The sound of someone knocking startled him. He was so lost in his own thoughts, it took a moment before he realized the sharp rap was not a gunshot, just a signal that he had a visitor.

It had all seemed so real. But then it always did, didn’t it? He could call them visions, if he wanted a spiritual term, or ‘episodes’ as his doctor insisted on describing them. All he knew was that whatever label they carried was insufficient to fully delineate the experience, even for a man of words like himself.

He took a deep breath, willing his heart to stop racing, as he stood, then crossed to the door. The knock came again, more impatient this time, just as he reached it — something about it made him stand with his hand on the knob, the cool metal warming under his palm.

“Mr. Gordon?” The voice was familiar even through the intervening wood, a nasal quality to it that always made Gordon want to suggest the owner blow his nose soundly and try again. If he were ever rude enough to say such a thing, of course, he couldn’t be sure of the reception he would receive but he doubted it would be a pleasant one. “I know you’re in there.”

Of course he did. His landlady should have protected him from this, the worst kind of parasite turning up at his door, but instead she’d apparently told everyone his business if the almost-triumphant tone of his persecutor was any indication. There was clearly no avoiding the inevitable.

When he finally opened the door, Gordon was sure the hallway was warmer than his own rooms. He couldn’t rule out the possibility, of course; he’d used the last of the coal that morning and there’d be no more until he got paid. And therein lay the problem. Or, at least, one of them.

“You’re two days late, Gordon.” Every inch of him obnoxious, Flint rocked back on his heels a little, hands shoved into the pockets of his over-stretched waistcoat as he sneered at the subject of his scrutiny. None of the polite fictions of society would apply in this interaction. “Birch sent me to see what’s going on.”

“Nothing,” Gordon replied. “Nothing’s going on, that’s the problem.”

The other man snorted, the sneer widening across his face as the expression twisted it into an almost devilish grimace.

“Birch won’t like to hear that,” he said, though it was clear from his tone that he didn’t share this opinion. He pulled one of his hands from the pocket where it was shoved, with some difficulty given the tightness of the material across his stomach, before fumbling for something in his voluminous overcoat. “Said to give you this.” He’d apparently found whatever it was he was looking for, as he held it out for Gordon to take without checking first. “Said this’ll better give you inspiration, or my name’s not William Flint.”

Gordon looked down at the item Flint held out to him. It was a dime novel, somewhat battered from its passage in Flint’s coat, the monochrome cover decorated with the usual woodblock print. This one featured a man in army uniform wrestling with what looked like a bear, or it could have been a mountain man; the face of his opponent was too blurred to distinguish with any certainty between man and beast, even on closer inspection. But, in the end, it was the words emblazoned across the top of the publication that made Gordon take it from the other man’s hand.

BIRCH’S DIME NOVELS, it read, the words forming a large arch that took up the top quarter of the page. No danger of any semi-literate cowboy mistaking one of Birch’s books for anyone else’s, and vice versa; it was understandable, since no self-respecting publisher wanted a potential buyer picking up DeWitt’s Ten Cent Romances or Frank Starr’s American Novels by mistake.

Underneath those words, beneath the undistinguished illustration, lay the title WEST OF THE SECRET SERVICE. Beneath those words, in much smaller print, only the sharpest-eyed reader could have made out BY ARTEMUS GORDON.

Gordon’s hand shook a little; even after all this time, it still felt the same, holding something he had created, be it ever so base. It wasn’t what he’d dreamed, of course, back when he started to write. Like so many young men, fresh from college and even fresher from the War and all its horrors, he’d thought himself a novelist of promise, ready to chart the human condition and break new ground while doing so. Instead he found himself living in a hovel and churning out pap for a publisher who lined his own pockets at his writers’ expense.

“I need money,” Gordon said, his hand tightening a little on the dime novel. Not too much; no danger of damaging it further, not while he had an ounce of self-control left in his body. He had plenty of that, at least, if little of anything else. “Flint, would you please…”

“Said no advance,” Flint interrupted, jamming his free hand back into his waistcoat pocket with finality. “New installment or nothing, that’s his words.” Flint’s eyes narrowed a little, as if he intended to say more on the subject. “New installment or nothing,” he repeated after a moment, then turned on his heel and headed down the hallway.

