 
Murder, Mayhem, Monsters, and Mistletoe

an Anthology by

Rae Ford

Rodney Hall

C.R. Garmen

Michelle Rabe

Lindy Spencer

Jamie Sheffield

Brenda Tetreault

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 by individual authors

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are figments of the authors'

imagination; incidents of historical proportion are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,

please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. No part of this book may be

copied, reproduced or redistributed in any form, written or electronic, without specific

consent of the author. Piracy (Arrr, matey) is fun; piracy (stealing) is a crime.

All rights reserved.

Cover work by L. Bachman – <https://www.facebook.com/writerbachman>

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Cold Burn – by Rae Ford

Mr. John – by Rodney Hall

A Perfect Christmas – by C.R. Garmen

Another First for Christmas – by Michelle Rabe

Above the Bridge – by Lindy Spencer

Now is the Winter – by Jamie Sheffield

Merry Christmas, Baby – by Brenda Tetreault

Cold Burn

### Rae Ford

(The Luminosi Brotherhood Series #1.5)

Cold burns are the result of a person coming in contact with an object that is extremely cold. The cold must be sufficient enough to cause damage to the individual which may not be reparable. Unless action is taken quickly, the lack of sensation is replaced by strong waves of pain that seem to emanate from the affected area of the body and into other areas. _However,_ if the cold burn is caught in time, it is possible for the individual to experience a complete recovery, though damage to the surrounding area may cause the loss of sensation to be permanent.
Chapter One

Tyson Roberts stood sipping on stale coffee and watching his General's girlfriend/vessel miss a target dummy five feet in front of her for about the one-hundredth time.

"On it!" Danielle Stiles, a rebellious teenage Water Elemental, was tasked with using her powers to make sure that Bree's bad aim didn't burn down the already derelict building, he'd found for them to train in and would lose his job, or at least get in serious shit if anyone found out they were using.

The Chicago detective and Fire Elemental shook his head and laughed, just as he had been for the last twenty minutes. He couldn't help but be amused at her complete lack of skills. He'd seen her create the beautiful balls of fire easily. He'd even seen her get pissed off or otherwise riled up and her entire body glow with the Archangels flames.

"Your woman is never going to get a hang of this, Sir."

"Hey smart ass!" The tiny female, Bree, stalked over to him and attempted to be intimidating by poking her tiny finger into his hard chest. "Don't talk to Rafe about me _through_ me. That's just rude, dude."

Bree was possessed by one of the loves of her life: the Archangel of Fire, Raphael. Tyson was his lieutenant and he was helping her learn to use Rafe's powers while keeping it secret from her other lover, Thelan. She had a bad habit of tilting her head to the left and looking upwards. It was the general signal that she was having an internal conversation with Rafe. Even though most of the Luminosi had gotten used to it, it was actually quite amusing.

"Shut it, both of you! At least I can conjure the fire at will. Isn't that the important part?"

Tyson stared down at her pointedly, "I don't know. Let's throw you in the middle of a pack of werewolves and see if the ability to aim is important or not."

She rolled her eyes, but he could tell that she knew he was right. She'd been practicing for four months and still couldn't hit the target without Rafe's guidance.

Out of the blue, she giggled. "Shhh," then turning her attention to Tyson, "Ugh, I know. Tyson, can you tell me again how this should work?"

Tyson idled over to her with a knowing smile. He wasn't typically patient, but he would continue to be with her. He vowed to Rafe that he and his woman would be included in the fight, no matter what Tyson had to do to make it work. They had less than a week to prove her powers to the Luminosi and to Thelan. Otherwise, all these months of hard work were for nothing.

"I wish I could tell you more, sweetheart. You can manifest the fire just fine. You just must use your instincts and your connection to Rafe to actually make it have an impact...literally. Isn't there someone you'd love to kill?"

"Of course not!" By the way she just screamed at him, he wasn't so sure about that. She could throw a tantrum like nobody's business, and as a cop, he knew that most murders were committed because of an outpouring of emotion.

Tyson chuckled again and kept his thoughts to himself. "I don't mean for real, woman. I mean, has there ever been anyone in your life that pissed you off so bad you thought you could kill them for it? Think about that person when you're aiming. I know this is just practice, but imagining an enemy will help you."

"Well, a few months ago I kinda felt that way about Thelan."

"Ha! That's surely not going to work now. Everyone in the Luminosi compound can tell that the only death that man experiences is how he feels after three hours in the sack with you two horndogs." Thelan, their Luminosi technical expert certainly hadn't been getting much work done lately. Cayden had complained several times that if one more project was late, he'd be making Thelan send the girl back home.

"Rafe says you're in big trouble, Mister."

He figured he'd try to get under her skin a bit to misdirect her mind from the task at hand. "Oh, please say I can join in one of these days. I have been dying to understand exactly how you three work the logistics out. I mean, does Rafe sometimes have you put on a strap-on or anything?"

"Young innocent ears coming through" Danielle said returning from her firefighting duties. "Please. No one wants to hear about 'Firestarter' over here and The Viking in the sack with 'Ghost Boy'. Besides, everyone knows that she just magically grows a dick when the time comes to bang The Viking in the ass."

"Ugh, and no, Danielle! Why don't you go eat a lollipop or something?" Breanne ribbed.

The seventeen year-old stuck her tongue out at Bree. "Only if it's attached to Tyson."

"Alright, that's enough!" _Okay, that crossed the line_. He'd seen entirely too many pedophiles in his time to consider that a joke. "Let's hurry up and get this done so I can get back to the station."

The two girls shrugged at each other. Bree squared her shoulders and got back to the task at hand. She focused on the dummy in front of her, and she appeared to follow Tyson's directions.

The first attempted was a miss.

Second one, too.

Miss.

Miss.

Miss.

Just as Tyson was about to call it a day, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, conjured a ball of fire in each hand, then let loose. He couldn't believe it. The two fireballs had combined mid-air into one, decimating the dummy upon impact, and there was nothing left of it but ash.

Tyson immediately did a spit take with his coffee. "Well, shit. I didn't see that coming."

Chapter Two

Tyson drove to work still amazed at the display of fire talent he had just witnessed. It was true that Raphael was the most powerful Fire Elemental ever created, but he never thought the girl could harness that energy to the degree that she did. He was half sure that she was completely benign when he suggested that she think of someone she wanted to kill. However, he now regretted the decision to coach her in that manner.

The first few times she tried, he'd figured that he was correct and Breanne was a one hundred percent harmless human woman with a big attitude. But, that last time, God, he wasn't even sure he wanted to know who she was thinking about. Her face had gone from defeated to determined to deadly within seconds. If he was going to continue to help her train, he would need to steal another dummy from the CPD training gym.

He got out of his black sedan and cursed profusely. Outside the driver's side door was a murky, half-melted pile of slush, and Tyson just stepped his left Kenneth Cole right into it. He hated Chicago! The summers were fine, pleasant even, when the hellish months of July and August came around, bringing the heat index up into the hundreds. The winter, however, was like a punishment for a Fire Elemental. Though it could be said that he deserved the punishment.

There were times that he regretted joining the Luminosi for no other reason than that they liked to be centered together. A unified front pooling all of their financial, intellectual, and supernatural resources together. Some of them, like Tyson, lived off-site and worked in influential careers, only reporting to Cayden at the community.

The Scuri operated differently. Lycos traveled between his castles and mansions in Europe, but he preferred Greece. He positioned his soldiers worldwide. Usually, as long as you stayed in his good graces, he would send you wherever you liked, as long as it still suited him. Trudging through the unshoveled snow up the steps to the station's door, Tyson thought about how he should be in Cairo or Vegas. Hell, he would even take Cambodia. Anywhere that was hot and he could be comfortable. Well, except for the Caribbean. He would never go back there.

He stepped into the station and breathed a sigh of relief. The heat was on full blast, easily a wondrous seventy-eight degrees. On his way to the top floor Homicide Division, where his desk was located, Tyson stopped in the bathroom to take a leak. The minute he opened the door, he doubled over with raucous laughter. Three rookies were in their tees and long, yellow, rubber gloves hard at work. One was on his hands and knees scrubbing the floor. One was hard at work cleaning the urinals with a toothbrush. And the last was in a stall doing God knows what.

Tyson could barely catch his breath to bark out, "What did you losers do?"

Rookie #1: "Improper uniform, Sir."

Rookie #2: "Late for morning briefing, Lieutenant."

Rookie #3: "Forgot about firearm training, Sir."

Tyson shook his head in amusement. "Figgy?" The rookies all nodded their heads, though none of them would call Captain Refugio Figueroa by that particular nickname. Of course, none of them knew Figgy like Tyson did. Their acquaintance went back four hundred years, well before the change in Heavenly infrastructure.

