Free The Shadow Men by Christopher Golden; Tim Lebbon

I’ve read Stephen Hawking, y’know? Parallel dimensions and black holes and all that shit. We’re going to figure this out, and we’re going to get … get your girls back.”
    Silence filled the space between them then, save for the shush of the wipers and the rumble of the road beneath his tires. He drove down Congress Street searching without luck for a parking spot. Roadwork took up two long blocks on the right, and the left had parked cars bumper to bumper. As he approached State, he took a chance and turned left onto narrow Quaker Lane, saw a spot, and pulled in.
    “There’s a sign,” Trix said.
    Jim didn’t respond. He killed the engine and climbed out, cold rain spattering him and drops running down the back of his collar. Trix stepped out of the car, and they both looked at the sign she had pointed out, a list of parking restrictions. She had said they wouldn’t be long, but he found he could not care about tickets or tow trucks.
    “If you want an umbrella, I saw one on the backseat,” he said, slamming the door.
    Trix turned her face up to the sky, seeming to relish the cold rain. “Fuck it.”
    They walked up Quaker Lane all the way to Devonshire and turned right. The rain was little more than a drizzle, but Jim kept wiping it from his eyes. Trix pushed wet hair out of her face, the rain having taken all the punky spikiness out of the pink dye job. When they came to the end of Devonshire, where the Old State House stood on the corner, Trix frowned and glanced around. Then she set off along State Street.
    “What are you looking for?” Jim asked, avoiding puddles that had started to form in the warped, uneven sidewalk.
    She ignored him, picking up her pace, weaving around people who had just come out of the State Street T station, which was located beneath the Old State House. At the corner, she glanced up at the building’s front balcony, then across the street. They’d walked three quarters of the way around the old brick structure now. “There,” Trix said, setting off again.
    But this time she did not go far, only to a traffic island that jutted into the street. In the island was a wide circle made of cobblestones set in concentric patterns. Trix hesitated as though about to walk across hot coals. Jim could only stare, wondering what she was up to, but then she turned and held out her hand. “Come on.”
    “Where?” he asked.
    “Right here,” she insisted. “You said you trusted me.”
    He stared at her, pink hair plastered to her scalp and face now, rain running in rivulets down her cheeks, and he wondered if he had made a terrible mistake, if whatever sinister manipulations were at work here, Trix was a part of them. But then she pushed the hair from her eyes and he saw the pain in her imploring gaze, and chided himself for hesitating.
    Jim took her hand, and together they stepped into the cobblestone circle.
    Revelers going into the city for the night maneuvered around them, umbrellas sluicing rain. Hardy tourists gave them a wide berth, though hardly anyone really looked at them, the two nut jobs standing in the rain for no apparent reason.
    Trix held his hand tightly, closed her eyes, and began to whisper. Jim leaned in to listen, feeling her breath warm and intimate on his face.
    “… Jennifer Anne Garland Banks and Holly Marie Banks,” Trix whispered. “They’ve vanished and we have to find them. We love them, and our lives—our world—are falling apart. We need your help.”
    Jim pulled back, staring at her. Sensing his withdrawal, Trix opened her eyes in alarm. “No,” she said, tugging him back toward her. “You said you trusted me.”
    “I do, but …” This is crazy , he wanted to say. “You dragged me halfway across the city to fucking pray ?”
    Trix gripped his hand harder. “I’m not praying. But right now, on this spot, you’ve got to ask for help.”
    “Who am I asking?” he said, eyes narrowed, as he looked around at the rain-swept street and the