Peter returned to the Sanctum at about half past two, when crime began to taper down and the City that Never Slept dozed for a few short hours before dawn. He undressed, then went into his bedroom to sleep for a few hours. He dreamed he was riding in a sleigh through a snow-covered Central Park. Tiny bells jingled on the iridescent, multicolored horse. He was eating Turkish delights off a faded plastic Hercules plate he'd gotten from a Happy Meal when he was a kid. Strange was driving. The Cloak had an ermine fur muff now. The horse nickered and spoke in Tony's drawl, "What's the matter, Oz? Leave your license in your other pajamas?"

The jingling bells got louder.

Peter lifted his head off the sheets, glaring at the phone chiming inches from his face. He pulled it over with one hand and shut off the alarm. A wallpaper of him and Stark burned in the gloom. Tony with his stupid, oversized glasses and him grinning from ear to ear, wearing an ugly brown corduroy blazer Aunt May had found at a yard sale. Peter swallowed the tightness in his throat. He clicked off the screen and lay there for a few minutes just staring at the wall. The heavy curtains were open. It was still dark outside, but the room was filled with a pale, blue-grey dimness.

He thought about Pepper and Morgan. He wanted to visit them so bad. He wanted to tell her stories about how her dad had locked himself in his own panic room, and make Ms. Potts laugh by reminding her about the time Peter had spilled syrup on his shirt and she'd lent him hers because he needed to get to school, and how Tony had saw him wearing it and scared the living crap out of him being all scary and serious, because if he was having some weird underage thing with Pepper he'd use his nuts as a coin purse, but he was really just joking because Mr. Stark was an ass like that and- and-

Tears rolled down his temple and dripped on the pillow.

People didn't have to die for you to lose them. It wasn't fair.

Peter swung himself out of bed and went down the hall to the bathroom. He blew his nose, peed, and washed his face with a mushy sliver of soap. Then he got dressed in his spider costume and went to the kitchen with the mask bunched loosely in one hand. The house was cold. He smelled coffee.

"Morning, Stephen."

"What? Oh, yeah. Morning," Strange grunted.

He was standing expectantly in front of the Keurig, munching on an everything bagel and watching a stream of rich, umber liquid drizzle into his fox mug.

"Stuff's over there if you want one. Coffee?"

"Yes, please."

Strange pulled another mug out of the cabinet and Peter went over to the toaster. He popped in another bagel and leaned against the counter, absently reading the recipe for marbled brownies on the back of the cream cheese box. He yawned loudly. Strange yawned, too.

"Least we don't have to fight the morning rush," Peter quipped.

"Mmmm."

Strange opened the Keurig, replaced the pod and switched out the mugs, splattering drops of coffee over the cigarette-scorched laminate counter. Bubbled yellow and brown, it was scarred with the track marks of several coffin nails somebody had balanced on the edge and forgotten, leaving them to burn down to the filters. Peter wondered where they'd come from. Far as he knew, Strange didn't smoke.

The toaster popped up. Peter buttered his bagel.

"Cream? Sugar?"

"Both, thanks"

The Keurig was dutifully extruding another cup. Strange added two large spoonfuls of sugar to the mug and spent several minutes rooting around the cabinet for some instant creamer that looked like it'd expired before the Blip. He stirred it all together and handed it to Peter.

"Thanks."

He sipped it. It tasted like restaurant coffee. Like Denny's and IHOP, and the little restaurant with the lumberjack theme where Aunt May had waitressed when he'd been about six, bringing him coloring pages and the stubs of crayons. It was delicious. Peter took a deep swallow and felt it warm his insides. Suddenly he was starving. He crammed the piping hot bagel into his mouth.

"So, where we headed?" he asked between mouthfuls.

"The Kapalicarsi is the biggest bazaar in Istanbul, which considering that all we have is an alias to go on, might take us some time to cover," said Strange. Coffee and decent night's sleep seemed to have improved his mood considerably.

"Unless everybody knows this guy under that alias," said Peter. "I was looking for a drug pusher named "Big Croc" over in East Village once. Figured I'd have to spend a couple days staking the place out, you know, but all I did was talk to the first old lady I saw on the street and she was all like, "Big Croc? Yah, I know him. Down the street and to the left. Yah tell him from me his momma raised him better!" Morale of the story: grandma really does know everything."