Once he had closed the door in Flint’s wake, Artemus Gordon sat with the dime novel cradled in his hands. This was the entirety of his life, the words contained in this pathetic publication, and for a moment it was all he could do not to screw it up and throw it into the grate. Not that there was any danger of it burning, even had he owned any coal, given that he’d also used his last match that morning; that was another item on the lengthy list, waiting on Birch’s begrudging largess.

It was unlikely he would have burned it anyway. Even the cover, crudely illustrated as it was, reminded him of the contradictions between the vividness of his imagination and the words he had written, the words he now held in his hands.

Dr. Jordan had told him that all his imaginings were something to do with his experiences in the War; he said Artemus had chosen to create these memories for himself because the reality of what he had lived through was too difficult for his mind to bear. That the reason James West was so real to him was because Artemus needed him to be that way.

He couldn’t remember the early days in the institution, but Gordon was sure he must have railed against the idea that this fantasy world his fevered mind had created was just that, an imaginary place peopled with those of his own making. What he did remember was the reaction of Dr. Jordan to Gordon’s acceptance of the explanation he gave, even if the expression of relief that crossed his face had been fleeting. The good doctor was an alienist of exceptional talent, able to take the crazed ramblings of a man close to the edge of insanity and form from them a lifeline, bringing him back to safer shores.

It wasn’t difficult for Gordon to accept that the War had taken away from him just as much as it had from the crippled beggars who even now haunted most large cities both sides of the Mason-Dixon line. In some ways, he’d always thought, they were the lucky ones, since nobody could doubt the experiences they’d survived.

Even thinking about it all made his head pound, sending Artemus fumbling to the mantel for the small bottle of laudanum; there was just a little of it left now, another shortage to weather till the next installment of his story could garner a few dollars to keep body and soul together a little longer. Artemus held the bottle up, tipping it to gauge how many doses remained. Not many, and certainly not enough to last till whenever he could get some money out of Birch, but he had to have it. He took a deep breath to steady his hands, all too aware of the position in which he found himself — he needed the laudanum to maintain the equilibrium necessary to work, otherwise he would have no money for more.

Once he had taken his dose, Artemus felt better almost immediately, taking his seat once more on the bed and picking up the discarded dime novel. He flicked to the back of the book, trying to recall just where he had left his protagonist. It was difficult not to wince at the language the book held; his own finely-crafted words coarsened by an over-dramatic copyeditor with an addiction to adjectives. That was the compromise he and Birch had agreed on, once it had become clear to the publisher that his star writer could turn out a good story but struggled to phrase it in a way that Birch felt would appeal to his audience. Still, there was no doubting the sales, if only he could figure out just what should happen after this current cliffhanger. He had left James West tied to a tree, the crackling of a forest fire coming ever closer; the fire had, of course, been set by the nemesis featured on the front cover, the delightfully-named Man Mountain McGuire.

Artemus winced. He hadn’t been at all interested in that particular storyline, but it had been better than some of the others Birch had pushed at him — the man had a singularly unpleasant imagination and all sorts of unsavory ideas about the Indian tribes, for example, and Artemus had no intention of catering quite so avidly to his publisher’s simplistic demands.

Artemus swung his socked feet off the floor, letting himself sink back onto the bed as he contemplated what might happen next. Just how could the heroic West escape from this apparent fait accompli? Despite the relative coldness of the room, Artemus felt his eyelids begin to droop, his body relaxing even as his mind wandered to a man whose manly exploits could not fail to enthrall an audience. A heroic individual who Artemus felt he knew almost better than he knew himself.

If he’d been honest, Artie would have admitted he hadn’t really taken in a single word he’d read all afternoon. It wasn’t that Jim’s presence in the parlor was unsettling him, more that the combination of his pacing joined with the dryness of the scientific journal to form a very arid mixture indeed.

“Is something troubling you?” Artie asked when he could take no more. “You’re likely to wear a hole in the carpet at this rate and you know what Uncle Sam thinks about wear and tear.”

Jim had stopped when Artie spoke, then turned slowly to face him. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his body spoke more loudly to Artie than any words. Artie let out a quiet whistle of breath, wondering just how to start this conversation, even though he’d known it was on the way ever since their last mission had gone so disastrously wrong.

It was one thing for either of them to be injured — they didn’t like the idea, but accepted the risk as part of the job — but for an innocent bystander to be killed was quite another matter. In this case, a booby-trapped bed meant for Jim had taken out half the hotel wall and the chambermaid with it.

“What good will talking do, Artie?”

