them."

"That's what the Mouth of Quincunx does. It'll wait, then it'll strike again, and the damage will be even greater. We need to be ready." The Doctor looked haunted, fearful. "It knows I'm here. It knows who I am."

"You're the only one who has even a chance of stopping it," River realized. "It'll try to take you out first, before it strikes again."

"Not if it doesn't catch me, it won't."

"It almost had you." River couldn't suppress a shudder.

"Almost doesn't count."

"So, why doesn't it strike more directly?" she asked. "Why just appear as a face in the fire?"

"It's not at full strength," the Doctor said.

"Could you tell that?"

"I was trying to look into it, to read it," he admitted. When he poured himself a small glass of juice, River didn't miss the slight tremor in his hands. "Bit foolish of me. Weeelll, maybe more than a bit foolish. Somewhat slightly foolish. Weeelll, maybe more than slightly."

"Doctor," River said, "has anyone ever told you that you can be an ass sometimes?"

"Frequently."

"Why'd you ever try to do that?" she shouted. Her lungs weren't up for shouting, and River broke into that maddening, raspy cough.

"Here." He poured her more tea. "I tried to read it because sometimes you have to get close to your enemies to learn what they're up to."

River washed her throat before she tried talking again. "That was stupid. It could've killed you!" Despite her worry and her anger at him, she asked, "Did you learn anything?"

"It's weak," the Doctor stated. "I think its power at the moment is mostly confined to controlling people. It needs minions, other beings, as its arms and legs. It's getting stronger, though."

"Feeding off those deaths? Can it consume people's life energy?"

"Maybe," he said. "I had the sense it's feeding off their fear."

"Which is why it's waging this campaign of slowly escalating terror," River realized. "The more frightened people get, the more powerful it becomes."

"Right."

"And we weren't afraid of it, so we weren't affected. Or, we weren't affected as badly. And when we gave people a reason to hope, they broke out of its sway."

"Exactly."

"Did you find out why it's here? What it wants?"

"It wants to establish itself as a new god on Earth," he stated. "Anyone who doesn't worship it will be destroyed. If it fell through to Jahoo from another dimension or planet, there's no telling where it came from, but it must've been a powerful entity, worshipped in its homeworld. Maybe its home was destroyed. Or it might've been exiled. The Jahoovians had the knowledge to recognize its bad influence and the technology to keep it shielded. People on Earth don't have those advantages."

"So, what'll we do when we find the relic?"

"Destroy it," he said. "For good. Pulverize it, and shoot the dust out into a black hole."

"I'll be more than happy to grind it up myself," she said. "Then I'm going to go back to Jahoo and throttle their president."

(ix)

February turned into March, with little perceptible difference, save the somewhat longer hours of daylight. A long shadow of fear lingered over the town and the college campus. People scurried about their business by day and barricaded themselves in their homes by night. Police cautioned everyone not to go anywhere alone and to take no unnecessary risks. Many places of worship suspended services indefinitely.

River spent every available waking hour with the Doctor, scouring the campus and town, searching for the artifact and watching people for signs of suspicious behavior. The latter proved particularly fruitless: anyone whose mind was under control of an alien entity wouldn't show it on the surface. In fact, the Doctor said, the entity would lie dormant, deep in its victim's mind, only manifesting itself when it needed its minions to act. The people in question would have no recollection of anything they'd done while the entity was in control.

By the time spring break arrived, most students and faculty were desperate to get away for a week. Those who could manage it departed on Thursday, ahead of a predicted snowstorm, lending a deserted feeling to campus. River had planned to use the time and people's absence to do some more searching.

She'd just wrapped up her day's work in her office Thursday evening when the phone on her desk bleeped. She smiled, seeing that the ID screen had lit up with the name, "Smith, John."

"Hello, lover," she said.

"Meet me at the TARDIS, as soon as you can," he said. "Jack has something for us."

(x)

They met up at his faculty apartment. River followed the Doctor down to the basement and into the ship, where he went straight to the computer monitor. He flicked a few switches, and Jack's face popped up on the screen. He appeared to be in some kind of laboratory. River scanned the room behind him with interest: brick walls, no windows, an abundance of scientific and technical equipment.

"That's better," said Jack. "We need to be face-to-face for this."

A voice off-camera snarked, "Oh, you make that sound so dirty."

"What do you have?" the Doctor asked.

"I told you I'd heard of the Mouth of Quincunx," Jack said. "And here's the guy who mentioned it." He reached out an arm and hauled into frame a thin, whey-faced man with prominent facial bones and a shifty expression. His bleached-blond hair showed a lot of dark at the roots, and he wore some kind of mock-military uniform. He didn't look happy to be there, and River wouldn't have trusted him as far as she could spit.