He accentuated the story with his best old lady voice, Brooklyn accent and all. The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Strange's mouth.

"So who knows? Maybe we'll get lucky," Peter went on, "but you know Ned told me he found the other Peters by just swirling up a hole and saying "Find Peter Parker" and that totally worked, so can't you just do the same thing?"

He made the swirling gesture midair.

Strange's eyes bored into him over the rim of his mug. Peter still hadn't conclusively decided what color they were. Right now they were a piercing, translucent shade of green. Strange blinked a lot less when he was thinking about something, or trying to use Occulmency on him.

Wait, can he do that?!

"Did you seriously just call opening a dimensional gateway… swirling up a hole?"

Heat climbed into Peter's face. He set his jaw and did not look away.

"…Yeah. I guess."

"Well, it's not that simple. Dimensional gateways require a great deal of focus. You need to be able to visualize your destination. Now, a Master of the Mystic Arts with sufficient power can visual an object or a person, and use them as an anchor in space-time, but doing so requires intimate knowledge of the target. A photo might work. An alias won't. Names have power. Do you recall the last time someone used your full name?"

Peter Benjamin Parker!

Peter's toes curled against the linoleum. To be honest he could only remember Aunt May doing it once, when he'd been caught playing with a BIC when he was four, trying to light a fire for Woody and Megatron because they were going camping in the little weed lot behind their first apartment.

"It's why many Masters choose an alias at some point in their lives," said Strange. "It makes scrying and other targeting spells much more difficult."

"Like Shenmu?"

"Like Shenmu. So, no. I can't just "swirl up a hole" looking for a man whose face I cannot picture, using an alias as infuriatingly vague as Shadow."

"Why, 'cause ya might open a hole behind the fridge? Because shadows."

"You laugh, but magic is funny like that," said Strange, slurping at his coffee.

Peter cautiously went back to his bagel.

Does he remember Ned and MJ? I mean, there's no reason he wouldn't – they were totally there – but how does he explain exactly what went on? Come to think of it, how come Ned doesn't seem to remember being Spider-Man's support guy? How come the magic just Photoshops the edge of some stuff, but totally chops out others? What's the methodology here?

It made Peter's brain hurt. Either way, he had to be careful. Stephen wasn't like Flash or Mr. Harrington, or Mr. Harrington's boyfriend Mr. Dell. Stephen was smart; he'd put it together eventually. And Peter wasn't sure that was a good idea. What if the act of remembering broke the spell and inter-dimensional groupies started pouring in again? Better not to risk it. He put the butter and cream cheese back in the fridge.

"So… you gonna tell me your middle name?" he asked mischievously.

"Did I not just get done explaining of the dangers of that?"

Strange swigged the last of his coffee and set the mug on the counter. Under the pretense of rinsing it in the sink, Peter learned that Strange drank his morning concoction blacker than sin and twice as sweet, if the undissolved sugar on the bottom of the cup was anything to go by. Strange opened a portal by the toaster.

"Bet ya it's something embarrassing. Like Herb. Or Barnaby. Stephen Barnaby Strange. Yeah, that's got a good ring to it."

"It's not Barnaby," said Strange.

"Phineas? Bartholomew?"

"No."

Peter put on his mask.

"You know I can just Google it, right? You're famous! One search and Wikipedia will tell me everything. Wait, I got it: Stephen Richard. They called ya Dick Strange at med-school, didn't they?"

"This is why I don't have kids."

"Don't worry, I got called Willie Parker in 6th Grade. Or Peter Puller."

"It's Vincent."

"What?"

"Stephen Vincent Strange. Now get in the hole."

"Heh. You just called it a hole. A-Hole. Get it?"

"I'm leaving you in Turkey. You can thumb your way back home."

The stepped through the ring and into warm, yellow sunlight. The first thing Peter noticed was that instead of portaling in at ground level, they'd arrived on a rooftop overlooking a maze of busy streets. The second thing he noticed was that Istanbul looked completely different by day. So different, in fact, that for a moment Peter thought they'd gotten off at the wrong exit. He spent at least a minute looking for the Hagia Sophia before realizing it was behind him.