Jim looked exhausted and Artie wondered how he’d managed not to see it before; considering that they lived in such close quarters, it was hard to hide any change in condition from one another and so they rarely tried to dissemble. Not when the slightest lack of readiness could be so disastrous. It had only been a matter of hours since the explosion, and successful tying up of the case, but Jim looked as though he hadn’t slept for days.

“It won’t bring her back, that’s true.” Artie swung his feet off the sofa, in the hopes that the unspoken invitation to sit would be enough. After a moment, Jim seemed to get the message and came over to sit beside him. “But it wasn’t your fault.”

Jim had closed his eyes, his head resting on the back of the sofa. Another man, one not so familiar with every line of his partner’s body, would have thought him relaxed; Artie knew nothing could have been further from the truth.

“If we hadn’t been there,” Jim began, without opening his eyes. Artie could see where this line of thought led, the darkness that lay at its destination, and decided a preemptive strike was best for both of them.

“Then she might have lived to a ripe old age,” Artie interrupted. “Or died of the typhoid next week.” He heard his tone soften a little, despite his resolve to be brutally frank. “You can’t know what might have been. All we could do is what we did — make sure her death wasn’t in vain by catching the man who was responsible, for that death and more.”

Jim’s sigh was deep, a despairing exhalation that made Artie want to embrace him, though he knew full well his offer of comfort would be rejected or, worse, misconstrued. It was enough that Jim was there, beside him, baring his soul this way in the ultimate expression of trust between them; it had to be enough, for both of them.

The following morning the words had flowed freely, falling from Artemus’ pen onto the paper with an ease he almost envied, knowing it was unlikely to last. At least he could benefit now, even if that sensation was likely to be short-lived.

The dream he’d had this time was an unusual one, filled with warmth and a feeling of comfort rather than other emotions he found more unsettling. Those dreams, and the sensations that they left in their wake, tended to encourage Artemus to reach for the laudanum more than he liked, needing the oblivion it offered to try to wipe those alluring images away. Otherwise the thoughts he was left with were troublesome, making him question the very nature of his existence. Artemus was left on something of a knife’s edge, wondering if his solitude was the result of some aberration, perhaps that very aberration echoed in his strangest dreams; was he alone because no-one cared to look for him?

As much as Dr. Jordan had tried to reassure him, telling him that many of his patients had no visitors, Artemus had felt the loss of companionship in a tangible manner. Someone significant was missing from his life, the hole they left in their wake an unmistakable void, yet in the months he was in the asylum no word had come for him. Not from family or friends. It was as if Artemus Gordon had fallen from the sky, or sprung from the head of Dr. Jordan, fully-armed yet unready for the world he entered.

It was only when he became hungry that Artemus noticed the passage of time. The creative urge had lasted longer than he had anticipated it would and the pile of blank paper on one side of the desk had diminished significantly; Birch would be pleased, for once, to discover there would be no need to hold the presses for the latest installment in the tales of Major West.

Artemus put down his pen and flexed his fingers. As he did so, a knock sounded at the door, a brief rap against the wood that signaled the timely arrival of his dinner. He could say many things about his landlady, but her punctuality could not be faulted. If only he could say the same about her cooking; he had smelled the cabbage for most of the afternoon, so there was little mystery about what culinary treat lay in store for him this evening.

Once he had eaten, the meal tasting about as good as it smelled, Artemus returned to his desk, eying once more the pile of paper that encompassed what he had written that day. No matter how much he could produce, Birch would always want more, that much was certain. There seemed to be an inexhaustible demand for the kind of stories Artemus wrote, at least until the reading public developed a craving for some other kind of tale.

He wondered about the dissonance though, between the dreams he had and the stories he created for Birch. Their only connection was James West, who was a different man completely in Artemus’ imaginings than in the stories he told for Birch. The West of the dime novels was a solitary figure, traveling through the wilderness alone and taking on his government’s enemies single-handed. The James West of his imagination was another matter, reliant on his companion, the role that Artemus himself played in the dramas of his mind.

The ropes that held him in place were tight, chafing at the skin as he tried to wriggle loose. Artie knew it was a fruitless exercise, given the skill with which the knots had been tied, let alone the lack of give in his bonds, but he had to try!

He knew it had to be his imagination, but the very air around him seemed to burn his face, scalding his lungs as he reluctantly breathed it in. The wind was blowing the smoke away from him, at least, though that was little comfort given his current predicament. It would hardly be better to burn to death than to suffocate, given that those two alternatives seemed to be his only choices at this point.