Refugio's name was a joke. It meant "refuge", but he was anything but that. The punishment Tyson was witnessing then was tame compared to what Figgy was capable of. Before coming to the CPD he worked in "corrections". Only the Daimones knew that was code for Purgatory. Tyson took care of his business, choosing to use the urinal that Rookie #2 was cleaning, as opposed to one of the other two which were still dirty. Then he zipped up and walked out chuckling and putting his hand up in a half wave as he left.

He made it a point to stop by Figgy's office. "Good one my friend," he said to the Daimon who had the appearance of a middle-aged 5'4" Latino man.

"Ha! Those idiots should be glad they didn't come across me forty years ago." True. Back then he was a seven foot tall, red-skinned, horned monster with a fondness for barbed cat-o-nine tails. His original visage was meant to scare the shit out of the billions of naughty humans that were sent to him for atonement.

Tyson laughed good-naturedly and waved goodbye, but was stopped short by Figgy. "Hey, Tyson! A case came across my desk a few minutes ago. You may want to come here for this."

Tyson was wary. It was unusual for Figgy to ask him to look at non-Luminosi related cases. He dropped down into the chair in front of the Captain's desk. "What's the deal?"

"A couple of hours ago, some tourists found a woman in the snow lying under the Bean in Millennium Park. She can't remember how she got there or who she is. And she was stark naked."

Tyson shook his head in disgust. "Sounds like a rape, Figgy. The guy probably used a drug cocktail to keep her pliable and quiet. She at the hospital?"

"Yeah, but..."

"No big deal. Humans are notorious for this crap, especially in a city like this. You don't need me. Rape-kit her, then get her some therapy. It'll take time, but she'll recover and be okay."

Figgy took a deep breath, "You're missing my point. I _do_ need you on this."

"Why?"

Figgy opened a file and pulled out a picture, sliding it across the desk to Tyson. "It was taken at the hospital. I need to know what you think."

Tyson grabbed the picture. His hands began to tremble as he looked at the face of the Vic. Though dirty and paled from hypothermia, she had skin the color of mocha. Behind her terrified expression, her wide gray eyes showed depth and wisdom beyond the age that he would put in the mid-twenties. Her beautiful, full luscious lips he knew were equally capable of cursing the strongest, most frightening men or kissing them into submission. And he'd completely stopped trying to deny her identity as he took in the mess of dark spirals that fell around her heart-shaped face.

Tyson couldn't form any of the words that needed to come out of his mouth just then, so Figgy prompted him. "Is that who I think it is?"

Snapping his head up to look at his superior only in their human façades, Tyson spat out, "What do you know of her?"

"You can't possibly be surprised to know that she was sent to me. I'm sorry for what Lycos did to her, but she was no saint. I had her for 15 years before she moved on."

Tyson grimaced, but turned his attention back to the picture. "I think... My God, it can't be." His voice vibrated with fear, sorrow, and shame as he said her name: "Sabine."

He threw the picture back at Figgy. "Which hospital?"

When he got his answer, "Northwestern Memorial," he got up and stalked out without a word. Ignoring the research he had to do at the station all together, Tyson made a beeline back out into the frigid temperatures to his car. He turned on his lights and siren so he could drive at unsafe speeds straight to her.

It couldn't be her, it just couldn't. He felt her take her last breath in his arms. Figgy himself admitted to having her for years in Purgatory. As impossible as it was, Tyson couldn't stop himself from racing to get to the woman he'd loved and lost.

Chapter Three

Port-de-Paix, Haiti, 1718...

Tyson stepped off his ship, _Le Feu de Shango_ , and onto the land of his favorite port. The air was so hot it was almost scalding, and it smelled of coffee and sugarcane.

He walked through the marketplace with his first mate, Charles the Englishman, at his right side and fifteen slaves carrying pilfered goods behind him. They'd overtaken three ships on this passage and there was plenty to sell before they made their last stop on the American coast with the "undesirables".

The white traders and privateers looked upon him with both disgust and awe. He was dressed in a scarlet suit with silken stockings, a fine red velvet belt holding the golden sheath of his rare broadsword, and a large scarf of red Persian silk fringed with black silk, folded in triangular fashion so that it draped across his tapered waistline. His bald brown-skinned head proudly gleamed in the sun on display for anyone who dared to look up to his full six-foot-eight height. He grinned as he heard the whispers of the other sailors.

"The rumors are true. A Mulatto a pirate captain."

"He has magic powers, that's how he can overtake all the ships he does."

"They say he's a god. One of them African pagan kind. He shows up, and they all follow him heads bowed in reverence. He can sell them to the most brutal plantation owner, and the captives thank him as if he just delivered them through the gates of Heaven, or whatever they believe in."

Tyson just continued his stroll, ordering his men to the various stalls to make trades. He didn't mind the talk. Most of it was true, anyway. Eleven years ago, he made the choice to fall from his station in Heaven. To his surprise, he landed right in the middle of Senegal and "blessed" with brown skin. He was tribeless of course, and he let himself get captured and sold as a slave. He knew he could make his escape on the ship, he just needed to get to a more civilized country.

In the cargo holds, the other captives were frightened of him. He wasn't just big and hairless, but he also spoke every single language, including that of the French crew that had them in route to the colonies through the Middle Passage. They would try to move him to a different area and put extra chains on him due to his size, and he would defiantly tell them that they risked violent deaths if they touched him.

When the ship was attacked by pirates halfway to the Caribbean ports, Tyson took his chance. He conjured his fire and melted the few chains on him. Then, he blew a hole through the door leading to where the captives were held. When he reached the deck, he surprised both the crew and the plunderers by fighting alongside the pirates. He brandished a dropped sword and sliced the traders apart with one arm while burning them to death by throwing fireballs from his free hand.

The pirates stopped fighting and just watched Tyson in all of his glory. When the fight was finished, the Captain came aboard warily, but with a confidence that only an accomplished leader could have. As he was about to ask for his name and what on God's Earth he was, the captives began crawling from the depths of the ship chanting, " _Shango_ ," over and over, the West African god of fire, lightning, and thunder. They bowed to him. The women offered their babies, born during the voyage; the men, their fealty.

The Captain laughed haughtily. "This appears to be your ship now, and not mine. Come, your highness," he said with a flourish and a mocking curtsy. "Have dinner with me aboard my vessel. I'd like to discuss an alliance with you."

It turned out that the alliance with Captain Alphonse Girault was a very lucrative one. As they drank wine through the night, Alphonse promised him the ship he had been held on as his own. Tyson could keep whatever cargo he wanted, including the slaves, and give the rest to Alphonse. In return, the Captain gave him some of his own crew members as advisors. His plan was to attack ships from multiple sides to ensure success and greater gain of resources. The plan sounded great to Tyson, and a much better alternative to the typical fate of a Black man, even one of his lighter coloring.

Years later, Captain Alphonse died and everything went to Tyson, who by now was known as Shango the Incinerator. His property included five ships, all under his control, with over 300 crew members of mixed races and nationalities who were unerringly loyal to him. He'd come across Lycos in the Greek Isles at one point. He, of course, asked for Tyson to swear allegiance to the Scuri. But, that war wasn't why he left Heaven. He was tired of orders and missions, and he just wanted to be his own man; a leader for once. He would neither choose Scuri nor Luminosi, and he would continue sailing across the Atlantic being the god of the seas. Lycos did not take that lightly. However, it was a care that at that time, Tyson did not have.

Now in Port-de-Prix, Tyson saw the prize he'd been searching for ahead at the stall that sold exotic herbs, spices, and plants from all over the world. Standing behind her mistress and instructing her in which items to purchase, was Sabine Macandal. She was adorned in a dress of white chemise with a raspberry colored sash tied into a large and elaborate bow in the back. Wisps of her dark curly hair could be seen trying to escape her headwrap of the same color. Eyes the color of the sky before a furious storm at sea beckoned him to her, and he eagerly obliged.

"Miss Charlotte," he addressed her mistress, "may I have a word with your girl."

Charlotte Boudon took him in as all the white women did: as a delectable exotic treat they weren't allowed to eat. "Just one word, Captain? Sure, but you better make it quite meaningful." She giggled, but Tyson didn't find her joke funny, and she didn't move away or allow Sabine to take their conversation somewhere private, so he did as she said.

Cupping Sabine's breast in one hand, and covering her most private place with his other, he growled out the one word, "Tonight!" so that everyone, including Charlotte could hear and know that the word was not a time of day or a promise. It was very blatantly a command. However, unlike the commands she received from the Boudon's every day, the demands for her voodoo sorcery to make them youthful and rich, she would follow Tyson's with anticipation, then zest and passion.

Chapter Four

Tyson sped into the "Police Vehicle Only" parking space near the ER entrance, and ran through the automatic doors eager to get to the room they were keeping Sabine. Once he stopped at the front desk and flashed his badge to the receptionist stating that he was the detective assigned to the "Jane Doe" case, he was immediately allowed access through the locked electronic doors. Her room was not hard to find. There was a lazy looking uniform sitting as guard outside her door. Tyson once again showed his detective's badge and told the cop he was relieved.

