Holly stared at her breakfast. Had oatmeal always been so…gray and…nauseating? God, why on earth did she eat so much of it?

"So…d'you want to talk about it?"

Holly dragged her eyes up from the curiously captivating depths of her morning bowl of oatmeal to meet Lillian Kim's impenetrable gaze. It took her a beat to realize that she'd been asked a question, and then another to actually process the question. Try as she might, she couldn't figure out what the answer to the question might be, although she suspected it should be obvious. She spent another minute deliberating whether the haziness of her brain had more to do with her emotional state or with the splitting headache that the universe had decided to gift her with—she was never drinking again—at which point she realized that she still hadn't verbalized a response. "Um…what?"

"I said," Lillian intoned patiently, "do you want to talk about it?"

She blinked. "Talk about…what, exactly?"

Lillian crossed her arms. "Look Munro, I know we don't always get along, but I like to think we're friends—"

Holly frowned. "We are."

"—and I know our friendship doesn't really involve many gushy heart-to-hearts, but I'd like to think you could talk to me or Christine if you had a problem."

Holly bit her lip and contemplated her oatmeal some more. A long pause ensued, in which Lillian's gaze bored into Holly's forehead, and Holly pretended she'd found the meaning of life in her breakfast bowl. Unfortunately, outstaring Lillian Kim was difficult even for the most tenacious Visitor. Holly, hungover as she was, was forced to concede defeat. Picking up her spoon, she sighed, "What makes you think I have a problem?"

It was a non-answer at best, but Holly wasn't feeling very mature this morning.

Rolling her eyes, Lillian drew out the chair across from Holly at the rickety dining table in their shared kitchen and flopped into it. "It's pretty obvious. First, you come back early from your parents' place soaked to the bone and dripping mud all over the place. Then you don't even fuss over the mud, and you go straight to your room and lock the door. You spent all of the weekend staring dramatically off into the distance like some kind of failed poet. You don't even notice that the mud dried in the hall, you don't do the dishes, and you drank tea that Christine made—Christine! And you didn't even wince!"

Holly, who had been beginning to object about the 'failed poet' bit, was distracted: "Wait, the mud's still in the hall?"

"No, because I cleaned it. I cleaned it, Munro, me! I haven't cleaned anything since you moved in! And that's not the end of it," Lillian added, before Holly could interject with something sarcastic, "Not only did you not self-soothe by going into cleaning freak mode, you," and here she lowered her voice, "you actually drank."

Holly crossed her arms defensively. "So?"

"You drank. Actual alcohol. Specifically, my secret bottle."

"It's not a secret if you tell everyone where it is. And if this is about the bottle, I can buy you more—"

Lillian waved an airy hand. "Of course it's not about that! It's about the fact that you drank. You."

"Again, so?"

"Munro, you're a total square. An honest-to-God teetotaler."

"I'm allowed to change my mind!"

"Oh, is that what we're calling it now? Hols, you drank half the bottle and then passed out in the common room. And judging by your—" Lillian forwent words in favor of wrinkling her nose and waving an encompassing hand in Holly's direction—"it wasn't your best decision."

Holly snorted. "Thanks. Could never have arrived at that conclusion on my own."

"C'mon, Holly," Lillian said—and suddenly Holly was staring at a rare version of Lillian Kim, one whose sharp edges were blunted and whose expression was open, if a bit sad. "I know you want to talk about it. So, talk."

The memory slipped into her sluggish mind like static sparking against her skin: Christine telling her about Lillian and Grace, how they'd been enemies rather than confidants, how death had stormed in and marked all of them irreversibly. She's nicer now than she used to be, Christine had said. Holly looked at Lillian and wondered what it cost her, to be so open, to be kind rather than jagged.

Aloud, she said only, "My parents. We…had a disagreement."

Lillian raised an eyebrow. "Okaaay…Care to be a bit more specific?"

Holly sighed, glared at her oatmeal a bit, then sighed again. "They want me to quit."

"What? Wait—well, I suppose it's not entirely unexpected, given the case you've just had…In fact, my parents were jumpy too, in the early days. Especially after—well, the Whitehall case. But they got over it, and your parents will get over it as well, you'll see, you just need to give them—"

"No, Lillian. It's not the case. Well, it is in part, but…They never supported me. Not truly. I thought—I thought they were just nervous at first, and that we'd got over it, but no…Never. They think it's just-just kids playing with swords, can you believe it? If it wasn't for us, all of them—all the adults—they'd be dead, deaf and blind as they are. We're their defenders, and even now we can't get a measure of respect?" Holly gave a somewhat hysterical laugh and pressed her fingers to her temples.

