no one else around—no people—no dogs—it was just the Common.
The wonderful Common.
With total freedom, the Labrador took off across the great green expanse, running as fast as his four legs would carry him, stopping only to inspect the base of the occasional tree, sniffing wildly for scents that he knew.
Squirrels. Rats. Other dogs.
He lifted his leg and urinated, letting everyone know that he had been there and that at that very moment, this tree and the area around it—the entire Common really—belonged to him.
To Marlowe.
The dog took off again, the joy in his freedom flowing through his body—his legs—making him feel as though he could run forever and ever. There was nothing that could catch him and nothing that he could not catch.
The Common was his alone.
And it was that realization that stopped him. He sat on one of the many paved paths, panting, scanning his most beloved place.
The reality of the situation surprised him with its intensity. Here he was at the Common, not having to share anything—the trees, or the grass, or any delicious trash that might have missed going into a barrel—but it wasn’t right. For this to be everything that he wanted it to be, he needed his master.
He needed his Remy.
In the distance, near a fenced playground, he saw a hint of movement and at once focused his gaze. At first he believed it to be children playing, but saw instead that it was a man—a man with his dog.
Excited, Marlowe bounded across the grass, barking wildly. But they did not seem to hear or see him.
The man was tossing a green tennis ball for a puppy—a black dog, just like Marlowe—who eagerly chased the ball and brought it right back to the man.
And as Marlowe stood there, his tail wagging furiously, an understanding of what he was seeing blossomed within his simple dog mind.
This was a memory—his own memory—of when he was just a pup.
He watched his Remy, desperate for him to be real and to acknowledge him, but he knew that this Remy could not see or hear him.
This is a reminder, Marlowe thought, watching the two at play—watching as an unbreakable bond formed between him and his Remy.
Remy was his everything. There would be nothing without Remy.
His Remy defined him—his existence. His very world.
Remy was his world.
And with that realization, the memory of their time together faded like the early morning mist that sometimes floated above the Common, and in its place grew a tree. A tree unlike any Marlowe had ever seen in the Common, yet somehow—
Familiar.
As he padded closer, the Common shifted around him, changing, becoming a landscape totally alien to him, but it did not deter him.
The tree was why he was here.
From the shadows at the base of the growth, Marlowe saw two figures emerge, and he knew that this was right.
Ashley and Linda smiled when they saw him, and his tail wagged so very hard that it made his entire back end move from side to side. They embraced him, loving him with hugs and kisses that made why they had come here to this spot—to this tree—all the more important and special.
They had all come for Remy.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Francis stepped through the vertical slash he’d made in reality and into the back parking lot of a storage facility in Brockton, Massachusetts.
The passage hissed and crackled as if in protest, but Francis wasn’t listening. Instead, he was committing to memory the crudely drawn images on a map that would eventually lead him to the Bone Master assassins.
On reflex, he looked around to make sure that his unconventional arrival hadn’t been noticed, and made his way to his rented storage shed.
For payment of services rendered—What had he done again?—Simeon had allowed him to see the map. It wasn’t all that large, drawn upon the tanned skin of an unbaptized newborn with the blood of the child’s mother. Simeon mentioned that it had been made by a fifteenth-century Satanist by the name of Hotinger, who believed that he’d channeled the ghosts of a religious sect targeted by the Bone Masters at the turn of the century.
The ghosts knew where the Bone Masters’ weapons originated and had supposedly passed the information on in hopes of having their murders avenged. Francis wasn’t sure if the murdered order had ever gotten their revenge, and he briefly wondered if he might be doing some angry ghosts a favor.
He stopped at the door to his storage unit, removed a small pocketknife from his pants pocket,