He took a slow, deep breath, and pushed aside the sliding glass door to enter the temporary room. A small wave of dizziness overtook Tyson as he stepped inside. There she was, sitting up in the adjustable bed and covered with a million blankets, including a metallic thermal sheet, and flipping the television channels using the remote attached by a thick white cord that also would call in the nurse if needed. She was so fascinated by whatever she was watching on T.V. that she didn't even notice Tyson enter. He took the time to compose himself as well as to reacquaint himself with her great beauty.

Before he lost it and went over to run his hands through those thick black curls, he made a short grunting noise to indicate his presence. If she recognized him at all, one could never tell from the blank expression on her face. One that was the exact opposite of what she would greet him with so many years ago. Back then, her expression went through the gambit of surprise, happiness, contentment, and finally lust.

He cleared his throat again, "Uh, hello." _That's all you can come up with, dickhead?_

She stared at him for a moment. He thought that recognition flashed across her face for a briefly until she said, "Hello. Are you another doctor?"

Tyson though it was strange that she had no accent at all. Without the French-tainted Haitian accent to her words, she sounded less lustful, almost childlike. But still, he was sure the woman was Sabine. He felt it in his heart, his mind; even in his groin.

"Uh, no Miss. My name is Tyson Roberts. I'm a detective with the Chicago Police Department."

"Oh. You have _more_ questions?" She sounded very disappointed. "I wish I had answers for you. No, wait. I'd rather you had answers for me. I'm so very confused about what's happening."

Tyson moved to sit in a chair to the right of her bed. "Can you remember who you are or where you are from yet?"

"Not at all. I've been watching this T.V. for hours. Everything seems strange yet normal at the same time. Like, I recognize everything I see, but I feel like I shouldn't. Does that seem strange to you?"

"Not in your case. No." Tyson remembered then how she was found. "Do you have any recollection of last night? Of what happened? Why you were found...the way you were?"

Sabine furrowed her brows. Now _that_ was an expression Tyson was used to. "They checked me for...you know. But, that's not what happened. I would feel like that happened to me if it did happen...wouldn't I?"

"I'm sure you would." He felt slightly relieved, though neither of them could really be sure until he spoke with her attending doctor. Treading lightly, he moved on. "Does the name Sabine mean anything to you?"

She looked pensive for a moment, but finally said, "No. Should it?"

"Yes. It's your name."

She sat upright excitedly. "Really? You're sure? Have you found my family?"

"I'm sure it's your name. Sabine Macandal. But, no. You have no family that I am aware of."

"So how do you know who I am? According to the officers who were here before, I would have to have family members that knew I was missing for a report to be filed."

Tyson wasn't sure how else to explain it without everything sounding crazy, so he just said, "I know you. We, uh, used to date a few years ago. When I saw your picture at the station, I came right over here."

Sabine leapt off the bed and into his arms. Tyson stopped her just long enough to make sure the IV lines didn't get caught or tangled.

"Oh, I'm so happy! You have no clue how frightening it's been having no recollection of your life or who you are." Then she gave him a strange look. "Wait. Did we have a bad break up?"

Tyson laughed and tried to pretend there was humor behind it. "No. We just...went separate ways. The day you left me was the worst day of my life, however."

"Oh my! I'm so sorry." She genuinely looked it, too. "And, I'm sorry I don't remember you, er, Tyson. You seem like you'd be hard for a girl to forget."

Tyson finally did what he'd been dying to do, and put his hand through her hair as she sat in his lap. "You've been through some sort of trauma. I don't blame you. I'll make sure the doctors clear you to be released."

"And then what?"

Tyson looked deep into those stormy gray eyes. "And then you come home with me."

Chapter Five

It took one night excruciatingly long night in intensive care before the hospital staff would release Sabine. Thankfully, she had not been drugged or raped, but she had hypothermia and frostbite in a couple of places, and needed to be monitored before they would release her into Tyson's custody. _That_ had taken a lot of finagling on his part. He finally went with the story that she would be taken to an undisclosed location and kept under police protection until she could remember the events that led to her discovery in the park.

Figgy was not completely on board with this plan. When Tyson first left the hospital the night before, he had called him and explained. Figgy told Tyson that he was out of his friggin' mind.

"Trust me, Figgy. It's her. I'm sure of it. Not a look-a-like. Not a reincarnation. It's really truly her."

"How can you be sure?"

"I checked with the nurse that was there for the initial examination. You know they check the Vics head to toe for injuries and identifying marks."

"Of course I know that! So what?"

"So, Sabine had two that make it a one hundred percent positive ID. The first is a letter "T" that she branded into her left thigh after I took her virginity."

Figgy made a sound on the other end of the phone that sounded both disgusted and exasperated.

"The second was four slashes, claw marks, across her gut. They were completely healed, and had been for a long time."

"That was how Lycos killed her."

"Yep. She bled out in my arms. I felt her last breath; her last heartbeat. Now, here she is. It's a miracle. A blessing from our Lord."

"Our Lord has ignored us for a long time, Tyson. She is more likely an omen." Figgy sounded remorseful. He was probably right. But Tyson was making the choice, right or wrong. He'd have his love back with him again at any cost.

He'd stopped that morning at a boutique in the city and bought her new clothes. He had no problem picking out her sizes because his hands remembered every inch of her. They knew that she would fit into a size six, but that her ample bottom half would require boy-cut briefs as opposed to bikini style panties. He bought those in a rainbow of lace and satin. And though there were no sizes for bras in the early 18th century, his memory told him that a 34B would fit just fine. He got several of those in colors to complement the panties. Clearly, his mind was on seeing her in lingerie and nothing else. He did, however, also buy her several outfits, shoes, boots, and a beautiful fur-lined swing coat in the favorite color they both shared: red.

Tyson arrived at the hospital and brought a small bag with just one change of clothes with him, the coat draped over his arm. He stepped into her room just as they were removing her IV and giving her discharge instructions. They'd given her clothes to wear from the lost and found, but she squealed when she saw the new ones he'd brought with him.

"Isn't he just my knight in shining armor?" she asked to her attending nurse.

"Must be." The woman looked at him with unhidden mistrust. "You take care of yourself, girl," she told her, and reluctantly walked out.

Sabine looked at Tyson with a girlish shimmer in her eye. "How could I have ever let you go? You must have treated me like a princess."

"I tried," he replied, remembering that it had taken him six years to come up with the money and goods that the Boudon's required in exchange for her freedom. Good house slaves weren't cheap. Those that could perform voodoo spells for their masters were almost priceless commodities. Their reluctance was replaced with new wealth and she joined him on his ship and in his piracy. She conducted herself as a true lady of privilege which she'd never had until then. Yet, during a raid, she became a vicious killer who would slice the throats of the doomed crew members with her kerambit, a rare blade from the Pacific Islands that was gifted to her by Tyson.

Her spells were also an asset to his crew. Her specialties were powders which when blown into the faces of captured captains, would have them spilling the routes and cargo of their allied ships with ease. Tyson was sure that she was a diluted descendant of a Spellcaster Daimon. No humans could have that sort of knowledge and power without the smallest bit of Angelic blood. That was one of the reasons she was perfect for him. That and the sex. She submitted to him, and only him, night after night, bowing her head while on her knees in their cabin, awaiting instructions for which carnal actions would please him at that moment.

Shaking his head to bring himself back to the present, Tyson reached out for Sabine after she'd unabashedly changed her clothes in front of him. "Ready to go, _chouchou_?"

She started towards him, arm outstretched, but stopped. " _Chouchou?_ That sounds familiar. It sounds...right somehow."

"It's French-Creole. Like "darling". I always called you that."

"Oh. Are you French?"

"No, you are. Haitian actually."

She poked her lip out. "Huh. That's weird. I don't feel like I'm from another country. I'm not even sure if I speak French."

Tyson put his arm around her waist and pulled her along. "That is one of the many mysteries we need to solve about your...predicament. And we will, darling. There's time." He said the last part as if he didn't have to leave for Antarctica in five days.

They took the elevator and went through the main lobby to get outside. When they stepped out, Sabine pulled her coat together at the neck and shivered.

Tyson chucked as he guided her to his car. "Told you. You're used to a tropical climate."

"How cold _is_ it? And is it always like this?"

"The wind chill has it at about ten degrees, pretty typical for Chicago in mid-December." He opened the passenger door to let her in. "You'll get about four or five months of fluctuating frigidity around here. Trust me, I hate it too."

" _I was found naked in this_?" she exclaimed. "No wonder the doctors were so worried. And parts of me still have no feeling, like my --- Oh, nevermind." she appeared embarrassed at what she was about to say.

Tyson closed her door and went around to his side. There was a mischievous smile on his face as he buckled up and turned the key in the ignition. He was thinking of all the ways he could warm up and bring back feeling to all of her various parts.

As he pulled out onto Huron, he used the car's Bluetooth to check all of the messages from the calls he'd been declining.