Lillian was staring at her, her lips pursed in a tiny frown. "Holly, tell me exactly what happened."

So Holly did. She told Lillian about sitting there, in the garden, trying to find peace. She told her about her father's awkward, failed attempt at trying to change her mind about agenthood, of the specter of her uncle hanging between them, of the ridiculous, awful idea that it had all been 'just a phase.' She told her about the subtle manipulations, the mention of university. And finally, shamefully, Holly admitted her own childish hopes—her wish that her parents would reassure her, bolster her, tell her she was right, that everything would be okay. How the fact they'd done pretty much the exact opposite hurt like—well, hell.

By the end of it, Holly was crying again, and Lillian's frown was so deep it looked carved into her face. She produced a tissue from somewhere and offered it to Holly, and then scooted her chair over next to Holly's and hugged her.

They sat like that for a while, silently, Lillian holding her and Holly sniffling into her shoulder. Eventually, Holly straightened and wiped at her eyes and nose with the tissue. "God, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to blubber all over you."

"Better you blubber over me now than start sobbing your eyes out while on a case," remarked Lillian. "Us agents don't have the luxury of letting things fester, you know that."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"And anyway, I don't mind. We're friends, Munro. I might not be the best at this friendship lark, but I do believe I can do the minimum of providing a shoulder to cry on. I may be lacking in many ways, but I think I make up for it entirely by not lacking in shoulders."

Holly cracked a smile. "Yes, I think your shoulders are certainly the basis of our friendship. No other reason we'd be friends, really."

"Precisely! You've got to admit, my shoulders are pretty exceptional."

"Are you seriously fishing for compliments on your shoulders right now?"

Lillian sniffed. "You're just jealous that your shoulders aren't amazing enough to inspire friendship."

"That's because I have multiple redeeming qualities, whereas you've only got the one."

Lillian grinned. "Yes, well, at least you're finally looking less like a drowned poet."

Holly snorted. "Wasn't it failed poet, not drowned poet?"

"Does it matter?"

"I think drowned is worse than failed."

"No, no, I'm quite sure they both appropriately convey the combination of theatrical moping, ill-advised drinking, and the frankly appalling set of under-eye shadows you've got going there."

Holly rolled her eyes. "Oh, ha ha. Very funny."

"I thought so. Anyway," Lillian continued, more seriously, "Munro, I don't usually give people advice, but you should know: I think you're a fantastic agent. We all do. Your team loves you. But that doesn't matter."

Holly glanced at her, curious. "It doesn't?"

"No. What matters is how you feel. Do you like your job? Do you love it?"

"Yes. Yes—it's everything. It's my dream come true."

Lillian nodded. "And your team? Do you trust them?"

"With my life."

"And is there anything—anything at all—that you'd rather do with your life? There's no shame in it if there is. Listening to the dead every night, fighting death made living—that's not for everyone. I know you've got what it takes, but—if you could choose anything, would you still choose this?"

Holly closed her eyes. An image of Uncle James surged to her mind, unbidden. He wasn't alone—there, too, were Holly's own parents, as well as Christine's father, and the ghost of Liam McElroy. Defenseless adults. Children like her. These were the people she and her colleagues fought to protect, as well as the ones she'd been unable to save. The ones no one had been able to save. She had to fight for them—how could she choose otherwise?

"Yes," whispered Holly. "I would."

"Well, then. I say, screw your parents."

Holly's gaze jerked up, shocked. "What?"

Lillian graced her with a savage little smile. "You heard me. Screw them. You're a bloody good agent, and you love what you do. Don't ever doubt it, and don't ever let anyone take that from you. I know it hurts when the people who should believe in us don't, believe me, I do, but Holly…there comes a time when you've got to stop living for them and start living for you."

"For me."

"Yes." Lillian squeezed her shoulder. "I know it's difficult. I know the very nature of our work is enough to make anyone doubt themselves. But Munro, your parents aren't the only ones who know and love you. You've lived with us the past year, and you've fought and risked your life for your team. Maybe your parents don't have faith, but they haven't seen you in the thick of it. But your teammates have. They believe in you. And Christine and I believe in you, too."

Holly tried to blink the tears back, but failed, and ended up throwing her arms around her friend. "Thanks, Lillian. Really."

Lillian patted her back, then firmly pushed her away by the shoulders. "Right. That's quite enough sap for one day, and I've got to get to training as well. You'll be alright?"

