“Okay.” He took a deep breath, glanced around, and reached into the tapestry and took hold of the latch in the tiny woven door in the castle’s wall. Dean’s eyes widened as the Trickster pulled the door forward to the top of the tapestry, until it covered the surface of the tapestry and was big enough to step through. “And do not,” the Trickster added, “do not let go of that briefcase, Dean.” He opened the door. “Hurry!”

Sam stepped through the door, and Dean gave the Trickster an uncertain look before he followed.

***

It might have lasted the blink of an eye.

It might have lasted a thousand years.

***

Dean landed heavily on his knees and fell against Sam’s back, gasping for breath. Behind him the Trickster stepped nimbly through the doorway and then held out his hands to help them up. Dean took hold of his forearm to yank himself up, and Sam nearly pulled him off his feet as he staggered upright.

“Ouch,” the Trickster said pointedly and shook out his arm. Dean held the briefcase under his arm with his hand in his pocket, as secure as he could get it, and gave the Trickster a nod to his questioning look.

“I’m ready.”

“Remember what I said,” the Trickster admonished them and they moved out of the dark little alley and into the Marketplace.

Whatever Dean was expecting from such an ordinary name as the Marketplace, it wasn’t what they saw. It seemed to be indoors and outdoors at once. The sky overhead was dark as night and the stars were out, though Dean couldn’t see where the walls and roof ended — they just seemed to blend into the trees that in turn seemed to just blend into the sky. He could see no moon, not even a sliver of the first quarter.

Torches or bright paper lanterns blazed in front of shops and little stalls. There were buildings behind the market stalls as well, two or three floors at most, some of plain wood with empty windows, some of marble with filigreed silver or gold screens. Few of these had signs, and those that did read things like the Seven Dancing Brothers and Zephyr of the East.

It could be any marketplace in any small city, Dean supposed, except for the people. They were like every children’s novel come to life, except darker somehow, harder. There were tiny gnomes and ethereal fae, winged and wrinkled naked women he supposed were harpies, a tall woman with snakes in her hair who hid her face behind a silk veil. In one stall a squat man cooked game hens on a rotisserie, from fire provided by a salamander. A forest god, green and glowing, cooled its feet in the central fountain while its dryads ate chestnuts on the fountain’s edge. They nudged and whispered to each other as the Winchesters and the Trickster walked past. Dean almost stopped to say hello but the Trickster glared at him, so he gave them a “sorry, ladies” look and kept moving.

“So,” Sam said to the Trickster, “all those stories with, like, London Below or an Inn Between Worlds, there’s some actual truth to them?”

“Of course,” the Trickster said. “Where do you suppose collective memory comes from? This way.” He led them to an alley off the main thoroughfare.

“Are we sure this is safe?” Sam whispered to Dean.

“I think the last thing we are is safe,” Dean said, “but we can’t stop now.” He followed the Trickster into the alley.

One of the buildings looked like a thatched cottage, and had a sign hanging over the door — the Hanging Man. Instead of a man hanging by a rope from his neck, like Dean expected, it was a man hanging upside-down from a pole by his foot, with his other leg bent at the knee.

“Tarot,” Sam said from behind Dean as he paused on the front steps.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “I guess it means we’re on the right path.” He looked back at Sam, who just raised his eyebrows at him skeptically, and then went into the pub.

Inside, it was just as crowded and unbelievable as outside — the patrons were elves and sirens and changelings, none of them bothering to hide their true faces away from mortal eyes. Some were perfectly ordinary-looking people, like the Trickster, so Dean assumed they had to be ousted gods. Some were beings of fire, some of ice, some trailing ivy from their limbs, some made of living stone.

The pub fell utterly silent when they entered, and every head turned to them. A few of the patrons got to their feet, chairs scraping against the wood floor.

“Hello!” the Trickster said cheerfully. “These are the Winchesters. They’re here to see himself. Is he in?”

There was a long silence and no one moved.

The Trickster sighed. “We have to do this the hard way, then. You know who sent me. Do I have to call her to get you guys in line?”

One fae, her hair and skin silver and her clothes spangled like the night sky, pointed to the stairs.

“Thanks,” the Trickster said, still annoyed, and turned to go up the stairs.