The first was from Bree: "Where the hell are you? I have exactly two hours to train before Cayden expects me back to report on those stupid, archaic, mumbo-jumbo records Rafe and I are translating."

So was the second one: "Call me back now before I send the teen to douse you with a thousand gallons of cold ass water."

"I'll do it too, Cop!" could be heard in the background. "I ain't afraid of no 5-0." He wasn't sure if either Bree or the Stiles girl were joking or not, but he had better things to do at the present time.

Sabine looked at him like a little girl. "Am I keeping you from something important?"

"Not at all. Those girls are in a special training program for high-risk youth. They are both a couple of loonies, but harmless...sort of...and can totally wait."

The next message was from Figgy. He hit skip as soon as he heard, "Tyson, I really want you to reconsider this situation with Sa---" No need for her to hear that.

The last was from Cayden: "Lieutenant," Tyson had no clue why the Luminosi leader referred to him so formally all of the time. "I'm calling to let you know that Cillian has made special arrangements for all Luminosi to be at their Moon Ceremony tomorrow night. It will be a formal affair so dress appropriately. Everyone has been training hard, but the final decision for the team will be announced and the wolves plan to bless them with their Full Moon ritualistic crap. So, just be there, okay."

"What was that all about?"

"New age cop lingo, _chouchou._ " Tyson laughed nervously and hoped she bought it.

She did. "A formal affair sounds nice. Can I go?"

He pulled into his high-rise's parking garage. "I don't think so. I more than likely won't be going myself."

"Oh, that's a shame," she whispered. He had no clue why she was so disappointed.
Chapter Six

Tyson held the door open for Sabine to step into his apartment. He went to the bedroom to deposit her bags from the boutique on the floor in front of the closet, and when he returned to her, she was standing in front of the floor to ceiling glass window with one of the best views of Lake Michigan.

"Beautiful isn't it? Twenty-eighth floor penthouse. From here all you can see is the lake in front of you, and it feels like floating on the water at the bow of a ship."

Sabine moved in front of him and leaned into his torso. He could take a hint. He wrapped his arms around her little body, placing his chin on the top of her head, and closed his eyes to pretend it was three hundred years ago and nothing had changed or gone wrong.

Unfortunately, what his memory brought back to him was the night that she died.

Safi, Morocco, 1726

"One would think you would stop asking me this same question by now, Lycos." Tyson was getting tired of this courtship from the Scuri leader and king of the Werewolves.

"Why should I stop? You are a strong Fire Elemental, second only to your ex-general Raphael. I need you as my ally. I have plans, Tyson, big plans. I also have other ways of forcing you to lean to my side."

"Is that a threat, Beast?" The man Tyson was looking at was hardly a beast...on the outside. He was the richest man in the Mediterranean and his perfect physique and Roman features had been the inspiration for thousands of statues and sculptures over the centuries. He had a harem of women _and_ men, and a line of more waiting for his attention. However, few knew that the former general of the Angels of Destruction could shift out of his beautiful human façade to become the terrifying monster of countless legends. He'd also fathered hundreds of half-human hybrids that were rampaging all across Europe multiplying into so many more Werewolves that they were starting to form their own communities, answering to King Lycos as their main leader, of course.

Tyson didn't have time for that. He'd fallen to escape the wars raging amongst the few remaining Angels in Heaven. He loved his life as the pirate Shango the Incinerator. He had his irreplaceable woman by his side. And he wasn't giving up any of that for Lycos' plans for world domination or the Luminosi's plans to stop him and protect the humans.

"I am fully neutral, Lycos. No threats from you or begging from the Luminosi can make me choose a side and give up the life I have made for myself."

"You sound so sure about that." With a quick flourish of his hand, two of his assassins, both Air Elementals, levitated down to ground behind him holding Sabine hostage.

"You bastard!"

"Last chance, _Shango_."

Tyson hesitated a fraction of a second too long as he took in the fear in Sabine's eyes. He never wanted her to be a part of this. He never wanted her to know the truth of what he was. He never wanted her to be in danger that she couldn't handle, and this was definitely too much for her.

In that fraction of time that Tyson thought of all the things he never wanted for his love, Lycos turned around, his hand morphing as he moved, and did the one thing Tyson never expected to happen to the headstrong, warrior priestess. Lycos drew his six-inch claws straight up Sabine's body, slicing her from her gut to her chest opening her up and sending an arch of her precious blood spraying into the air, and then spilling on the ground like the useless trinkets Tyson would toss to the side after plundering a ship.

He should have attacked the three of them. He should have let his fire explode and fly until he had destroyed them all, or died trying. Instead, he fell to his knees as they dropped her into his lap and arms, sputtering blood, trying to get out words; words he already knew because she'd told him a million times.

He could barely hear Lycos', "Nice talking to you, friend," over his own anguished screams and pleading for God to save her. The Scuri king and his assassins laughed hysterically at his weak, human-like reaction and walked away. Message received. Mission accomplished.

Sabine twisted her head around and looked up at Tyson. "What's on your mind right now that's giving you that face?"

He smiled down at her. "No worries, darling. It was just something that's in the past."

She turned in his arms, and when he could fully see her face, it was one that he remembered well. One full of promises that would last the rest of the day and into the night. "Speaking of the past, I think we should get reacquainted with each other." She broke from his embrace and started towards the bedroom.

Tyson hesitated briefly. He should have listened to the voice in the back of his head telling him it was odd that an amnesiac wanted to hop in the sack with a man who simply told her he was her ex. He should have made her something to eat and suggested they watch a movie. He should have kept his dick in check. Instead, he had a very weak, human-like reaction and walked into the bedroom to join her.

Chapter Seven

The rest of that day and the entire next one, Tyson blew off everything. He didn't go to work. He didn't answer his calls or check his voicemail. And he skipped the Moon Ceremony/announcement/blessing crap. It wasn't necessary that he go anyway. Everyone knew he was on the team from the beginning. Instead, he stayed within inches of Sabine the whole time. They screwed, ate, watched T.V., talked, and screwed more. She asked about their relationship and her life, and it was hard to give her details that wouldn't send her into shock (like she'd lived and died three hundred years ago), but he managed.

She was only slightly different from the woman he knew then. Tyson figured that without the memory of her hard life as a slave and the knowledge of Voodoo magic, she simply had no need to be as tough and volatile. He actually really liked this Sabine; this innocent young woman who was his to protect and his alone.

On Wednesday morning, she laid in his lap watching the news as he twirled his fingers around the curly strands of her hair. He sipped on his coffee, paying no attention to what the WGN news team was saying until a familiar house caught his eye. Then he turned the volume up.

The female anchor told a story he really did not want to hear:

"The other home owners of this West Side neighborhood say that this home has been abandoned with no gas or electricity for two years, so it is a complete mystery as to why and how the fire would have started last night. What is no longer a mystery, is that the body found inside the home has been identified as Javier Price, Vice President of Training for Price Industries and brother of the C.E.O., Jackson Price. So far, no one has been able to reach Jackson Price or any representatives of the multi-billion dollar weapons manufacturing company for a statement. WGN will report updates on this bizarre story as more information comes in."

Sabine retreated to the other side of the couch as Tyson jumped up and let out a stream of curse words that didn't even begin to color the thoughts that were going through his head. That was _their_ training house. He'd been working with Bree there for months. And Javier Price was one of the Hunters who'd tried to exorcise Raphael from that anthropologist, Paul-somebody, before he skipped bodies to Bree. Price Industries his ass! Every Daimon on Earth knew that the company has a government contract to manufacture tactical weapons, but it was all funding and cover-up for the recruitment and training of more Hunters. The Price family had been a pain in their asses since the Middle Ages. And he died in a _fire._ It pissed Tyson off to no end that he knew exactly who was responsible. Did she have any idea what sort of hellstorm the death of a Price was going to bring down on all of their heads?

"Is everything okay, honey?" Sabine asked in a small voice.

"Yes. I just...I have to make some phone calls." He excused himself into the office and closed the door. The first person he called was Bree.

She answered immediately. "I didn't do it!"

"Bullshit, Breanne! Who else would have started a fire and burned alive a Hunter who she knows personally?"

"You know what, Tyson? I am not going to defend myself to you. I have been calling you for three days. Three! You haven't returned my calls, and some serious stuff has happened since we last talked."

"Were you there last night?"

"Yes! _And_ he attacked me, but I swear we didn't do this."

"How am I supposed to believe that? I have to report this to Cayden."

"Oh no you don't!" She paused briefly. "Rafe is giving you a direct order not to say a single word to Cayden, or Thelan either. We will handle this, got it?" With that she hung up.

Tyson was at a loss. On one hand, he had a duty to tell the Luminosi leader that someone under his care and alliance has not only killed a human, but a Hunter. On the other hand, he still considered himself a subordinate of Raphael. He also had promised that Bree would be on that plane headed to Antarctica by any means necessary. But telling Cayden this would put an immediate stop to any plans they had for that happening. What the hell was he going to do? He started by putting in a call to Figgy.

