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“What the fuck?” Webster scrambled to a sitting position against the wall and looked wildly around the room, no longer a predator, now the prey to an invisible force.

Tristan.

Thank God.

I scooted off the bed and scrambled to the fireplace, putting Tristan and as much distance as I could between Webster and me. Tristan’s heady scent filled the room and my lungs. Its calming effect was immediate and helped to erase Webster’s stench from my nostrils.

Webster watched me warily as he tried to stand, his beady eyes on mine.

“Sit the fuck down!” Tristan bellowed, and Webster toppled over against the wall. “Tell him to keep still or I’ll fucking kill him, Beauchamp.” Tristan glared at Webster, his face a mask of dark malice that sent a chill down my spine. I’d never seen him like this. Dressed in his usual black, his face taut, all angles and plains, he was set to kill. “Tell him!” Tristan barked.

“You need to keep still,” I whispered. Now that Tristan was here, my fear had resurfaced, asphyxiating me, stifling my voice.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Webster babbled, gaping at me. “What the fuck are you doing to me? You fucking witch.”

“It’s not me. It’s the man you murdered in this room.”

“What?” Webster wildly surveyed the room again, then settled his fearful gaze on me as if I were insane.

“Yes. It’s judgment day. He’s back.” My voice was faint but elated as I acknowledged the perverse satisfaction I felt now that our roles were reversed.

“I didn’t kill no one.” Webster sat back, confused and aggrieved.

“Yes, you did. You and your friend killed Tristan Fairfax. You lived here with him. You were convicted of his murder. He’s here. He’s with me, and he’s angry, so you’d better do as he says. Um… as I say.”

“Murder?” Webster stuttered.

Taking a step back, Tristan clenched his fists, and Webster’s head and his matted corkscrew curls bounced off the wall twice.

“Tristan!”

“Just making sure he gets the message,” Tristan growled.

Webster sat against the wall, panting, terror and incomprehension in his eyes.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

Part of me wanted to run my finger down his face and into the neck of his stained Tottenham Hotspurs football shirt that he wore beneath a faded denim jacket. Then kick him, hard. But I decided it was safer for both of us to stay out of his reach.

“We need some answers from him,” Tristan said.

“Answers? What? How?”

“What do you mean, answers?” Webster roared at me.

Webster’s head bounced off the wall once more.

“Tell the fucker to stay still and keep quiet unless you address him directly or I will kill him.”

I gasped. Was Tristan serious? Kill him?

“You can’t kill him,” I said.

“What? What the fuck are you talking about?” Webster interjected.

“Tell him!” Tristan’s eyes flashed, filled with venom as he shot me a glance.

“Okay,” I said to placate him. I addressed Webster. “Keep still and quiet unless I ask you a direct question, or he’ll kill you. Do you understand?”