Where the hell was Jim?

He couldn’t even yell Jim’s name into the roaring of the forest fire, no matter how pointless that would probably be, thanks to the rag that Blake had shoved into Artie’s mouth. His reward for a few too many smart comments, once he’d woken up from a crack on the head.

For possibly the first time in his life, Artie truly wondered whether it would have been better not to have woken up at all — better, surely, to have remained unconscious and slipped away into the darkness when the fire came. Instead he was left here to face his own certain demise, open-eyed and aware of his fate.

A fitting end for someone who sticks his nose in other people’s business, that was what Blake had said before he headed downwind toward safety.

Artie felt his stomach roil, the first true sensations of fear beginning to take hold. Before, whenever this kind of scenario unfolded, he and Jim had usually been together. Or he could rely on Jim making an appearance in the nick of time, if that wasn’t Artie’s allotted role for that particular day. But today there was no sign of James West and Artie was more than aware his luck was on the verge of running out completely.

He pulled at his bonds again, the sharp edge of pain as the coarse fiber of the ropes tore his skin bringing him back from the edge of terror; Artie bit back the words he would have screamed, if he could. No use, either way. Then, as he had expected it would, the wind changed and darkness overtook him.

He regained consciousness upright, one of his arms draped across someone’s shoulder as the rag was pulled from his mouth. Artie gulped in lungfuls of air, not caring if it seared his throat, glad to embrace whatever future lay in store for him. The air was less smoky here and the man who half-carried him was, of course, James West.

“Now that’s what I call good timing,” Artie said, when he was certain he wouldn’t cough rather than speak. Even then, his voice cracked and croaked disconcertingly. “I was starting to wonder…”

He let the words trail off, not really knowing what he was going to say. It seemed churlish in the extreme to berate Jim for leaving things to the last moment, when he ought to be thanking him for yet another in their ongoing tally of mutual rescues.

Artie glanced across at Jim, seeing a soot-blackened face that was doubtless a twin to his own, expression unreadable.

“Thanks.” Jim glanced at him for a moment and Artie wondered just what he heard in that single word, then decided he didn’t really give a damn. “I think I can walk,” he continued, though he didn’t try all that hard to extricate his arm from where it lay across Jim’s shoulders.

“You’re welcome, Artie.”

Jim moved the two of them a half-step sideways, letting Artie prop himself against a convenient tree before he let go. Artie swayed at first, but then the world stopped moving. And it was clear Jim wasn’t going to move any time soon.

He was even dirtier than Artie had first thought, the soot making his eyes seem brighter somehow, not to mention the light of a combination of adrenaline and devilry that seemed to sum up James West entirely.

“That’s another suit ruined,” Artie said. He didn’t fool himself that Jim really cared about that sort of thing. He might seem a proper peacock at times, but the clothes were just another tool in Jim’s quest to do his best at his job, like his horse or his weapons.

He reached out to brush something from the sleeve of Jim’s jacket, a futile move at best given the state of the material, then his hand moved upwards, to the shoulder. It was reassurance, Artie told himself, that was all — evidence they were both alive and well, not smoked like hams back in the forest. He kept telling himself that as his thumb brushed Jim’s face, as his hand moved, fingers tracing lightly across Jim’s lips.

He’d been wrong about Jim not moving, though, as a step forward on his part found Artie pressed back against the tree he’d been leaning on, his head pulled down so that Jim could kiss him soundly, as if they both needed the air he shared to survive.

Artie’s groan was stifled by Jim’s mouth, even as his body began to react to the closeness; their recent survival of imminent death as potent an aphrodisiac as anything a genius like the good Dr. Loveless could have brewed on his best day. Jim tasted of sweat and woodsmoke and life itself and Artie couldn’t get enough.

He felt Jim’s other hand slip between the two of them, insinuating itself into the smallest of spaces before making short work of the buttons that held his trousers closed. Before Artie could think what to say, permission or otherwise, Jim’s clever fingers were wrapped around him, their tantalizing grip making Artie groan into Jim’s mouth once more, this time with a sigh of completion.

Artemus woke in a state of confusion, blankets wrapped around himself as if he’d fought a bare-knuckle fight in the bed, the cotton sheet soaked with a combination of sweat and something Artemus was trying his utmost not to identify. He hadn’t done that kind of thing in his sleep since he was a boy, at the mercy of his hormones, back before he had learned to dissemble where his true emotions were concerned. Long before the War and the shambles it had made of everything.

