her hungrily , committing each second to memory. He remembered every word she’d ever spoken to him , he’d read and reread every book she’d ever brought him , he remembered every item of clothing he’d ever seen her in.
She was at the piano , playing. He’d never seen anyone actually play the piano, and it seemed like magic to him. Her fingers moved gracefully over the black and white keys, and music poured out like water in a stream. His head filled with the wonder of it.
She was in profile. Her eyes were closed as she played , a slight smile on her face , as if she and the music shared a secret understanding. She was singing another song even he recognized. “Silent Night.” Her voice rose , pure and light.
The piano was tall and black , with lit candles held in shiny brass holders along the sides.
Though the entire room was filled with candles , Caroline glowed more brightly than any of them. She was lit with light , her pale skin gleaming in the glowing candlelight as she sang and played.
The song came to an end, and her hands dropped to her lap. She looked up , smiling , at the applause , then started another carol , her voice rising pure and high.
The whole family was there. Mr. Lake , a big-shot businessman , tall , blond , looking like the king of the world. Mrs. Lake , impossibly beautiful and elegant. Toby , Caroline’s seven-year-old brother. There was another person in the room , a handsome young man. He was elegantly dressed , his dark blond hair combed straight back. His fingers were beating time with the carol on the piano top. When Caroline stopped playing , he leaned down and gave her a kiss on the mouth.
Caroline’s parents laughed, and Toby did a somersault on the big rug.
Caroline smiled up at the handsome young man and said something that made him laugh. He bent to kiss her hair.
Ben watched , his heart nearly stopping.
This was Caroline’s boyfriend. Of course. They shared a look—blond , poised , privileged. Good-looking , rich , educated. They belonged to the same species. They were meant to be together , it was so clear.
His heart slowed in his chest. For the first time , he felt the danger from the cold. He felt its icy fingers reaching out to him to drag him down to where his father had gone.
Maybe he should just let it take him.
There was nothing for him here , in this lovely candlelit room. He would never be a part of this world. He belonged to the darkness and the cold.
Ben dropped back down on his heels , backing slowly away from the house until the yellow light of the window was lost in the sleet and mist. He was shaking with the cold as he trudged back down the driveway , the wet snow seeping through the holes in his shoes to soak his feet.
Half an hour later , he came to the interstate junction and stopped , swaying on his feet.
The human in him wanted to sink to the ground , curl up in a ball, and wait for despair and then death to take him , as they had taken his father. It wouldn’t take long.
But the animal in him was strong and wanted , fiercely , to live.
To the right , the road stretched northward , right up into Canada. To the left , it went south.
If he went north , he would die. It was as simple as that.
Turning left , Ben shuffled forward , head low , into the icy wind.
DANGEROUS PASSION
Alleyway outside the Feinstein Art Gallery
Manhattan
November 17
F eelings kill faster than bullets , that old Russian army saying, raced through Viktor “Drake” Drakovich’s mind when he heard the noise behind him. It was barely audible. The faint sound of metal against leather, fabric against fabric and the softest whisper of a metallic click.
The sound of a gun being pulled from its holster, the safety being switched off. He’d heard a variation of this sound thousands and thousands of times over the years.
He’d known for a year now that this moment would come. It was only a question of when, not if. He’d been
She was at the piano , playing. He’d never seen anyone actually play the piano, and it seemed like magic to him. Her fingers moved gracefully over the black and white keys, and music poured out like water in a stream. His head filled with the wonder of it.
She was in profile. Her eyes were closed as she played , a slight smile on her face , as if she and the music shared a secret understanding. She was singing another song even he recognized. “Silent Night.” Her voice rose , pure and light.
The piano was tall and black , with lit candles held in shiny brass holders along the sides.
Though the entire room was filled with candles , Caroline glowed more brightly than any of them. She was lit with light , her pale skin gleaming in the glowing candlelight as she sang and played.
The song came to an end, and her hands dropped to her lap. She looked up , smiling , at the applause , then started another carol , her voice rising pure and high.
The whole family was there. Mr. Lake , a big-shot businessman , tall , blond , looking like the king of the world. Mrs. Lake , impossibly beautiful and elegant. Toby , Caroline’s seven-year-old brother. There was another person in the room , a handsome young man. He was elegantly dressed , his dark blond hair combed straight back. His fingers were beating time with the carol on the piano top. When Caroline stopped playing , he leaned down and gave her a kiss on the mouth.
Caroline’s parents laughed, and Toby did a somersault on the big rug.
Caroline smiled up at the handsome young man and said something that made him laugh. He bent to kiss her hair.
Ben watched , his heart nearly stopping.
This was Caroline’s boyfriend. Of course. They shared a look—blond , poised , privileged. Good-looking , rich , educated. They belonged to the same species. They were meant to be together , it was so clear.
His heart slowed in his chest. For the first time , he felt the danger from the cold. He felt its icy fingers reaching out to him to drag him down to where his father had gone.
Maybe he should just let it take him.
There was nothing for him here , in this lovely candlelit room. He would never be a part of this world. He belonged to the darkness and the cold.
Ben dropped back down on his heels , backing slowly away from the house until the yellow light of the window was lost in the sleet and mist. He was shaking with the cold as he trudged back down the driveway , the wet snow seeping through the holes in his shoes to soak his feet.
Half an hour later , he came to the interstate junction and stopped , swaying on his feet.
The human in him wanted to sink to the ground , curl up in a ball, and wait for despair and then death to take him , as they had taken his father. It wouldn’t take long.
But the animal in him was strong and wanted , fiercely , to live.
To the right , the road stretched northward , right up into Canada. To the left , it went south.
If he went north , he would die. It was as simple as that.
Turning left , Ben shuffled forward , head low , into the icy wind.
DANGEROUS PASSION
Alleyway outside the Feinstein Art Gallery
Manhattan
November 17
F eelings kill faster than bullets , that old Russian army saying, raced through Viktor “Drake” Drakovich’s mind when he heard the noise behind him. It was barely audible. The faint sound of metal against leather, fabric against fabric and the softest whisper of a metallic click.
The sound of a gun being pulled from its holster, the safety being switched off. He’d heard a variation of this sound thousands and thousands of times over the years.
He’d known for a year now that this moment would come. It was only a question of when, not if. He’d been
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