Holly beamed up at her, still somewhat watery. "Yes, I think I will be. Better than I would have been, that's for sure."

"Good. Well, that's my daily good deed quota done. Think I'll nick some biscuits from Daria's secret stash today to balance it out. She still hasn't figured out it's me, you know. It's driving her absolutely spare, and it is glorious."

Holly's eyes widened. "Wait, that's you? Lillian, has anyone told you you're really evil?"

Lillian leveled her with a glare. "Oi! None of that out of you! I just saved you from a downward spiral into alcohol and drugs and bad poetry, have a bit of gratitude!"

"I still don't know where you're getting the poetry bit from."

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

"That doesn't even make sense. I haven't protested anything."

"You can deny it all you want, Munro, but, as you said, I am, after all, evil. One day soon, I will discover your secret poetry journal and read it aloud to everyone."

Holly rolled her eyes. "How terrifying, see me quake in my boots—oh wait, I'm not. Because I don't write poetry!"

"You don't fool me. I'm onto you, Munro. I'm onto you." Lillian hefted her rapier, which had been by the door, and gave a cheery wave. "Well, I'm off. And since I am, in fact, not entirely evil, I will point out that this is a golden opportunity for you to hide any bad poetry you might have lying about. Oh, and do put on some concealer before you go out. Wouldn't want some rookie mistaking you for a freshly risen Wraith and trying to skewer you." And with that parting shot, she was out the door before Holly could make any sort of retort.

Holly scowled down at her oatmeal. "I am not a poet," she told it. "But if I was, it would be good poetry."

The oatmeal seemed to laugh at her. Holly sighed and resigned herself to cereal, just this once.

All too quickly, Holly's break ended, and her team was once again placed on Rotwell's active-duty roster. Despite this, a week passed in a blur of training and no cases, and Holly and her teammates were grateful for the lull. Holly spent this time throwing herself feverishly into working. She checked and rechecked their supplies and ran drills in the fencing room long after everyone else had left for dinner. She was living life for herself, now, and she was all in.

If anyone noticed her newfound fervor, they didn't comment, although Colette did throw her looks after sparring sessions, where Holly was particularly vicious. However, these looks were rather dark in nature, and Holly suspected they had more to do with the bruises Colette was sustaining as a result of being Holly's sparring partner than any kind of concern. Holly refused to feel guilty. Given the publicity their last case had generated, their team was going to be assigned more and more high-profile cases. They needed to be in top form, and that meant pushing themselves to their limits.

As it happened, Holly was not at all off the mark. Halfway into their second week back, their team received a case file. The case details contained within were anything but run-of-the-mill.

"Holland Park?" Jason asked, peering over Amir's shoulder. "Isn't that the street with the swanky townhouses?"

"Yes," muttered Amir, paging through the file. "Looks like the haunting's in one of them. Localized to a cellar, apparently, if the witness accounts are anything to go by. Oh, look, this is promising." He laid the case file flat on the desk and began to read aloud, "'I woke up in the night and heard what I thought was barking, coming from downstairs. I went down, and I saw lights in the cellar. I realized then that this was some sort of ghost and went back upstairs.'"

"That's unusually clear-cut," remarked Rena. "Adults don't usually get that much."

"This wasn't an adult," explained Amir. "It was the homeowner's daughter. She's perhaps fourteen. And no, before you ask, she's not with any agency."

"Waste of Talent," muttered Jason.

"You know how it is," said Colette. "Toffs never let their kids risk their necks with the rest of us."

"Do we know what kind of haunting it is?" Holly broke in, before Colette and Jason could start in on their habitual duet against capitalism and the evils of the upper classes.

"Not sure. Probably a Changer, what with the dogs barking," said Amir. He added, "We'll need to approach this cautiously. I mean it, guys. This case is straight down from Steve Rotwell himself. Our client is incredibly influential. We've got to go by the book, and we've got to get this right."

Jason looked a little green. "This is one of those career-making cases isn't it? The kind where if you solve it, you end up on the first page of the Times, but if you muck it up, you might just disappear, never to be heard from again?"

Rena scoffed. "Agents don't disappear. We'd get fired and blacklisted. And sued for damages, possibly, if it's bad enough that Rotwell decides to hang us out to dry. Could even do a stint in prison, depending."

"That doesn't make me feel better."

Rena grinned evilly. "It wasn't supposed to."

"Why is she on our team again?" Jason whined.

"Because she's got great Touch and Sight," replied Holly promptly.

"I think the better question is, why are you on our team?" Colette smirked.