"Figueroa," he answered.

"What do you know of this house fire on the West Side?"

"I know that a damned Hunter got set on fire inside the damned house and that, to me, it looks like a Fire Elemental was involved. How about you tell me what _you_ know, Shango?"

"Right now, I know nothing. I'm going to find out as soon as the other brass leave the area. I'll do my own investigation."

"Yeah, you do that. And then you tell me what kind of trouble I need to look out for. Jackson Price is going to retaliate big time for this. Every Daimon is in danger, Luminosi and Scuri. Not all of us are indestructible like the Great Eight. You, me, everyone is at risk if that human goes on a rampage."

Tyson sighed. "I know. I'll find out what happened, I swear. I'll turn the perp in to Price myself if I have too." He didn't really mean that but he knew it would make Figgy feel better.

"Okay, fine. Call me when you know something."

"Yeah, yeah." He hung up and walked out to the living room. Sabine still looked wary.

"I have to get dressed and go investigate that. Will you be okay for a little while?"

She looked relieved and smiled. "Yes. I'll be fine. You do your police things. You've been here taking care of me for too many days."

"Okay. There's a phone in the office. No one ever calls my landline, so if it rings, answer it. That will be me checking up on you." She nodded, and he went to put some clothes on. When he left, she walked him to the door, told him not to worry about her, and gave him one hell of a goodbye kiss.

The scene at the abandoned house was a damned mess. Fire trucks and cruisers were everywhere. All the local news channels still had scene reporters out and about interviewing neighbors and any officers stupid enough to talk. Tyson remained in his car a couple of blocks away waiting for the commotion to die down. It eventually did, but not enough. A few homicide detectives and CSIs still lingered and there were city workers mulling around, cleaning up debris, and spreading salt and sand around the area so that the water used to fight the fire wouldn't ice over and cause safety hazards.

Tyson got tired of waiting and took a big chance. He drove up to the corner, parked his car, and walked towards the building with a purpose.

"Not your case, Roberts," Detective Williams, a veteran too old to still be working, greeted him at the bare spot that used to be a doorway.

"I know that. I just thought I'd swing by to see what your old eyes might have missed." He stepped close and lowered his voice. "Look. This is big. Jackson Price's older brother? The man is not going to let this go till the perp is locked up. You can use all the hands you can get on this, and get it over with quick."

Williams nodded once and stepped aside. One look around told Tyson that the place was completely destroyed bottom to top. He walked through to the kitchen they'd used most often to train in. Less carpeting equaled less accidents for the girl with no aim. Or so he'd thought. There were scorch marks everywhere: walls, ceiling, and floors. Most were new ones that he didn't recognize from the last time they were in here. There were even remnants of the pile of ash that used to be a training dummy on the floor. However, the space was not nearly as torched as the rest of the house. There may have been a fight in here, but why would she have thrown fire at the ceiling? Javier Price was not _that_ tall and Breanne Miller did not have _that_ bad of an aim, no matter how much he'd ribbed her for it. Instead, what it looked like was that Bree had come in here and thrown one hell of a tantrum.

His attention was caught by the back door. It was standing wide open. Firefighters may have busted in through here if it were a safer entry than the front. Tyson walked to get a closer look. The doorknob was blown straight off leaving scorch marks around where it used to be as well as on the doorjamb surrounding the lock. No, it looked more like someone blew their way out of here in a hurry. And looking up and out past the back yard, it also looked like they blew their way straight through the fence and out to the alleyway instead of back around to the front where their car would have most likely been parked.

Tyson went back towards the front of the house. There he ran into Williams again and a crime scene investigator.

"So where was the body found?" he asked them.

Williams answered, "Right here in the front entry way."

The CSI bent down and elaborated. "The body was supine, as if he was knocked backwards as he was leaving the house. Can't tell by what, though. The M.E. might have a better explanation, but I couldn't find a single mark on him other than burns. No blow to the head. No GSWs. No knife wounds." He stood up. "The fire was definitely started in this front area. I can't tell what the hell was used as an accelerant, but it burned good, hot, and lethal right here before spreading out to the other parts of the house."

None of it made any sense to Tyson, but one thing bugged him more than anything else. "How did you ID the body so quickly?"

"Two things. First, the Vic appeared to have dropped his wallet outside on the sidewalk on the way in."

"It could have been stolen," Tyson countered...and hoped.

"True. But there was also a chain around the Vic's neck. Real thick, and made out of some sort of metal that obviously doesn't melt in temperatures that would have been caused by this fire. There was a medal on it with an emblem."

Williams took over, "When I described it to Jackson Price, he gave the positive ID. Said that no one but a Price would have that on. Supposedly, it's put on them all when they get 'of age' and can't be taken off." He shook his head. "Those rich bastards are so weird. You'd think they were Free Masons or The Illuminati or something."

Tyson grunted and kept his mouth shut. _If only he knew_.

Chapter Eight

On the way to Wolf's Crossing, Tyson put in a call to Sabine to let her know that he would be home shortly. He noted that she answered the call almost immediately; so quickly she would have had to already be in his office when the phone rang. He cursed himself for being a jerk. The woman was probably sitting by the phone waiting to hear from him. He shouldn't have left her alone. That thought brought up another one that he needed to consider. He was going to have to make arrangements for her while he was gone. He would need someone who wouldn't scare her too much. Maybe he could have her stay with Lillith at the Spellcaster estate. One of the women there may be able to come up with a spell or potion to help bring back her memory while he was gone. No. That was a bad idea. If she got her memories back and they were bad ones, he should be around to keep her calm. That could wait until after the trip.

He pulled up to the community's gate and went through the security measures of a spoken code, fingerprint, and ocular scanning before the giant iron gates with the Luminosi crest swung open to let him in. A few Shifters were standing just inside. Tyson pulled up and pushed the button to make his driver side window go down.

"What's the deal guys?"

One of them, Kyle, was barely an adult, but he was a fast and strong Cheetah Shifter. "We're patrolling the grounds. Cayden's got us on high alert for possible Hunter activity."

Tyson looked at him, confused. "But they don't know our location, do they?"

"No telling what they know. I guess we got to be careful, huh?"

"Yeah." Tyson waved and continued down the drive and through the neighborhood to the end of Sunrise Court where Cayden's Psychic estate and the Luminosi offices were located. He pulled in along the large driveway and got out half jogging to the front door. He entered the foyer and turned to the right to where the door to the offices and conference room was wide open. There was a bustle of energy and movement in the large area from all the administrative Daimones. They were on the phones talking in various languages to allies around the world. Several were racing from one place to another, iPads in hand, checking on surveillance tapes from around the city. Everyone was noticeably on edge, waiting to see what Jackson Price's next move would be.

Tyson was always amazed at how wound up everyone, including himself, could get about the Prices. Lycos was the most evil being ever to walk the Earth. Not even Lucifer's vile ass compared to Lycos, especially since he was killed by the Great Beast over five thousand years ago. Yet when it came to these Hunters, who'd had a vendetta against the Fallen since The Great Flood, the Luminosi had no clue how to handle them. On one hand, they hunted down and destroyed all the Daimones they could, with no discretion. On the other, they were human, and therefore off limits according to the Luminosi and their code of honor and protection towards all humans.

Making his way around the desks and through throngs of busy people, Tyson stuck his head into Cayden's office. The entire council was in there. Heads of every race of Daimon that belonged to the Luminosi. There was Cillian O'Fallon, The King of the Irish Werewolves who, though he and his people could no longer shift, thanks to a curse by Lycos, had an amazing tactical mind. He also led all of the other varying types of Shifters. Delilah Stiles, the leader of the Elementals, was standing directly next to Cayden Masters, The Angel of Truth and Justice, leader of the Psychics, and of course, all Luminosi. They were arguing with Lillith Blackwood of the Spellcasters and Jude Knight, Vampire, and also The Angel of Peace and Love.

Tyson cleared his throat and all heads turned to look at him. Cayden looked at him with that steady gaze of his and said, "Now is not a good time, Lieutenant."

"But sir, I have important information about the Javier Price murder."

"You investigated the scene."

"Yes."

"And you think Breanne Miller was involved."

"Yes."

"But you are not quite sure she did it."

"Well, yes --- I mean, no--- I mean..."

Cayden gave an exasperated sigh. "She either did or didn't. I don't have time to discern the truth from her or discuss the details. You wanted to tell me that she learned to control the fire."

"Yes sir. Very well, I believe."

"Good. Go tell Thelan you all are leaving tomorrow night and that she's going with you. We'll figure out what to do about the rest later."

"Okay." Tyson frowned. He had something else to say but...

"Lillith, Tyson wants to know if his dead, yet mysteriously resurrected, lover can stay with you while they are gone."

Lillith looked confused. "I...guess."

"There, Lieutenant. All your issues are solved. You are dismissed." With that the leaders went back to their arguing as if he'd never been in the room.