"Ooh, so you're the infamous Doctor," the man leered.

"Behave yourself," Jack ordered. "That's the guy who takes out entire Dalek fleets single-handedly, so show a little respect."

The man fell silent.

"Doctor, may I introduce Captain John Hart, a former colleague of mine in the Time Agency? Emphasis on former, by the way."

"Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart," the newcomer jeered.

"John, this is the Doctor and Professor Shira Nahar."

"Hell-o!" John purred, ogling River.

"Is he for real?" she asked. She made a mental note to kick the Doctor for not telling her Jack was also a Time Agent.

"You'll never know," said Hart.

"Yes, and let's keep it that way," River said.

"As it happens, John owes me a little favor." Jack grinned like a fiend. "In exchange for bailing him out of a tight jam today, he's gonna spill everything he knows about the Mouth of Quincunx."

River folded her arms. "How reliable is he?"

"When he tells the truth—which isn't often—very."

"All right, then." The Doctor addressed Hart. "What do you know?"

The man squirmed, but he said, "The Mouth of Quincunx is bad news. Really bad news. It's a prison for Buthos of Hallux."

The name meant nothing to River, but the Doctor had gone white.

"You've heard of him, then?" asked Hart.

"Heard of him?" The Doctor barked a short, harsh laugh. "I destroyed him. On Hallux, about three hundred years ago."

"You didn't kill him as much as you probably thought you did." Hart chuckled without mirth. "Something survived—consciousness, essence, call it what you will. He wasn't dead, but he was too weak to fight, and his enemies on Hallux trapped him in a dimensional pocket, contained in a stone artifact. The Mouth of Quincunx."

"It was discovered on Jahoo, fifteen centuries ago," River said.

"Hallux was hit by an asteroid fifteen centuries ago," John said. "Life on the planet was obliterated. Loads of rift activity. The artifact must've slipped through a weak spot in the space-time continuum, and hey presto! It lands on Jahoo."

"It has a bad influence on people's minds," River said. "It may've taken over some people locally, inciting them to violence."

"Old Buthos is gaining his strength back, then," Hart speculated. "Looking to bust out of that prison. Well, good luck dealing with him." The Time Agent's voice grew breezy. "In the meantime, I'm out of here. If you don't mind my saying so, you're all pretty well fucked."

"Doctor, do you need any help?" asked Jack.

"No, I need you to stay in Cardiff and guard the rift," said the Doctor. "Make sure it stays closed. We don't need Buthus escaping through to another time or place."

"Consider it done. Good luck."

The screen went blank.

"Doctor," asked River uneasily, "Who, or what, was Buthus?"

He leaned against the console, eyes very dark. "It was three hundred years ago," he said. "I was in another body—my fifth regeneration. It was an angry time for me. My own people, the Time Lords, had hauled me in for a long trial for crimes I didn't commit. They tried to make me believe one of my companions had died a gruesome death because of my actions." He straightened up and began to pace around the console. "By the end of it, I was questioning my own sanity. When I was finally acquitted, I left Gallifrey in a black rage."

"Did you go to Hallux?"

"It was a side trip. I was traveling with a woman named Melanie, and she wanted to see the museum on Vearsheers Minor."

"That's good for a week, at least," River chuckled.

"She wandered off into the gallery on intergalactic fashion, and I went back to the TARDIS. I just wanted to go someplace by myself, and I chose some coordinates at random. I landed on Hallux. The planet was in absolute turmoil. I fell in with a rebellious faction that was fighting the royal army. The High Empress was under the control of Buthus, and the only way to save the people of Hallux was to destroy him. He was an ancient, powerful being—one of the Quinquestriatus race; they went extinct, but he must've been the last survivor. We did battle. All the rage I felt against the Time Lords, all that burning resentment, I unleashed on Buthus. Since I was a Time Lord, he couldn't mind-control me the way he could the others. I pretended to be injured, so I could trick him into chasing me. I led him into the main reactor of the planet's nuclear storm drive—so massive that it could power the entire planet."

River couldn't stop staring at him. "He fell for this?"

"He thought he could squash me," the Doctor said. "He was absolutely sure of that. I initiated a lockdown of the plant and escaped through an emergency hatch that Buthus was too small to go through. He lost time trying to double back and was trapped inside. Then I used the external controls to rev the storm drive to maximum output."

"He must've been incinerated."