"Yeah, Jason," said Rena, "Why do even we keep you around, hm?"

"Amir! They're ganging up on me! Say something!"

Amir spread his hands. "Sorry, mate. Can't help you. I need the majority on my side if I want to maintain power here."

"Traitor," gasped Jason, pretending to clutch at his heart. They all laughed.

"So, how long have we got?" asked Holly.

"A week," said Amir. "Jason and Rena are on research, of course. Holly and Colette, I'd like you to check up on supplies. Also, I'll be going out to speak with the homeowner tomorrow, and I'd like you two to accompany me. See if you notice anything, get the lay of the land, that sort of thing. Alright?"

They nodded.

Jason's description had been quite accurate, Holly thought a week later, as the five of them got out of the cab. Holland Park Street was lined with stately Victorian townhouses, their white, attractive facades replete with terraces. They reminded Holly strangely of cherry blossom trees, all pale and frilly in the cool spring air. Their client, Mr. Cromwell, was waiting for them in the doorway of his house. He was a slender, middle-aged man, with brown hair just beginning to recede, and faint laugh lines beginning around his mouth. He wore neat gray trousers, paired with a navy jumper over a white collared shirt. For a supposedly influential man, he was surprisingly diffident—although, that was perhaps due to the nature of their profession, and the strange mix of unease and deference that most adults extended to operatives. He ushered them in, taking their coats and offering them tea, which they declined.

"So glad you're here," he said in his quiet, halting voice, as they settled onto the sofas in the sitting room. "I don't know what we'd have done otherwise."

"It's our pleasure. I did have one question—will you be vacating the property tonight, Mr. Cromwell?" inquired Amir.

"Oh—is that necessary?"

"Not at all, in this case. We've established that the haunting is localized to the cellar. As long as you stay on the upper floors, you should be perfectly safe."

Mr. Cromwell nodded, looking relieved. "That's what we've been doing, these past few nights. Sabrina says she can hear them even from upstairs."

"Sabrina—your daughter?"

"Yes. I believe she gave a statement to your company's representative."

"Yes, it was very helpful. Please thank her for us."

Mr. Cromwell brightened. "Certainly. She'll be glad to know she was of help."

Amir smiled, then glanced at the clock on the mantel and rubbed his hands together. "Well, we ought to get started. Have you any questions for us before we begin, Mr. Cromwell?"

"No, no. I'll get out of your way." He offered them a worn, tense smile. "Good luck, all of you." He nodded once, then turned and walked from room. They heard his footsteps ascending the stairs to the upper levels.

"Right," said Amir, turning to face them. "You lot know the drill. Everyone ready?"

They nodded.

"Then let's go."

The cellar was spacious and cool and had evidently been tastefully refurnished. It was also very dark. A few hours had elapsed, and it was just now approaching 7 PM. Holly knew that outside, London would be settling gently into twilight. Despite this, the cellar was pitch black; there were no windows to allow light into this subterranean space. They had locked the door leading down into the cellar and warded it with iron, so there was no light from that quarter either. It was better safe than sorry, with the Cromwells still in the house. True, they had been safe upstairs thus far, but everyone knew that Visitors could break pattern when confronted.

They had set up a lantern, as well as an array of candles, the lot of which sent up a warm, muted light. The five of them were gathered together in the iron circle they had set up in the center of the space. It was, truthfully, a bit of a tight squeeze, but the warm yellow light of the candles helped create an illusion of coziness, Holly thought.

"Stop elbowing me!"

"For the last time, I'm not elbowing you, Jason!"

"Well, that's funny, because my solar plexus is definitely encountering a sharp object which, upon inspection, appears to be attached to you!"

"Your solar plexus is delusional."

Well, an illusion of coziness that was swiftly and brutally undermined any time one of her teammates opened their mouths. Holly sighed.

"Hol," Colette cried, "back me up here!"

"Pretty sure solar plexuses can't have delusions, Col."

"Are you my best friend or not?"

"As your best friend, I have experienced your elbows, and I can testify that they are weapons of mass destruction."

"You are so annoying."

"Don't listen to her, Holly," whispered Jason theatrically. "The truth must out."

Rena rolled her eyes. "You guys are so lame."

"You're twelve," said Jason and Colette in unison.

"So?"

Jason and Colette glanced at one another, and Holly was amused by how similar they looked, with their blond hair gleaming gold in the low light and their expressions comically incredulous. They could have been siblings. "Er…Well…"

Rena sniffed, flipping a lock of dark hair over her shoulder. "Typical. Ageists never can come up with justifications for their prejudice."