Tyson left and headed down the long hallway that lead to the back of the estate and Thelan's quarters. He really hated having those sort of conversations with Cayden. Most of the time he was patient, and let you say what you had to say, even though Truth was his dominion and Psychic power. But when he was stressed, he would just basically have the conversation with himself and make his subordinates feel like children. Not that it mattered now that Tyson was standing in front of Thelan's door, about to knock on it tell him that his human girlfriend might be a killer who just started a war. Regardless, she was still going to have to join them on a trip to Antarctica tomorrow to fight a bunch of Ice Daimones and a giant named Ullr. And all of this was to free the body of Raphael and several other lost allies from a frozen prison.

He knocked on the door three times with his forehead instead of his knuckles. Sometimes he really wished he could live the simple life of a human; completely oblivious to pretty much everything.

He heard a beep, and then a click of the electronic lock before Thelan opened the door, looking quite disheveled with a strange glow coming from the room behind him.

"Tyson, my God, have you found her?"

"Wait. Bree's missing?"

"Well, not exactly. I've talked to her on the phone, but she said she's not coming back until shit dies down."

"I hate to tell you man, but that may not be happening."

Thelan stepped aside to let Tyson in. As soon as he entered, he was bombarded by multicolored lights everywhere: hanging from the ceiling, wrapped around the loft's posts and beams, and encircling the spiral staircase. The lights were accented with giant red and gold bows, but the focal piece was an evergreen tree taller than the both of them and decorated with shiny ornaments including one that read: "Our First Christmas."

"Man! Did Christmas get drunk and throw up in here?"

"It's Bree." Thelan looked around and cringed a little. "She put everything up right after Thanksgiving. She said she's using optimism and positive thinking techniques to ensure victory in Antarctica by preparing to have a big holiday celebration when we get Rafe back."

Tyson whistled low. "Humans and their traditions. She realizes we don't celebrate Christmas, right?"

"I'm not denying her this, Tyson."

"You might want to hear what I have to say first, Viking."

"Viking? Have you been hanging around with the Stiles girl?"

"Well see, that's the thing..." With that, Tyson spilled his guts about everything from the training to the possibility that Bree was involved in Price's death and ending with the news that Cayden wanted her in Antarctica with them. When he was finished, Thelan simply sat down and pinched the bridge of his nose.

After several long moments, he finally said, "Okay then. Rest up and go home. I'll take care of this."

Tyson and Thelan were barely what you'd call friends, therefore it would be strange for him to console the man. Nevertheless, he felt bad for him. Not only was his girlfriend and the lover that possessed her wanted for suspicion of murder, but Thelan also had to take her into a dangerous situation where he could risk losing them both.

He settled on a light pat on the back and said, "Take it easy, man."

As Tyson left, Thelan pulled out his cell, said "Dial Bree," and, after a moment, "Get your ass home now!"

Chapter Nine

When Tyson arrived back at his apartment, he was greeted by a very happy Sabine.

"Ooh, I'm so glad you're back, honey. How did it go? Is everything okay?"

He half smiled at her and said, "It's as okay as it's going to get. Listen _chouchou_ , you should sit down while I tell you something."

She appeared unnerved but let him take her hand and pull her over to the couch and down into his arms.

"There's something important I have to do. A trip I've had planned for a while and should have told you about."

She pouted a bit. "So, you're going away? For how long?"

"It will take us some time to get there, and then, well...I don't know. I may be gone for about a week."

"And you leave...?"

"Tomorrow." She looked like she was going to cry then and he hated himself. "But, I've made arrangements for you."

"Oh?"

"I have some friends. They live in a big gated community west of here. It's very secure and you'll be perfectly safe. You'll be staying at the house of my friend Lillith and her, uh, sisters."

"Oh! Well that sounds nice." Her voice perked up a bit.

He hugged her tight. "I'm so sorry. I'm worried that your memory will come back and I won't be there to comfort you, but I have to do this."

She nestled into the crook between his neck and shoulder. "It's fine. A week isn't even that long. Besides, I'm sure this Lillith will help me with my memories."

Tyson felt a little hint of wariness at how close that sounded to his thoughts earlier, but he blew it off. He was just happy that her initial worries were gone and she was okay with him leaving.

"Tyson?"

"Huh?"

"I found your handcuffs at the top of the closet."

He held her back and looked at her intensely. Her expression was a strange mix of innocent and wanton. "What!?!"

"Well, I just thought that, you know, you could use them...on me...in the bed."

His mouth dropped at the same time that parts of his lower anatomy rose. _Well, I guess this Sabine is a lot like the old Sabine after all._

Chapter Ten

He had horrible nightmares all night long. In every single one, Wolf's Crossing was somehow infiltrated. Daimones everywhere. Fighting. Running. Screaming. And there was so much blood...

Tyson woke the next morning. Sabine was still sleeping peacefully next to him. He quietly slipped out of the bed and walked out, stepping over clothes that had been hastily discarded last night. He meandered into the kitchen and went through the automatic motions of making a pot of coffee. While it brewed, he mulled over the uneasy feeling that he had in his gut. He didn't believe in omens or visions, regardless of the fact that he used to be an Angel. He doubted that anything bad would ever happen in Wolf's Crossing. The community was built in a half-rural area outside the city called Oswego. No one even new the name of the town unless they lived in or near there. The Luminosi were as under the radar as they could get. Plus, Thelan's security system was even more advanced than the one he'd designed for the CIA headquarters in Langley. Still, something kept telling him that Sabine shouldn't be there while he was gone.

He grabbed his cell from the charging dock and searched through his contact list, hitting the call button with a little hope when he found the name he was looking for.

"Yo, Tyson."

"Asher! Hey, how are you?"

"Cut the bullshit man. It's a quarter to six in the morning. What do you want?"

"You're not leaving with us tonight, are you?" Tyson knew the answer but thought he'd ask anyway.

"Of course not. You all don't need a Daimon with latent powers." His powers may be latent but the man worked out three hours a day and trained extensively with both blades and guns.

"Good." Tyson crossed his fingers. "I need a huge favor."

"Spill it."

"I need you to keep an eye on a woman for me while I'm gone?"

"A babysitting job? You're joking right?"

"Look, she's really special to me. You'd just have to come here and hang out with h---"

Asher cursed on the other end. "Wait. You mean come stay at your penthouse in the city?"

"Yeah."

"I'm in! Is she hot?"

Tyson wasn't amused. "Very. And if you lay a hand on her you'll be missing it along with other appendages."

Asher laughed. "Don't worry, man. I'll pack some things and be over in a few hours so she can get used to me while you're still there, 'kay?" He had a bad sense of humor, but he always seemed to know what would make people feel more at ease. The gift of an aura reader, Tyson guessed.

"Thanks. See you soon." He pressed end and poured two cups of coffee, one with no cream extra sugar, just how Sabine liked it. Then he carried them both into the bedroom. His plan was to wake her up. Then he'd make love to her, sweet and slow, like it was their last time. Just in case.

Sabine watched Tyson pack while lounging on the bed. "I am going to miss every single part of you while you're gone."

He looked over at her and smiled. "Ditto." _Who says that?_ Disgustingly annoying couples, that's who. He sighed as he realized he fit into that category. Sure, he'd always loved her. But, this time they were different. She was just so _perfect_.

She jumped up and walked to the closet as he grabbed more gear and put it in his bag on the bed. Thank goodness they were taking Jude's private plane, or they may never get through airport security.

"Honey, do you have another bag that I can put some clothes into for my stay at your friend's place."

Crap. How had he forgotten to tell her? "There's been a change of plans," he called over his shoulder. "I'm having another friend come here to stay with you instead. You'll be more comfortable here, babe."

Her voice got very small and childlike again. "You mean, I'm not going to Wolf's Crossing?"

Tyson stood straight and furrowed his brow, trying to remember when he'd told her that name.

"But, I thought I was going to get to play with Lillith and her ' _sisters_ '." She suddenly sounded less infantile and more nefarious.

Tyson looked up and into the reflective glass of the framed painting across the room, but sheer confusion kept him from reacting before he watched the kitchen knife slash the air behind his back and hit him in the left trapezius. The pain didn't affect him near as much as the sense of betrayal. She pulled the knife out and he spun around and grabbed her wrist just as she was about to stab him again with it. Then he grabbed around her neck with his left hand and squeezed despite the pain to his injury, but not enough that she couldn't talk.

"Why?" That was the only word he could bring himself to say.

Her face contorted into one that was no longer so lovely. She spat at him. "He brought me back because you were their weakest link; screaming and crying like a baby while holding my dead body in your arms all those years ago. All I had to do was smile, and bat my pretty eyes, and spread my pretty legs, and you were in love all over again."

"Brought you back?"

"THE KING!" she shouted through her struggles to escape his grasp. "Lycos has more power, more resources than any of you will ever know. He raised me from the dead just to get close to you so I could get you to take me to the Luminosi. All week I've tried! And _every time_ you find some excuse to keep me away from my mission."