Artemus knew he should have been appalled by his own arousal, by the images that had peopled his dream, but he couldn’t find it in himself to summon up the necessary strength of feeling. What did it matter, since he lived alone, whether the incubus that visited his nocturnal imagination took the form of a woman or a man?

It was more worrying that he was dreaming about West again, that imaginary character who seemed to be the culmination of all manly virtues in Artemus’ mind, if he were to agree with Dr. Jordan’s description of the other man. Not to mention that this paragon now willingly submitted to Artemus’ basest desires, regardless of how ludicrous and unlikely that idea might be.

It wasn’t the nature of those desires that caused the most concern, since Artemus didn’t see what business it was of anyone else who he dreamed about, but the fact that Artemus himself seemed to be the instigator of it all. The West he knew in his waking hours, the West he wrote about, seemed an eminently unlikely character for such a liaison.

Artemus took a deep breath, trying to steady his rattled nerves, and began to extricate himself from the tangle of bedclothes. He forced himself to concentrate on that task, trying hard to forget the things his treacherous memory tried to force him to recall; this dream was unusually vivid, its every sensation still clinging to him.

Even as he dressed, Artemus was certain he could still feel the solidity of West’s body beneath his hands, vibrant and alive. The smell of smoke seemed to linger strongest of all, clinging to Artemus tenaciously as it plucked from him an echo of his former arousal. He shook his head, as if the movement would dispel the sensation that he was surrounded by that heated air, responding to it like a trained dog.

A glance at the clock told him he was too late to break his fast. Still, Artemus opened the door, more hopefully than because he truly believed he would find something there, only to discover something unexpected — a tray from his landlady, pacified by the previous day’s donation of a few of Birch’s grudgingly-given dollar coins.

He set to with a will, demolishing the meal despite its tepid temperature, unexpectedly ravenous. Artemus forced himself to concentrate on chewing each mouthful, if only in an attempt to focus on that, rather than the source of such an appetite. That way led destruction, not to mention little chance of replicating the previous activity and its eventual reimbursement from Birch. If he could write another installment, finish the story once and for all, then surely there was a possibility even Birch might be persuaded to part with an advance?

It was always a pleasure to watch James West work.

He’d stripped down to his shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, fancy jacket hanging from a hook on the wall, as he plied a pitchfork with ease. If it weren’t for the tightness of the pants, the way the sheer cotton of the once-pristine shirt clung across Jim’s muscled shoulders, this could have been a scene from a thousand livery stables across the land. Of course, most of them did not present anything like as decorative a sight as the one Artemus Gordon was currently enjoying from his position against the door frame.

He hadn’t been seen, not yet. Jim was clearly engrossed in his own thoughts, or just concentrating on doing a thorough job of spreading the straw round both the stalls. Either way, Artie was able to indulge, to glut himself with the sight of the curve of Jim’s ass, the flex and movement of muscles under fabric, remembering just what those muscles felt like under his exploring hands.

“Back already?”

Jim’s voice broke him from his reverie. Artie felt his face heat a little as he dragged himself back from the pleasant memories of a dozen encounters to the present; in particular, to the man currently leaning on his pitchfork not ten feet from where Artie stood.

“Time flies when you’re enjoying yourself,” Artie replied, trying for nonchalance. He could tell from the expression on Jim’s face that he hadn’t succeeded. There was a light in the other man’s eyes, an almost challenging expression he both loved and hated in equal measure; it promised a world of experience but often led to things getting a little out of hand. It was usually worth it.

Jim was the one trying to be nonchalant now; he crossed to the wall where the tools were kept and replaced the pitchfork, spending a couple of moments straightening its position even though they both knew the first sharp movement of the train would throw it out of line once more.

Artie was drawn across to him, an invisible cord pulling him the short distance between doorway and wall, barely resisting though he knew what would happen next. How could you resist a force of nature? Jim didn’t glance around, but his hand slipped from the pitchfork’s handle, sliding across the wood. The other hand followed suit, fingers splaying out across the whitewashed wall in a silent invitation, as clear as if Artie had been beckoned to his side.

If anyone had been watching — not that they would have been doing this kind of thing if anyone were watching! — Artie’s first touch could have been compared to someone gentling a horse, uncertain of their reception. Would the beast accept it, stand still beneath the touch, or shy away? Jim was always warmer than he expected, his skin almost burning Artie’s palm even through the shirt. Jim didn’t move, breaking the equine metaphor even as Artie leaned close enough to smell the mingled scent of horse and man that clung to him, feeling his own arousal build in response.