Amir, who was sitting in the very center of the circle, looked up at this, his brow furrowing. "I thought ageism was, like, discrimination against the elderly."

Rena's blue eyes sparked. "Well, that's part of it, of course, a very large part of it, but you see, the social construct of age is so pervasive in our society—especially now, with prejudice exacerbated by the Problem—and—"

She was drowned out by Jason's loud groan. "Now you've gone and done it, mate," he lamented. "How do you not know this? Never start Rena on social theory. That's a Day 1 rule."

Rena flushed and crossed her arms. "Excuse you."

"Yes, Jason," Amir added dryly. "Maybe I was actually interested in what your teammate had to say. Maybe I support her independent ambitions and interests. As one does in a team."

"Thank you."

"Guys," said Colette suddenly, "I hate to interrupt this—"

"You started it!"

"Jason!" she snapped. "This is serious."

Jason took one look at her face and sobered immediately. "Sorry, sorry. Continue, please."

Colette took a deep breath and nodded. "I'm getting noises. It's faint, but it sounds like…growling, I think. It's staticky, though. Anyone else hear it?"

They shook their heads.

"The candles are still going strong," Rena noted.

"It's still early," Amir agreed. "That could change at any moment, of course. We just need to stay alert."

"So…no social theory?"

Amir laughed, leaning over to ruffle Rena's hair. "Maybe later."

They lapsed into silence, facing outwards to scan the rest of the cellar. Outside the spheres of light cast by the lantern and candles, the darkness was thick and impenetrable. Holly wondered whether that meant something. It reminded her unpleasantly of the Dark Specter she'd encountered with her Talent Center team, how the darkness had seemed like velvet, so opaque. But it was likely just her mind playing tricks. The reports had been very clearly mentioned spectral dogs, which suggested a Changer. And it was highly unlikely that two powerful Type IIs were linked to the same confined space.

An hour passed with only muted conversation, then two. Holly felt boredom pricking at her eyelids, and knew the others felt it too. Jason was shifting restlessly; Colette was playing fretfully with the ends of her hair; Rena kept unsheathing and sheathing her rapier. Holly kept catching herself gnawing at her lip. Only Amir seemed unperturbed, a calm oasis at the very center of their circle. He sat cross-legged, calmly looking out into the room, occasionally raising a hand to brush back the lock of dark hair that kept falling in his eyes, or to rub at the stubble on his jaw. Holly studied him, wondering how he did it. How could he walk, Talentless, into hauntings and still retain that ease? And it wasn't just that he was calm—he radiated that calm outward, helped everyone else to feel it, too. Holly didn't think she could do the same. They were very lucky to have Amir, she realized as she shifted her attention back to the room. Most supervisors were neither so young nor so reliable. They tended to be outsiders to the team, handing down orders from on high. But Amir wasn't like that at all. In fact, Holly thought he was rather crucial to their process. He held their team together, modulated their disputes, came up with plans. She wondered idly what they would do without him.

Suddenly, the light dimmed.

Holly's gaze shot to the candles. They were still burning...one, two, three—oh! One of them had gone out. Only one. What could that mean? A glance told her that everyone else had noticed, too, and was staring fixedly at the lone extinguished candle.

"It could be nothing," offered Jason hesitantly.

"I don't know," muttered Colette. "The growls are louder. None of you are getting this?"

"No," Holly admitted uneasily. "Total silence for me."

"Same here," agreed Jason.

"I don't hear anything either, but it's only just gone 9," Rena pointed out. "And Sabrina Cromwell said she heard the barking around midnight every time. I expect it'll take a bit longer."

"And whatever happens, we'll be fine," added Amir. "We're within the circle, remember. Once the apparitions manifest, we'll keep a lookout for the vanishing point. Then we should have a pretty good idea of the Source."

That was the plan. But every agent knows that things don't always go to plan.

It was nearing midnight when she finally heard it.

Jason and Rena had lapsed into a quiet game of hangman. Amir was propped up on his elbows, scrawling something in his supervisor's log. Holly herself had dropped off into a kind of stupor, sick with anticipation. Only Colette had remained alert, her eyes tirelessly scanning the darkness.

A bone-rattling growl ripped through the silence, reverberating through the air.

Holly shot to her feet and whirled around. It had sounded as if it was coming from behind her.

Nothing was there.

Colette, Jason, and Rena had gotten to their feet, too. They exchanged grim looks.

"Looks like all of you got that one," said Amir, levering himself upright. "What did it sound like?"