"No. No." Tears burned and threatened to fall from his eyes.

Her face and voice turned childlike again as she mocked him. "'No. No.' You little _bitch_." She kicked him between his legs and he loosened his grip on her for a split second, allowing her to spin out of his reach.

Laughing maniacally, she came running at him, knife in mid-air. He grabbed her wrist again, and this time he twisted it into an odd angle until she dropped the knife. She was on her knees in front of him then, but she would not be submitting. Letting the tears fall, he conjured his fire in his right hand and placed it over her heart. Her eyes got huge as she began to feel the rising heat and realized what he was doing. She didn't cry, scream, or beg as his hand, burning white hot, burrowed into her chest and incinerated her heart until its ashes crumbled in his hand. The only words that left her lips were the whispered, " _He...shall be...victorious_." Then he let the intense heat spread until there was nothing left of her but gray and black flecks in the flat shape of a woman's body on his floor.

Chapter Eleven

Asher called from downstairs forty minutes later and Tyson let him up. He was just putting away the vacuum cleaner when his friend walked through his door.

"I'm here man. You owe me big time."

Tyson met him in the living room. He'd patched up his knife wound and was pulling a fresh shirt over his head. When Asher's face came back into view, it bore a haunted look on it.

"Tyson, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Bull. Your aura... It's black and red, swirly, and... just not right man. Plus," he sniffed the air, "something was just burning in here."

"You're wrong." Tyson could barely look him in the eyes.

"Where's the girl?"

He choked only slightly on the word, "Gone."

Asher shook his head. "Man, come out with it."

"Drop it, Ash. And give me a ride to the damned airport, alright?"

His friend looked worried, but let it go. With a long sigh, he said, "Let me grab your bag, man."

Tyson handed it over and walked out behind Asher. He didn't dare look back towards the bedroom as he pulled the apartment door closed and locked it.

They'd stopped at a bar and Asher watched in silence as Tyson took shot after shot of dark spiced rum. When it was close to time for departure, they left and headed for the small airport just outside of Aurora. He got out of Asher's car on the tarmac next to the plane, and grabbed his bag without saying a word. He headed up the stairs to board the private jet and was met at the top by Thelan, who gave him a puzzled look. _Great, another Psychic_.

"How are you feeling, Tyson?"

"Cold. So let's get this shit over with."

### About Rae Ford

Rae Ford is the author of sultry paranormal fantasy romances. She has moved all across America, but living in small towns near big cities in the Midwest, and working odd jobs at famous restaurants, has inspired her to write about supernatural beings who live and love in secret communities within those small towns.

The series info:

The Luminosi Brotherhood Series follows powerful fallen angels and their immortal offspring, the Daimones, as they fight against the dark Scuri for the safety of the human race.

This short story takes place after the events of The Angel Inside (8/2014), and concurrent with the events of The Fire Inside (12/2014). It is not a stand-alone story, and should be read after reading The Angel Inside.

With that said, please note that for the purposes of this anthology, the graphic sex, violence, and language of Rae's writing style has been toned down to a minimum. The other works of the series are quite a bit spicier, and should be read by those 18 and older.

Rae can be followed at:

www.raewritesromance.com

www.facebook.com/authorraeford

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8475404.Rae_Ford

www.twitter.com/tashabooklover

### Mr. John

### Rodney Hall

### Chapter One

Detective John Peterson stood outside of the captain's office with his head hung low. He didn't want to hear the ongoing conversation that was taking place on the other side of the thin glass wall. He didn't want to see their expressions of anger and frustration. But deep down, he knew that it was inevitable. He knew the day would come when he would no longer be able to serve his community and must step aside. Now he was forced to listen to the captain explain, using an explosive voice, that he just didn't care. Frank was going to have a new partner by the end of the week.

He turned his head away in a rush as his partner hurried to the door and jerked it open — his face red and his jaw clenched. John wanted to tell his partner of twelve years that everything was going to be alright. He wanted to tell Frank why he couldn't be his partner anymore. But as the thoughts came to his mind, he just shook his head, knowing that no explanation would be satisfactory. He pushed away from the wall and stepped in behind his partner. They had one more case to solve, one that was very important for them both. John prayed that they had enough time.

As they approached the car, John didn't argue when he saw Frank move to the driver side and drop into the seat. _I guess he's just getting used to the idea of me not being here._ He told himself as he moved to the passenger side.

Frank was silent as they pulled out onto the main street of their little town, Springbrook. It was just as cold as the morning forecast had warned, but even the whipping wind and spitting snowfall didn't seem to matter that much to John. He knew that it wouldn't be long before he wouldn't have to worry about wading through knee deep snow while searching for that hidden clue. He couldn't help but smile, knowing that the days of standing in the rain, drenched to the bone, or feeling the biting winter chill, were numbered. His smile faded when he turned to see the lost look in his partner's eyes.

"Maybe some music?" John suggested as he reached for and turned the radio knob. He heard Frank huff as he reached out and smacked the dashboard radio, shaking his head in frustration. "No need to be like this Frank. We both knew that I wasn't going to be able to do this forever."

"This sucks!" Frank blurted out as he slammed his hand against the steering wheel.

"I know, but trust me, you will get used to it, Frank. I remember when..." his comment was cut short when the urgent voice broke through on the car's radio.

"We have a possible 10-32 at the south end of Crystal Springs."

"10-4. Car 9 in route," Frank said into the mic.

There was a long pause before the dispatcher continued, her voice tense and full of sorrow. "I just need to let you know, Frank, they believe it to be a small child."

"10-4," Frank said again, and then eased the mic back into its holder, his expression proving that he might not be as prepared for this as he needed to be. He shook his head in sad frustration as he thought about what might possibly lay ahead. He hated to see anyone lose their life, but hearing that it was probably a small child that drowned sent chills up his spine, forcing him to relive that terrible moment when he was just a young boy — that horrible moment when he lost his best friend. "This just doesn't make any sense! Why would a kid be out in this weather, especially there at Crystal Springs? Everyone knows that place can be dangerous," Frank said as he leaned forward and flipped two switches: one turning on the emergency lights and the other, the siren.

"That it can be," John said as he let the mental image fill his thoughts. Crystal Springs was a beautiful place in the spring and summer. The stream carving its way through the valley and spilling over the large boulders into the small lake was just as beautiful as any postcard he had ever seen. The water taking after its name was, in fact, crystal clear. But once the rainy season came, the lake always flooded and the ground along its shores became a dangerous, muddy mess. "Something doesn't feel right about this, Frank. How could the kid even get into the water? He'd never get that far. With all the rain we've had, I don't even know how _we_ are going to get to the body."

The police car slipped sideways on the thin layer of snow as Frank turned the car onto highway 213, just three and a half miles short of their destination. As if on cue, the snowflakes that had been rather small when they left the department had now grown to the size of golf balls. Instead of floating peacefully to the ground, they were carried horizontally by the increasing winds. "Dang, this is going to suck!" Frank said as he eased his foot from the accelerator when he first saw the hint of emergency lights ahead of them.

John could feel the thickening snow crunch under his shoes as he stepped out into the cold. "Looks like this could get bad, quick!" He shouted out over the car. Frank turned to look in his direction for a moment, letting a forced smile settle on his face as he flipped his jacket collar up, hoping for whatever warmth it might provide, and then turned away.

The two men walked along the edge of the road towards the flashing lights and the faint but urgent voices coming from the emergency personnel just ahead of them. Stepping behind Frank, John moved to the edge of the road, not wanting to be a sitting duck in case someone was foolish enough to be driving in this weather. A second later, John gasped as his feet shot forward, his mind a blur an instant before his back hit hard against the concrete surface. His first response was one of embarrassment. At that moment he was painfully reminded of his reputation within the precinct, him being the one that might trip over a crack in the sidewalk while walking on a dirt path. But as he placed his hands on the ground to lift himself he saw Frank walking ahead of him, oblivious to his blunder. He let out a sigh as he came to his feet and hurried to dust the snow from his slacks and suit jacket.

As he was about to move forward, he cursed the slick soles of his dress shoes as he nearly slipped for the second time. Even though he wasn't totally surprised that the roadway would be slippery and understanding that his shoes were not meant for these conditions, he knew that something wasn't right. He leaned forward into the blinding snow and swept his hand across the snowy surface. _Concrete._ He told himself. _Why didn't I think of this?_ But he knew the answer before he finished asking the question. He was standing on the only bridge that covered a small tributary the led to the lake. He shook his head in disgust, chastising himself for not understanding that this could be the access point for the child, then kindly reminded himself that it could have been a mistake made by any other officer. The bridge was hardly noticeable even in the best of weather. At its highest point it was only three feet above the water's surface. Without any man made railing, and heavy brush on either side, it looked like a normal part of the roadway.

With his brow furrowed and his mind working, he carefully pressed forward, coming to his partner's side just in time to hear Frank yell over the howling wind, "So, it's confirmed?"