Peter leaned up on tiptoes to get a better look through the jungle of rooftop satellite dishes. Under the late October sunlight, the strait was a deep and immaculate shade of blue. It was also packed with boats, from yachts and painted schooners, to little outboard dinghies. The air smelled like salt spray and diesel. Seagulls screeched and wheeled overhead. For some reason, that came as a surprise to Peter. He completed his 360-degree tour, then noticed why they'd come to this particular location.

Directly across the street, a massive arched doorway – looking more like a medieval portcullis than anything – stood in a beam of sunlight. Peeling golden letters announced in English: Kapalicarsi, Grand Bazaar. Gate 18.

Between the steady flow of people, the Honest-ta-God Starbucks kiosk with its signature green umbrella, and the enormous black locust growing next to the gate, withered seed pods rustling in the breeze, the angle looked a little too photogenic – in a Trip Advisor, Google Images sort of way. Peter slanted Strange a sly smile.

"Ready?" the older man asked.

"I'm always ready."

Strange stepped off the roof and floated down to street level. Peter cartwheeled down after him. A few people stumbled sideways out of their way. One man snapped a picture. Most didn't even notice as the sorcerer and the spider strolled through the gate and into the dim concourse beyond.

For the rest of his life, Peter would remember the Grand Bazaar in a detached sort of way, not as a single memory, but rather a glittering mosaic of sounds, smells and impressions by which he measured every venue that came after, from the summer street fairs of Manhattan, to the grimy, scintillating streets of Knowhere.

The boulevards were teeming with people, from women in headscarves to German tourists in shorts and Birkenstocks, voices and laughter and footsteps mingling in a low roar that echoed between stone floor and painted ceiling. Vendors lined either side of avenue in a riot of color and texture, displaying everything from carpets to clothing to stacks of brightly painted ceramics. Lanterns made of stained glass and rustic iron dangled by the hundreds, weaving luminous mosaics of colored light, like a nursery of captured stars. The array of smells was just as dizzying. Every step brought something else into focus, identifiable things like steamed coffee, spice, perfume and leather, and other, unidentifiable things Peter couldn't even guess at.

He caught himself walking backwards in Strange's wake, who created a bubble of empty space around him wherever he went. "Whoa, look at that. You really ought to do your shopping around here. I mean, look as these lamps! I can totally see them at your place."

"Focus, Spider," said Strange, without malice.

"Right. Oh, wow. Check out that guy!"

They passed a cubbyhole selling dried tea, attended by an older Turkish man with a full beard, dressed in a gloriously overdone gold kaftan and silk turban complete with a turquoise feather. He winked roguishly as Peter stopped to stare.

"Hello! Where are you from? America?"

"Uh, New York," Peter clarified.

"New York!? I have a cousin there! Beautiful place. Would you like to sample something? I have black teas, medicinal teas – good for the stomach! - love teas. A few sips, and you'll be beating the ladies away with a stick."

Peter grinned in spite of himself. He ignored the palpable sensation of Strange's eyes starting to roll backwards, like he was trying to get the drop on somebody by looking out the back of his head.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes, I drink it every night. That's how I know it doesn't work!"

Peter laughed and clapped. "Sorry, man. I left my wallet in my other spider suit. We're actually looking for a guy. Know anybody that goes by Shadow?"

"Shadow? Names these days. No, can't say that I do."

"All good. Somebody told us he runs a scrap stall. How about that?"

"Ah, the metal-workers avenue! Head that way, then turn right at the mobile-phone place. You see it? Good! Don't listen to the old broad that runs it. She could sell water to a fish. Then you follow the street. You'll smell it long before you see it. Sure I can't tempt you with something before you go?"

"Maybe on the way back. Thanks!"

It went on like this for another half hour. They turned right at the Vodafone kiosk, then got lost twice. First they were surrounded by hanks of jewelry, then Peter became distracted by a row of baskets loaded with dried fruit and a veritable rainbow of powdered spices. The aroma was deliciously, mouth-wateringly overpowering. By the time they'd turned around from that, they were back in jewelry – or at least another street selling jewelry. Vendors called out to them as they passed.