"A growl," said Jason.

"It was really loud," added Rena, bouncing on her toes.

"And now?" asked Amir.

"Silence," said Holly, shaking her head.

"And no manifestation," muttered Colette. "This thing is really taking its time."

As if in response, a chorus of yips sounded. They seemed to come from all around. The four of them shifted, drawing their rapiers and taking up defensive stances along the edge of the iron circle, their backs to Amir.

The darkness was still thick, still impenetrable, but Holly thought she could discern movement. Then again, perhaps it was her imagination. She waited, her hand tense on her rapier, but nothing happened. Silence fell again.

All at once, the light went out.

Jason swore. The sudden shift from dim, yellow light to utter darkness was jarring. Holly squeezed her eyes shut, counting to ten, willing them to adjust. As she did so, the sounds started up again.

A low snarl rumbled through the room. At first, it sounded as if the thing was right in front of her, but as the sound went on, it changed position—as if the maker of that snarl was slowly pacing around their circle. The air was perforated with the sound of harsh, canine pants. Holly felt chill, foul-smelling air gust over her face.

She opened her eyes.

Ranged around the iron circle were the ghostly figures of seven massive hounds. They were powerfully built, with barrel-chests and muscular limbs coated in thick, coal-black fur. Their baleful eyes gleamed red, and their open mouths revealed a multitude of razor-sharp, yellowed teeth. As Holly watched, greenish drool dripped from the slavering jaws of the dog closest to her and oozed, hissing, to the cellar floor.

There was a moment of stillness as the hounds considered them with cocked heads, their blood-red tongues lolling.

Then they leapt.

Holly flinched and swung her rapier as the two dogs nearest her hurdled through the air toward her, their shining claws outstretched, as if to rip out her throat. Her stroke sliced through the forelegs of one of the dogs and it dropped to the ground with a yelp, its form fraying as its front legs disintegrated. The other hound managed to twist out of the way of her blow and collided hard with the iron boundary, green sparks flying; shuddering, it let out a bone-chilling howl and limped backwards, its spiteful gaze fixed on Holly.

Elsewhere, the other dogs had met with similar reception, and were likewise drawing back, snarling. There they stayed, a few feet back, licking at their wounds, their burning eyes unwavering as they watched the occupants of the iron circle.

"Guys," hissed Amir urgently. "What just happened?"

"We're surrounded," came Jason's terse reply. "They just leapt at us, but we fought them off. But it looks like they'll be coming back for another round."

"Shit."

"One case," mumbled Colette. "What I wouldn't give for one case with a nice, straightforward vanishing point."

"Shit," Amir repeated. "I'm sorry, guys, I should have thought of this possibility. Now we're trapped."

There was a heavy silence.

"So…" said Rena hesitantly, "Is this a good time to tell you that this might, possibly, get worse?"

They looked down at her. She winced, seeming even smaller than usual. "Yeah, it's just—the form the Visitor's taken on, it's a bit familiar, isn't it?"

Jason's eyes widened, and his face fell. "No. You don't think—"

"Afraid so."

Holly, Amir and Colette glanced between them, lost. "What are you talking about?"

Jason sighed. "How much do you three know about mythology?"

The three of them exchanged looks. "Erm…"

It was Rena's turn to sigh. "It's something we came across in our research for this case. We're pretty sure the dogs are a classic spectral archetype. Specifically, hellhounds."

Colette raised an eyebrow. "Hellhounds?"

"Or Church Grims," Jason added. "You get them in cemeteries, sometimes. In old myths, they're portrayed as guarding the dead. Generally, when you get them in a haunting, it means…well…"

"Corpses," Rena murmured. "Buried without ritual. Usually more than one."

Holly bit her lip. "I've heard those stories about the big black dogs—Church Grims and the Wild Hunt and whatnot—but what makes you so certain these dogs fit the archetype? Can't they just be, well, dogs?"

"It's the eyes," Rena answered, grimacing. "All the texts in our research indicated that hellhounds have burning, red eyes. We read up on cases that involved the Visitor appearing as a canine. Generally, the ones that didn't fit the archetype didn't mention anything abnormal about the eyes. In fact, they often didn't even have black fur. But our haunting fits both criteria, as far as appearance goes."

"Alright," said Colette slowly. "So then, the Source must be human remains. Lots of them. Which means—"

"Probably not in the walls."

"No, probably not."

They gazed at the floor beneath their feet. The unassuming wood suddenly seemed full of unpleasant possibilities.