The Doctor stared down at his feet. "I stood there for nearly an hour, listening to him scream. I didn't return the energy output to normal 'till I hadn't heard anything for another hour. By then, the royal army wasn't under his control any more, and order had been restored. I went back to Vearsheers Minor, got to the museum about fifteen minutes after I'd left. I caught up with Mel in the costume gallery, and we went out for dessert. We had profiteroles. They were delicious. Mel used to lecture me about my weight." He sagged back against a support post. "I was so full of rage, then."

"And now that Buthus knows you're here, he'll want to rip you into a million pieces."

"Yeah," said the Doctor. "I know."

(xi)

They were quiet after that, listening to the musical hum of the time machine. River thought how easy it would be for the Doctor to go away, to escape this bleak situation. But he wouldn't do that—having stumbled across this impending catastrophe, he'd set the matter right, or die trying.

To distract herself, River asked, "Where was Jack speaking to you from? I couldn't tell if it was a lab or a military bunker."

"It's both," the Doctor said, breaking out of his gloom. "That's the Hub—it's the headquarters of Torchwood 3, in Cardiff. Wales."

"What's Torchwood?"

"An organization that investigates and catalogues alien activity on Earth," he said, looking abstract. Hands in pockets, he said, "There was a branch in London, but I shut them down."

"Why?"

Expression lofty, he said, "I had my reasons."

"You don't think it's good for people here to be curious about life on other worlds?"

"Not when they're hoarding alien technology and using it for the greater glory of the new British Empire, no."

"But you don't mind Jack running his own version of the same?"

"He's not an imperialist," the Doctor said. "I'm not mad about the idea, but Jack and his team put their lives on the line to keep the British people safe from harm at alien hands—and when they can, to protect alien visitors from human xenophobia."

"Why Cardiff?" asked River. "Why not London—isn't that the major city in that region?"

"Cardiff tends to attract a lot of alien attention because there's a big space-time rift that runs right through the city. Things fall through from other worlds and dimensions and time streams—like the Mouth of Quincunx fell through to here."

"If the rift is that big, doesn't it cause disturbance? People would feel that; even without consciously realizing it, they'd be affected."

"Aah, that's the clever bit," the Doctor said. "There's a waterfall that runs down into the Hub—it creates a dampening effect, so people don't notice…" He trailed off, then his whole frame jolted, his face lighting up with pure jubilation. "River, you're a genius!"

"What?" she laughed. "What'd I do?"

"Oh, you're brilliant!" He grabbed her hand and they sprinted from the TARDIS, up the steps to the apartment, and outside to the street. "Water! Why didn't I think of that? I'm thick, River—thick and old! I can't see what's right in front of my face anymore!"

"You're daft," River told him, pulling her coat more closely around her neck. They ran through the thickening snow storm to the center of town.

(xii)

"Closed due to weather," the Doctor read from a sign on the door. "Since when?" A blue flash of the sonic screwdriver, and the restaurant door opened.

Inside, all lay in darkness, silent, save the quiet burble of running water.

"Shh," the Doctor said. Leaving the door ajar to allow in light from a street lamp, he and River made their way a few feet inside. She stared at the wishing well, thinking of all the times they'd eaten here, all the times they'd passed this innocuous piece of ornamentation without even looking at it. A small sign on the wall said that money tossed into the fountain would be collected and given to a local shelter for homeless animals.

The Doctor waved the sonic screwdriver at the wishing well, and with an electronic click, the water stopped flowing. The water came up through a spigot in the center of the basin, flowing out over a bright copper cylinder. The copper had been impressed with the images of playful dogs.

With care, the Doctor reached into the basin and lifted the copper sheath, removing it from the well.

"Damnation," River swore. Beside the spigot squatted the Mouth of Quincunx, even more ugly than it had appeared in the hologram. "What do we do now?"

The Doctor lifted the artifact, wrapping it in his long scarf. "Black hole," he said, sounding grim and satisfied. "Just as we planned."

A male voice came out of the shadows. "Oh, I think not." River heard the sound of snapping fingers, followed by a rushing sense of disembodiment, and the feeling that she had no control over anything she said or did. "Professor Nahar, stop him."

River swung her arm and clocked the Doctor in the temple so hard that he was unconscious before he hit the floor. She grabbed the precious artifact from his hands, lest it smash on the ceramic tiles underfoot. A dim corner of her mind recognized the evil of her actions, but she was powerless to stop herself.

"What should we do with him now?" she asked.

Tomasso emerged from the darkness, his face queer and blank. He took the artifact from River's hands. She saw several figures waiting behind him, their expressions identical, masklike.

"Bring him below," Tomasso ordered. "Our lord Buthus awaits."

To be continued…