"Are you lost? Can I help you find anything?"

"Nice shoes. Are those ribbons silk? I have many that complement that color!"

"Would you like a cup of coffee?"

Twice they were accosted by shop employees bearing caddies laden with cups of tea that smelled distinctly like apple. Peter politely waved them off. Strange waved them off a little less politely. He touched Peter's arm and jerked his head. The phone kiosk blazed at the end of the avenue. They hustled towards it, reoriented, and set off again. The painted ecru walls became a little less satiny, the stones underfoot a little less smooth. They stopped a few more times at various stalls and asked about the man called Shadow. The answer was the same every time:

"No, I haven't heard of him. Would you like to buy something?"

The lights grew gentler and dimmer. Gold began to glitter on both sides of the avenue; bangles and rings and heavy necklaces accentuated with pearls. Peter didn't have to ask if they were real. He could tell it was from the attentive look in the seller's eyes, watching his hands, waiting to see if he lingered. A vaguely foul smell began to permeate the street, somewhere between hot metal and burning… something. Peter couldn't quite describe it.

A knot of people were watching the activity inside a dingy little cubby. Peter and Strange instinctively stopped to watch, too. A scrawny man in a dirty muscle shirt was using a pair of tongs to retrieve a crucible from a furnace. He tipped it out over a mold and molten yellow splashed into the reservoir. Some overflowed and dribbled onto the burned workbench, still glowing with its own deep, inner heat.

"Unfff," said Peter appreciatively.

Strange took a step forward.

"Do you know where I could find a man called Shadow?"

The vendor slanted them a dirty look. He slapped his thick gloves down with a crack. "Fuck off. I am busy. I have pickup soon! I have no time for stupid tourist questions!"

A few people stared and shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, there's no need to be an ass about it," said Peter lightly.

He and Strange retreated from the kiosk. Being natives of New York, neither were strangers to having insults spat at them on the street, mostly from angry cabbies or people deeply offended by the fact you'd stopped on the sidewalk – but that didn't mean they couldn't discuss all the sick burns they could have hurled back. Peter sidestepped a woman pushing a stroller.

"Put a hex on him," he said with a little smirk. "May you always step in a wet spot after putting on fresh socks."

Strange actually snorted.

"Gotcha. Could you, though? Put a curse on someone?"

"I suppose. Curses aren't exactly a mystic art. They're really the domain of witchcraft."

"Witchcraft witchcraft, like with the needles?!"

There was a loud noise behind them on the street. Peter threw a glance over one shoulder. The rude man had left his shop and relocated several yards down the street, where he'd crashed into a rack of teapots and antique Turkish samovars. The woman running the stall leapt up to curse at him. He cursed back with a hiss, as if raising his voice would ghost him more than the cacophony of falling kitchenware. He noticed Peter noticing him. Then he broke into a stumbling run. Peter and Strange looked at each other.

"He knows something," Strange sighed.

"Yep."

They took off after him.

Peter vaulted the mess first. The perp was only a couple of feet ahead. Peter stretched out a hand. His fingertips skimmed the guy's shoulder just as he abruptly cut right, dodging into a narrow alley Peter hadn't realized was coming up. He raced past the opening, skidded to a halt, and backpedaled. Hanging, flowery muumuus ballooned into his face. He ducked them and sprinted on.

"This is the Spider Police! Pull over!"

Rude Dude was fast. Not Captain America fast, but, like, Midtown Track & Field fast. And he seemed to know the layout of the Bazaar a helluva lot better than Peter did. He went right again at the end of the alley. Peter sprang onto the facing wall and pinballed back down to the floor without slowing. Something broke. It sounded like glass. A woman screamed loudly, which Peter thought a bit of an overreaction. He hadn't landed anywhere near her.

"Sorry, sorry!"

He tossed the apology out automatically as he ran, weaving through the sea of people. Rude Dude bulldozed his way through like a running-back. No small feat, considering the guy couldn't have weighed more than a hundred and ten pounds. Cups went flying as he plowed into a tea server, sending the girl flailing backwards, arms and legs completely out of position to break her fall.