"We've got crowbars," Holly offered.

"But no shovels," said Jason, shaking his head.

"What if we pried up the floor with a crowbar, then used the blast from a flare to clear the rest of the way?" Rena suggested. She flushed at their stares. "What? I read it in an issue of True Hauntings."

Holly shook her head. "It's a good idea, but it could destabilize the foundations of the house. I'm not sure that's a risk we should take. Especially when you consider our client."

"Yeah. Don't imagine old Rotwell would be too chuffed with us if we ruined his mate's house," muttered Jason.

They winced. Steve Rotwell was not known for his forbearance.

"Amir?" Colette asked. "Any ideas?"

Amir was rubbing at his jaw, his brow deeply furrowed. "What if," he said slowly, "and this is just an idea, but what if one or two of you could somehow…distract the dogs? That could give the rest of us breathing room to work on the Source. Do you guys think you can handle that?"

They exchanged glances, then turned to look at the ghostly forms of the hounds pacing outside of the circle. Their ectoplasm was still steaming from their previous assault, but Holly knew it wouldn't be long before that wore off. She studied them, cataloguing their massive stature, their powerful limbs, their fiery eyes. There were seven of them, and they were absolutely vicious. And there was something about them…just looking at them made some primitive part of her shriek, urging her to flee, to curl up and play dead. Fending them off with the added protection of the iron circle had been hard enough…how could one—or even two—of them be expected to hold their own against all of that concentrated fury? But Amir was right…they were trapped. "We don't have much choice," she agreed reluctantly.

"I'll do it," Rena volunteered, tilting her chin up.

"No!" cried Jason, Colette, and Holly simultaneously.

She glared up at them, her blue eyes stormy. "If this is because I'm the youngest, I'll have you know that I'm just as qualified as the three of you and—"

"It's because you're the shortest," Jason cut in bluntly. "You don't have as much reach. They'll get far closer to you than they'd manage with any of us.

Rena looked mutinous. "I can handle it."

"Maybe you can," Amir broke in. "But you won't. Actually, I was thinking Holly and Colette. You two have been spending a lot of time in the fencing room lately, and you're sparring partners, so you're most comfortable with each other's styles. And you're both tall enough, which doesn't hurt. What do you think? Can you handle it?"

Holly exchanged a look with Colette, feeling her stomach clench with nerves. "Yeah," she said, mouth dry. "We can handle it."

"Excellent," grinned Amir, clasping their shoulders. "Well then, team, here's the plan…"

The plan, Holly reflected as ectoplasmic claws glanced off the heels of her boots, had sounded so straightforward in theory. She thought Amir ought to go into marketing; he was rather good at pitching things. He'd made 'fending off the hounds' sound so reasonable, so doable. The problem was, hardly anyone could really fend off seven ghost-hounds from hell for any significant length of time—even if you were a crack pair of agents who'd spent the past two weeks training like mad.

Perhaps especially then, Holly thought as she twisted to avoid a hound's snapping jaws and felt her muscles scream in protest. She had perhaps overexerted herself in training.

As if she sensed what Holly was thinking, Colette yelled over the baying of the hounds, "If we die, I'll kill you!"

"You—are—so—supportive!" gasped Holly as she twirled out of the way of a paw and slashed her rapier through her wake. A whining yelp told her the blade had struck true.

"You heard what Amir said! About why he picked us! All that extra training was your idea!"

Holly stabbed her rapier through the muzzle of a hound, then dropped and rolled as another leapt for her. "You'll recall he also mentioned we're sparring partners!" This, she felt, was a significant point. Jason and Rena sparred with members of other teams.

"Whatever! I blame you!"

Holly suppressed a scream as she felt something rake across her back, burning cold even through the protective fabric of her jacket. She stabbed backwards blindly with her rapier, even as she poured on speed. "Fine!"

"Fine!"

Holly chanced a glance over her shoulder as she sprinted across the room. Behind her, three hounds were in pursuit, their powerful muscles bunching and relaxing with each bounding step. They were barking and growling at her, their eyes like glowing coals. Beyond them, she saw Colette also running, leading her own threesome of hounds. Sizzling on the parquet floor beyond her was a steaming pile of ectoplasm: all that remained of one of the hounds. One down, six to go. Across the room, Jason and Amir had pried up the flooring within the circle and created a sizeable hole and were now hacking away with crowbars. Rena stood to one side, gesticulating as she said something.

Holly turned sharply to the left, leading the hounds pursuing her farther away from the circle. The whole point of this was to keep them distracted, away from the Source. She threw a salt canister over her shoulder and heard the enraged yip as the contents made contact with one of the apparitions.

