Someone, or something, was behind him.
Theo felt it—invisible, tangible, a presence at his back. The hairs rose on his arms, prickled at the nape of his neck. He spun to look.
He saw nothing. Nothing he could find. But there was something; that was not an illusion.
It was something Henry kept hidden, even here, then. Whatever frightened him this much was something he could not see, could not face, could not fight.
Dream-Henry collapsed into a terrified broken pile of long limbs and horror and pain, shaking, at the foot of a muddy indistinct building. He kept one hand across the wound in his stomach; the other dug into crumbling plaster, clutching at the wall in voiceless screaming pain. His fingers scraped, raw.
Theo felt a crack of anger like the snap of a whip: Henry, his Henry, who