Peter launched himself into a slide. He snatched the girl with both arms before she had a chance to crack her head open on the flagstones, rolling his forward momentum into a tumble that deposited the waitress facedown on the ground – shaken, but safe – and sent Peter accelerating out of the twirl. But his speed had faltered. And Rude Dude had gained a decent lead.

Peter raised a web-shooter to try and stick something to his back, but the shifting crowd was too chaotic – worse now that a few people had gotten it in their heads to panic. Somebody slammed into his shoulder, roughly shunting him sideways.

Ow. This place is a Cartesian grid, right? So there's so-and-so many main streets, intersected by so-and-so many secondary ones… okay. Okay, got it!

Sparks bloomed and Strange materialized from a portal at the end of the avenue. Rude Dude dodged left immediately. Smart move. Pissed-off wizards stepping outta holes was definitely something to avoid. An overstuffed backpack sideswiped Peter in the ribs. He jostled sideways, then was immediately sent spinning on his heel by a fleeing horde of Japanese tourists.

"Oh, screw this."

He squatted down and sprang some eighteen feet straight up to stick to the ceiling. Legs pumping, he dashed along the beautifully people-free avenue, like a carpool lane just for spiders. Strange looked up as he raced overhead.

"Stephen, go right! Right right right!"

Peter could just make out the perp's sweaty do-rag bobbing over the heads of the crowd as he seized a rack of porcelain bowls and brought it down behind him as he rounded the next corner. Classic move. Too bad it wasn't going to work. Peter put on an extra burst of speed.

Rude Dude exited the main avenue about fifteen feet ahead of him, slamming into a knot of paunchy, middle-aged Turkish men in polo shirts, all of them shouting into their phones. Rude Dude threw an elbow. The shouting turned to swearing. Funny how you didn't need to know a language to know you were getting cussed out in it.

Late afternoon sunlight slanted through gaps in the roof, which had abruptly transitioned from smooth plaster to rough, blackened stone. Peter could smell the briny funk of the sea again. They'd reached the edge of the labyrinth – which meant that the warren of the city lay just beyond. He had to catch this guy soon. Peter catapulted down to the floor. The street was empty now. He could try his web-shooter again, but at this speed, any abrupt jerk in momentum could smack the guy's teeth off the ground...

"Dude, stop or I'm gonna make ya stop!"

Nope, still running. The bad guys never listened.

Strange emerged around the next corner at a jog. He looked vaguely annoyed, and also vaguely out of breath. Not a good combination. Rude Dude seemed to grasp the danger as Strange turned to face him, tapping one side of his fist into the palm of the opposite hand. Mandalas flared around his knuckles as he took up a fighting stance.

With Strange suddenly blocking the way forward, and Peter cutting off any hope of retreat, Rude Dude almost tripped over his own feet as he tried to change direction mid-stride. Had to give the guy credit for athleticism. He skidded into a drift, ready to launch sideways down the t-junction. Peter wondered why Strange was just standing there watching it happen. Yeah, crossfire was definitely an issue, but…

He looked different. Smaller, somehow.

He not the threat. He's the decoy.

The perp didn't see the patchy blur of crimson until it rocketed out of a sidestreet and enveloped him like a manta ray leaping out of water. If manta rays were predatory and could jump thirty feet horizontal, that is. The squirming bundle of fabric bounced off the wall, muffled squeals emanating from within.

"Nice catch, Levi!" Peter crowed, jogging to a stop.

Strange dismissed his mandalas.

"Levi?" he deadpanned.

'Yeah, Levi. Short for "Levitation", as in Cloak of Levitation?"

"Yes, I get it. You're not calling my cloak Levi."

"I can and I will."

They looked down at the writhing pupae with the dirty sneakers poking out of the bottom. The Cloak gave its victim a warning thump against the floor. The kicking increased in intensity.

"Let him speak," said Strange.

Fabric slithered and Rude Dude's head emerged – well, screaming his head off. Peter jumped at the sudden noise. He patted the air soothingly.

"Hey, sshhhhh! Shhhh!"

The screaming continued, reverberating in the enclosed avenue. Pretty sure they could hear this guy all the way back in New York. Peter glanced nervously around. He didn't know what passed for cops in Istanbul, but he was pretty sure the racket was going to bring them around tout de suite. He leveled his best Spider-Glare at their hostage.