Just then, there was a loud scraping of metal from where Jason and Amir were engaged in digging the hole. A powerful gust of wind howled through the room, and Holly stumbled a bit as it slammed into her. In its wake was an eerie silence; the thumping of preternatural paws against the ground had ceased. Holly turned. All six of the remaining hounds had frozen in place. With ears perked, they turned their snouts in unison towards the iron circle.

Holly cursed, then lunged forward and swung her rapier through the form of the nearest hound. It howled, dissipating into green ribbons of ectoplasm that oozed to the floor. Its two compatriots whirled around, growling, fiery eyes incandescent with hatred.

"Amir, Jason!" she cried, dancing out of reach of their snapping jaws. "Hurry it up!"

"Copy that!" replied Jason.

Holly twisted to avoid a swiping paw, then thrust upward to stab the white underbelly of the hound in mid-lunge. It keened. She ducked as chunks of ectoplasm rained down, sizzling against her uniform, and barely managed to avoid the jaws of the third hound. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Colette narrowly dodge a hound leaping for her throat; her long blond ponytail smoked as the ends of it were whisked through ectoplasm.

Just then, Rena gave a triumphant cry. There was a clink of metal, and then suddenly all of the hounds were freezing in mid-movement. With a chorus of piteous whines, the beasts shuddered, then winked entirely out of existence.

Panting, Holly slowly lowered her rapier. Her jacket and trousers were ripped in many places, some of the tears still smoking, and there were too many ectoplasm stains to count. Her sword similarly had fat gobs of ectoplasm clinging to the blade. Her hair was probably in complete disarray.

She'd never felt better.

"Looks like our names will be in the papers tomorrow," crowed Colette, as she and Holly exchanged high-fives. "Hear that, Jason? We're not going to be disappeared! We're the best damn team in all England!"

Jason emerged from the pit, covered in dust and grinning. "Absolutely."

Amir popped up beside Jason, his smile wide. "You two are stars, you know that? Just brilliant."

"Yeah," said Rena, running over to hug first Holly, then Colette. "I was so worried about you two—all those close calls! But you did it!"

"We did it," Holly corrected. "We'd never have figured out the Source if it wasn't for you and Jason, Rena."

"A+ team effort," Colette agreed. "I think this calls for a group hug."

"Erm," said Jason, eying their still-steaming clothes. "Think I'll pass, thanks. You two need a shower, stat."

"Oi! We just risked our lives for you!"

"Yeah, Jason," added Holly, grinning. "Looks like Rena's braver than you."

"I have to go with Jason on this one," said Amir, though he was grinning. "Let's hold the group hugs for later. You two should get checked out at a hospital first, just in case."

As it turned out, both Holly and Colette had contracted minor ghost-touch. It hadn't spread much, and an adrenalin shot instantly put them to rights. When they returned to headquarters, they found a party in full swing in their office space. Someone had procured cake and punch. Rena, Jason, and Amir were all there, as was Lillian and some other agents Holly didn't recognize.

"Hey, Munro," said Lillian when she saw Holly. "I just got back myself. Heard about your case—congrats! That's really impressive. Steve Rotwell himself came down to talk to your supervisor. That doesn't happen often."

Holly glanced at Amir, who was talking to one of the unfamiliar agents. He seemed in good spirits—but then, he always was. "Wow. I didn't know—I only just got back from the hospital."

"I expect you'll be hearing about it soon," said Lillian as she sipped her punch.

"Holly! A little help here?" Colette was fiddling with an old gramophone she had unearthed from who-knew where.

"Go on," said Lillian, shoving Holly forward. "You'll tell me and Christine all about it later."

Holly waved at her and went to rejoin Colette. "Hey," she said as she knelt next to her best friend. "If I help you with this, will you forgive me for being bonkers about sparring for the last couple of weeks?"

Colette glanced up, her green eyes considering. "Depends. Maybe if you tell why you went all gung-ho on the training regimen."

"I was going to tell you anyway," Holly admitted.

Colette shrugged. "OK, then. All forgiven. You probably won't be haunted by my vengeful ghost if I die."

Holly rolled her eyes. "Great." She sighed, eying the gramophone. "Give it here, then."

Eventually, the gramophone was figured out. The record turned out to be a jazzy number, which they all took pleasure in dancing badly to. It was a very pleasant evening. Unfortunately, it would be the last pleasant evening for a very long while. But of course, none of them knew that.