Another step, then the two of them were pressed together, Artie’s other hand slipping around the curve of Jim’s hip then downwards, following the swell of his well-muscled thigh. The slight intake of breath from Jim as the side of Artie’s hand grazed his groin was enough to confirm what Artie had suspected; they were both close to the edge, both needing this equally.

The knock at the door startled him; Artemus had been concentrating as hard as he could, for at least the last hour, on just how he was going to get James West out of the latest scrape he’d got himself into. It had been the most natural progression of events, of course, but that didn’t mean that finding he’d effectively written himself into a corner once again wasn’t frustrating, even when paid by the word.

It was easier to fix his mind on that dilemma, ignoring the difference between the James West he wrote about and the one who haunted his dreams. Nobody was interested in the domestic niceties he imagined, let alone the other kind of dreams, the ones no decent individual would think about, let alone put down in print!

It couldn’t be Flint at the door. Artemus had delivered yet another installment the day before yesterday, as the current warmth of his lodgings could testify. It was still cold, despite the time of year, and the money Flint had handed over as grudgingly as if it came from his own pockets was as welcome as any Artemus had ever received.

The knock wasn’t repeated, another sure sign it wasn’t the impatient Flint, but there was also no sound of footsteps going away. For a moment Artemus sat, pen still in hand, torn between his desire to see who it was disturbing him and the need to solve the vexing puzzle his creative mind had set. After a moment curiosity got the upper hand and he sighed, then put down the pen.

The door stuck, as usual, its condition mute testament to the quality of these lodgings. Maybe, if he could get a good run at some more of West’s story, Artemus could afford to move to somewhere a little more civilized. That was his hope, at least, on the days when the words flowed better than they did today.

There was a man outside in the hallway; he’d been standing with his back to the door, Artemus guessed, but at the noise of the door opening so reluctantly he’d turned once more.

All thoughts of the quality of his lodgings, or comments Artemus might make to a casual visitor, left his mind the moment he saw the man who stood there, large as life and leaning on a cane. He was dressed in an expensive overcoat, covering what looked like an equally expensive suit, a low-brimmed hat of a matching color clutched a little too tight in his free hand.

“Artie, I thought I’d never—” the man began, his voice low.

Artemus found himself leaning forward to catch the quietly-spoken words. Not that he really needed to, given that he knew that voice intimately, but it was the voice of someone who didn’t actually exist.

“This isn’t possible.” Artemus knew it was the height of rudeness to interrupt like that, but the words left his mouth before he could stop them. “You’re not real.”

He’d had a dose of laudanum that morning, the first in a number of days; when the writing was going well, Artemus had found, he didn’t seem to need it as much. This morning had felt different for some reason he couldn’t quite place, the teetering feeling of a nearby unseen precipice making him fall back on the medicine once more. Maybe this was why, some warning of this hallucination at his door, his imagination run riot. At some point this morning had he lost his mind entirely without realizing it?

Artemus took a step back, meaning to close the door and hope his sanity would return as swiftly as it had departed. The man — he had to call him West, didn’t he? — took a step forward, though it seemed even more hesitant than Artemus’ retreat. The footstep sounded real, the creak of weight applied to that warped floorboard just inside the door Artemus had complained about so many times.

“Artie.” The tone was placatory, like the tone you’d use on a spooked animal, and to Artemus that seemed oddly apt. Not that there was anywhere for him to run, not from whatever this was that his mind had created. “Don’t you know me?”

West advanced on him, a little unsteady because of his reliance on the cane, and although Artemus knew with all certainty he didn’t exist — couldn’t exist — he retreated regardless. A clumsy step caused his hip to brush the corner of the desk, jarring off the pile of papers he’d left there. The next installment of this man’s story, the imaginary and heroic James West defeating an assortment of evildoers, fluttered to the floor.

“Please, leave me alone.”

Artemus ground out the words, finally, when his back hit the wall and there was nowhere left to go. He closed his eyes, willing this illusion to dissipate, the solidity of the plaster behind him his only connection with reality. It was rough under his fingers, the texture reassuring. He could open his eyes and the man who looked like James West, the man who couldn’t possibly be there, would be gone.