"Dude, I'd shut up if I were you. Levi doesn't like loud noises. You set him off and he's gonna squeeze till your head comes off. It's like a defense mechanism. You know, every time you breathe out it gets a liiiittle tighter..."

Silence.

"That's better," said Strange. "I presume I'm speaking to Shadow?"

"Hiçbir Gölge tanımıyorum! Yardım! Biri bana yardım etsin!"

"In English, if you please," said Strange evenly. "I already know you can speak it."

Rude Dude glowered at him. For a minute Peter thought he was going to spit on Strange's boots, but then the Cloak squeezed a little tighter, and the choked expletives that emerged were in English.

"I am called Shadow, yes," said Shadow sullenly. "Who's asking, goat fucker?"

"Oooh, never heard that one before," said Peter. "People back home always just assume I'm doing it with my mom. Must be a New York thing."

Shadow hit him with a filthy look. Despite his apparent show of vigor, he didn't look well. His cheeks were sunken and the whites of his eyes were an unhealthy, jaundiced shade of yellow. He was also missing several teeth.

"Spare me the childish insults," Strange continued. "We're looking for information on a man called Shenmu. Tell me everything you know about him, and you can be on your way."

"I don't know anything."

"Is that your final answer?" Peter quipped, squatting down on his haunches to look Shadow in the eye. "Are you trying to piss off the wizard? Seriously, do you see the evil Spock beard? And I don't think he put any kibble in that thing's bowl this morning, so I imagine it's getting pretty hungry..."

"Your cheap threats do not frighten me."

"Well they oughta, because you should see his dungeon. It's where he puts the food. Keeps 'em alive in these little larders, Hannibal Lecter style."

Shadow set his jaw.

Peter sighed. It was really hard to squeeze information outta guys when the usual round of "Tell me where the Rebel Base is, or I'll lay my spider-eggs in you just like Jonah says I do" failed to scare them into talking. He dropped his head to look at the floor, thinking.

"I can sift your memories if I have to," said Strange, in that scary, flat tone of his that probably had sent grown men into a corner to cry. "Depending on the strength of your mind, it can hurt a little or a lot."

"He totally will. I've seen him do it," said Peter. "Come on, man. I'm on your side here. Last guy he tried it on actually crapped himself. And I don't wanna see that, okay? Besides, if you're friends with Shenmu, you really need to evaluate your life choices. He didn't get the chance to graduate from homicidal burglar school; otherwise I'd call him a murderer."

He met Shadow's eyes through the glinting lenses of his mask.

"Is that really the kind of person you wanna protect here?" he asked quietly.

There was a pregnant pause. Shadow looked away first.

"…What do you want to know?"

"Everything," said Strange.

Shadow shifted uneasily. "Okay. Everything. Dare used to live here, back when him and old man were on speaking terms. He'd come to the Bazaar to eat and use laptop. I got to know him. I know everybody here."

He said this last part with something close to pride.

"So we've been told," said Strange calmly. Suddenly it sounded like he was talking to a skittish horse. "We need to speak with him. Do you know where he's staying… anyone he might be staying with?"

Shadow shook his head. "I have not seen him in years. No. Wait! Let me rephrase: I have not seen him, but I know he has returned."

"How come?" asked Peter.

"You see I run gold shop? I get sweepings from nearby jewelers. I melt them down, make new ingot, and sell back to jewelers. Dare bought much gold from me in past. Some bronze, too. I make good money. We talk. We become… friends."

He trailed off, flicking a nervous glance at Peter. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

"He disappeared for years. There is no news. I wonder if he is dead. I go to ask old man, but he is warlock like Dare, and I am not welcome. So I leave. I work. I think nothing more of it. Then last month, someone shows up at my stall. She asks for gold and bronze So much bronze! She asks me to procure all I have – so I speak to jewelers, and I get scraps, and I forge bronze. No-one ever asks for bronze. I give her good deal!"

"Someone," Strange repeated. "Not Shenmu?"

"No. Always woman. Elizabeth. I don't know family name."

"And how do you know she has anything to do with him?"

