‘The dream always begins with darkness. Rolling in, fog-thick. Will allows it to swallow him. Waits until accustomed to it, until he sees the familiar shape of the tree. He walks, barefoot, towards it and reaches out a hand to caress the black feathers that frill each of its twisted branches. Inhales the intoxicating scent of its lush bounty of roses: deep maroon, bursting with thick whorls of rosetted petals. He doesn’t touch them. Knows to his cost that when he does, they die - stiffen, clay-brittle, and fracture. The crumbled remains of early casualties are sprayed across the ground. Dream or not, here there is only forward momentum.
And a presence, watching from behind a seething veil of silence. A face of sharps and planes. A sweep of ashen hair. A mulish mouth. Hawkish eyes, molasses dark.'
When Will Graham walks into Jack Crawford's office at Quantico, the last thing he expects is to meet the man of his dreams. Literally!

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