The first touch, the slightest pressure of a hand against his chest, was tentative but it still made Artemus tense. It certainly felt real enough, so much so that he could only think for a moment that his reason must indeed have failed him utterly and a return to the asylum was an inevitable part of his future. He bit back a snorted laugh at how disappointed Dr. Jordan would be.

“Artie,” the too-familiar voice said again, closer now, the tone still clearly designed to reassure. “This is real.”

He could have brought his hands up from where they were still pressed against the plaster by his sides, could have tried to push West away, but that would have been a recognition that this was really happening. Not in his mind, clearly as tortured as Dr. Jordan had always said it was, but here in Artemus’ rooms, here and now.

His heart was hammering as if it wanted a way out of his chest, or was that his imagination too? The boundaries between truth and imagination seemed to blur with every passing moment, Jim’s voice a low and steady murmur like water over river rocks.

After a deep breath, Artie found he could understand what Jim was saying after all, knowing that voice intimately enough that he didn’t need to concentrate to catch the words.

“If it hadn’t been for that damn accident,” he was saying, “then I’d have been there. Wherever it was you went, when you and Henderson disappeared off on some wild goose chase. Instead I was laid up, fretting over you. Bad timing all round, you disappearing and Henderson turning up dead.”

“Henderson?” Artie asked, opening his eyes. Jim’s eyes were steady, focused on his face, and he found their expression both reassuring and disconcerting.

It made sense, of course, that his hallucination would know the other figments of his imagination — Henderson was in one of his previous stories, an ineffectual sheriff out of his depth who had been murdered in the third chapter, his body mutilated to make it appear he’d been massacred by a bunch of renegade Sioux.

“What was left of him,” Jim continued, as if encouraged. “They said you must have been in the building when it blew up, but…” He paused for a moment, as if searching for the right words. “But I didn’t accept it.” His hand moved across Artie’s chest, coming to rest over his heart, as if feeling the movement there.

“And then I found the first of the dime novels,” Jim said, his hand dropping to his side. “I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

Jim was leaning more heavily on his cane now, more of his weight going to that side with every moment. He half-turned, clearly aiming to sit in the nearest chair, only for his leg to buckle under him before he was halfway there. Artie gripped Jim’s arm, holding him upright enough to regain his balance, the familiar strength of muscle within his grasp.

If his mind wasn’t sure whether James West was real or not, Artie’s body had no such uncertainty; he felt the shock of recognition coursing through him like a bolt of lightning. This was real, this was all real, all the things he’d dreamed about were not hallucinations, no matter what Dr. Jordan had said. There was some truth in the alienist’s words, of course, but the idea that Jim was a figment of his imagination? No writer, let alone Artemus Gordon the dime novelist, was that talented.

“You were always with me,” Artie said, the words escaping his mouth before he could think how they sounded. “In the stories I told, in my dreams.”

If he was right about this, if it was all true. That was a gamble worth taking, surely? Otherwise whatever the two of them did have was at risk now, because Artie couldn’t be sure what was real and what was not. Their friendship, for certain, given Jim’s reaction when he had opened the door, his words just now, but the rest? It could all still be his fevered imagination, his own perversities come back to haunt him and destroy what little he really had.

He couldn’t ask, of course, how could he? Artie couldn’t even hint at what he thought, what he hoped was the true nature of their relationship.

Jim’s face was hard to read; he’d never thought Jim much of a card player, from what he remembered of the other man, but this time around his poker face gave nothing away.

“I don’t work alone,” Jim said, pulling out a battered copy of one of the earliest novels from his overcoat pocket.

“No,” Artie agreed. “We’re partners.”

That was safe territory, it had to be. He remembered the train, long periods of travel interspersed with dangerous missions. Hours of boredom, hours of experimentation in his laboratory. Time spent alone, and together with the man who currently occupied the least battered of his two chairs in this hovel he’d come to call home. It could hardly have been further from the luxury of the Wanderer.

“And friends.”

“Of course,” Artie agreed easily, as he turned to sit in the other chair, wondering if that was all he was going to get. If that was all there was, in truth, and his imagination really had supplied all the rest.

“The very best of friends.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in, the meaning behind those words that Artie himself could never ask for, or expect Jim to volunteer. Years of experience at acting a part, years he remembered now, as real as anything he’d remembered happening with the man who sat across from him, helped Artie keep a straight face. Not quite as good a poker face as Jim’s, but good enough for government work.

“The very best,” Artie agreed, then felt himself smile for the first time he could recall.