Shadow gave him a patronizing look. "I do business for years, warlock," he spat. "I have regular customers. Sometimes I even sell to rich tourists and their stupid, what you call them… ass bags?"

"Fannypacks?" Peter hedged.

"Ugly things. Americans think they are chic. These people, they pay with credit cards. People I trust get invoices that promise to pay. Nobody pays with lira. Not full amount, not when Bazaar is closing for night. Only Dare did this. Now only woman does this. They are connected."

"Alright. Any idea where we could find her?"

"We do not chat. Is unseemly."

Peter waited. The silence dragged. Shadow wiggled against the Cloak. "That is all I know," he declared flatly. "Now you release me. I must get back to shop. You cost me money with stupid questions."

"Well, if you'd have just answered them like a big boy when we first rolled up, we wouldn't be here, now would we?" Peter observed. "You're the one that took off like you've got drugs burning a hole in your pocket."

"I do not do drugs. Allah forbids it."

"Mhmmm. I recall he also takes the same dim view of alcohol," said Strange.

Shadow whitened with anger, but said nothing. Strange continued to stare him down unblinkingly. Once again, it was Shadow who looked away first.

Strange flicked his fingers and the Cloak promptly uncoiled, obediently rising into his hand. In one smooth motion, Strange whirled the garment back onto his shoulders. Shadow slowly picked himself up off the ground, wincing and rubbing the ache out of his spine. Peter wondered how old he was. He guessed older rather than younger, but it was hard to tell. He'd seen thirty-year-old men look like they were fifty, especially beneath the underpasses.

"Thank you for your time," said Strange.

Shadow muttered something that wasn't in English.

Peter doubted it was "Have a nice day."

They watched him hunch off down street and turn the corner at the far end, throwing one final, mistrustful glance over his shoulder. In a minute they were alone. The seagulls squawked for a handout.

"He's holdin' out on us," said Peter and Strange in almost perfect unison.

Well, Strange had said "He's lying", but the overall effect was similar.

"What gives you that idea?" asked Peter, somewhat impishly.

"The way he kept avoiding my gaze, for one. For two, for a man with a reputation to know everyone and everything, and been at it long enough to pick up an alias like "Shadow", he was suspiciously devoid of anything useful."

Strange flicked imaginary dirt from his cloak. Then he actually gave it a sniff. Peter didn't know whether to be affronted or amused. He settled on the latter.

"Careful. Might have lice."

"I don't doubt it."

"Seriously, tho? Avoiding your gaze? You think pretty highly of yourself, dontcha? Maybe the dude was just scared. You consider that? Siccing your cape on people tends to get the pee flowing, and I was leaning on the whole killer python angle pretty hard."

His tone was light and taunting, trying to get a reaction.

"So what's your reasoning? You don't buy it either," Strange retorted.

"Yeah, but I talk to people like him all the time. They're the little guys, like the pushers and the girls on the corner. They report to the big dogs further up, either because they're in deep, or because they're afraid of them. They always tell you something if ya lean on 'em, and it's usually as close to the truth as they think they can get without getting hurt. I got experience. You're just a suspicious old goat."

Strange looked at him for a long time.

"Alright, Spider," he said after a moment. It sounded like he was forcing the words out. Like the last bit of toothpaste out of the tube. "In your experience… what's the next move?"

"Recon," said Peter immediately. "You notice what he was pouring back there?"

"I did. Bronze," said Strange, realization dawning.

"Betcha good money. And he said he was waiting on a customer. So how much you wanna bet our mysterious lady friend is gonna show up tonight?"

He could see the little imaginary switch flick in Strange's eyes. They softened – in the way crystal could be called softer than diamond – but still. There was a familiar note of warmth in them now, maybe even a modicum of respect. Peter breathed out slowly.

"I got some gadgets back in New York. I use them for surveillance," he continued. "Make a hole and I'll go grab em'. We set 'em up, find a place to chill, and catch us a predator. Easy peesy."

Sunlight flashed along the edge of Strange's ring. New York air gusted against Peter's back, chilling his skin through the thin fabric of his suit.

"After you."

"Cool. Oh, and next time: I wanna be bad cop."