"Yeah, that's right Frank. I hate to say it, but the boy is deceased." The man yelled back.

"Any idea on identification, Sam?"

The man dressed in a thick, orange-insulated jump suit used his teeth to pull the heavy glove from his hand. After shoving the glove behind the front zipper, he extended his hand to Frank. Frank accepted it and groaned as he gave the larger man a pull up to the bridge's surface. Sam looked at Frank and then quickly turned his head. He paused for a moment. "We aren't for sure yet. It's really hard to tell with the fading light and all. But it could be..."

"Who is it?" John demanded.

"I think it might be little Jacob." Sam let the words settle as he lifted his head and locked eyes with Frank.

John felt his heart sink. He knew all about little Jacob Cummings, the entire town knew about him. John remembered the first time that he met little Jacob. Three years prior, he found him sitting with his back against the wall at the entrance to the emergency room on Christmas Eve. Little Jacob was only five years old at the time. John remembered noticing him sitting there, his little body shivering as he wrapped his bare arms around his knees that were pressed tightly against his chest. As John approached, he felt the air leave his lungs — the little stranger wasn't wearing a coat and his tiny feet were bare.

He watched the little guy melt into the wall as he approached, his little eyes wide open and full of fear. It took John nearly twenty minutes and a half eaten bag of chocolates to get the little guy to trust him. With Jacob held tightly in his arms, his little body shivering under John's jacket, he hurried into the hospital. There he learned that Jacob's mother had been rushed to the hospital due to a drug overdose. Little Jacob had been in the ambulance with his mother, holding her hand. But when the ambulance arrived, Jacob was lost in the commotion. His mother had slipped closer to death and Jacob was simply pushed to the side as the paramedics rushed her from the ambulance.

Jacob survived the cold and his mother survived her selfish lust for her addiction. John spent several months doing everything that he could to have Jacob removed from his mother's care. With each attempt, he found failure. His last attempt ending in a court room with him standing in front of the judge, pleading his case for the safety and wellbeing of the child. The judge letting out a sigh and then telling John that he understood his concerns, but then explaining that the state didn't have the funds to take in every child and, in his opinion, little Jacob would be better off with his mother instead of living in a boys home.

John turned away from the judge to see Jacob's mother sitting there with Jacob at her side. She wore a grin of satisfaction. Her look of victory tore at John's heart. He knew that her victory smile was an intentional slap to his face instead of what it should have been: a mother thankful that she wasn't losing her child.

As time passed, John did his best to keep an eye on his little friend. He hoped that someday he might be able to rescue him once again. But with each visit, his heart sank a little deeper into the darkness of despair. Jacob seemed to be slipping into a realm that even John couldn't free him from. More and more, little Jacob was seen wandering the streets alone, and still John couldn't save him. _And now this._ He thought as he let his body shiver for the first time, saddened by the knowledge that even through all of his efforts he had failed this little boy.

Sam's deep voice brought John back to reality. "We've got him on a gurney and moving him this way. You all can take over from there." Sam turned away as he shoved his numb hand back into his glove, working his hand into a fist several times in an attempt to warm his frozen fingers. "Throw me the rope," he yelled. John took a quick step back, nearly slipping again as he dodged the end of the heavy rope. John moved to Sam's side and took a step closer to the edge of the low hanging bridge. There he could hear the sounds before his eyes could see the gurney sliding along the mix of mud and snow covered rocks.

"Let me help," Frank offered as he stepped in front of Sam and took a firm grip of the ice covered rope. Pull by pull, the sound of metal tubing scraping the ground became unbearable. Everyone knew what was about to become truth — the sadness of a young life destroyed.

John took a deep breath as he leaned forward and took a firm grip on one of the metal tubes at the front of the gurney. Even through the blinding snow he could see Jacob's face, his lifeless eyes staring up at him, shrouded by the pale blue of his small face. John didn't understand the intense wave of emotion that washed over him. He stood to his feet and turned away, not wanting anyone to see his moment of weakness. As he pressed his numb fingers to his face, searching for any tears that might not yet have frozen, he wondered, _what's going on with you, John? You've seen this type of thing so many times._

"Mr. John?"

John shook his head, thinking that his emotions were tearing away at his sanity. Had he really heard that little voice? _Get it together, John. Your time is almost up and you won't have to deal with anything like this ever again. Yes, you were close to this little boy, but you did all that you could do. This isn't your fault._

"Mr. John?" came the voice again. John took a deep breath and turned to his right, away from the crowd that was tending to Jacob's remains. He lifted his head, certain that he would find nothing more than the near white out. But there he was, standing on the far side of the bridge, his little body soaked and frozen and displaying the faint blue color that was the same as his corpse. John blinked his eyes and shook his head. He couldn't believe what was happening. He couldn't believe that after all that he had seen and experienced on the force that now, when things were so close to being done, he was losing his mind.

He took a slow step toward the shivering child, hoping that as he progressed he would realize what he thought of as the little boy would, in fact, turn out to be a small bush covered in snow, playing tricks on his eyes and mind. He took another step toward the bush, or the boy, when all of his doubts were removed. Jacob stretched out his hand in a friendly gesture. John leaned a little forward as Jacob opened his hand. John wanted to swallow, but his throat was too dry. In the blue tint of the palm of Jacob's hand lay a single piece of chocolate, the same kind that John had used to gain his trust three years earlier.

John shook his head again and then turned to look over his shoulder, hoping to see Frank approaching, wanting to know that he wasn't the only one with the ability to see the dead little boy.

"Don't worry, Mr. John, they can't see."

For a long moment John just stood there, leaning slightly forward and staring into the dead boys eyes. He closed his eyes for a moment and then asked, "What happened, Jacob? I need you to tell me what happened."

Raising his opened hand a little higher, Jacob said, "Don't you want?" John opened his eyes and looked at the piece of chocolate and felt his stomach churn as he shook his head. Jacob shrugged his shoulders and then casually popped the piece of chocolate into his own mouth.

"What happened Jacob?" John asked again, not believing that he was really having this conversation. "Were you out here all alone?"

Jacob shook his head as he licked the excess chocolate from his blue lips. "Nope, I was at home."

"Come on, Jacob, help me out here," John said, his mind spinning, not wanting to believe that he was starting to see this as a reality.

"It was starting to snow."

"Yes it was, Jacob. Now how did you get here?"

"He came for me, Mr. John. I was waiting for enough snow to build a snowman. He came into my yard and gave me some candy."

"Who did?"

"The man that brought me here."

"Who was it, Jacob? Can you tell me who it was?"

Jacob shook his head and swallowed. "No, Mr. John. I don't know who it was."

"What happened, Jacob? Tell me what happened," John demanded, instantly wishing that he hadn't asked the question and knowing that he was about to hear firsthand how Jacob had died.

"I just got real sleepy, Mr. John. And then I was here, or actually over there," he said, pointing in the direction of the lake. "I was just standing there alone, looking out at the frozen lake."

"What did you see, Jacob?"

Jacob lowered his head as sadness consumed his expression and a trail of tears worked down his cheek. "I saw me, Mr. John. I saw me floating under the ice." John felt a tear slipping down his own cheek as he reached out to wipe the tear from Jacob's face. But the little boy took a step back and raised his head proudly as he wiped the tears from his face. "Don't worry, Mr. John. I will be alright. I know what happened to me. I knew as soon as I saw me out in the water. And don't worry, it's not as scary as you think." John couldn't believe what this little boy was saying or how brave he was acting. He had seen many an adult hanging over the abyss of death and had seen the complete and true fear in their eyes. But this little guy didn't flinch. "I have something for you, Mr. John," Jacob said as he shoved his cold little hand into his pants pocket, forcing the frozen layer of ice to break away and fall from the frozen cloth. "Here," he said, extending his hand.

John stared down into Jacob's little hand for a moment before reaching forward and taking hold of the shiny object. "Thank you, Jacob."

Jacob shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "I hope that it helps," he said with a genuine grin. John turned to look over his shoulder once again, curious to see if Frank had even noticed that he had stepped away. But he saw Frank being Frank, on his knees, hovering over the body and searching for clues.

Turning back to face Jacob, he said, "Thank..." The little boy was gone. John blinked his eyes several times and even rubbed his frozen fingers against his face a moment before turning. "Just a few more days, and I won't have to worry about this anymore," he said as he moved carefully across the bridge's slick surface.

He knelt next to Frank and looked down at the little boy, his heart breaking. "I found something that might help," he said as he opened his cold hand and let the ring fall. His shivering turned the ring away from his intended target; it glanced off of Frank's knee and disappeared into the snow.

"What?" Frank asked in a surprised tone as he looked down and started brushing the snow away. A moment later, he paused. There, laying on the frozen concrete, was a silver ring. He carefully picked it up between his thumb and index finger and brought it close to his eyes. "Interesting," he said with a confident tone. "Look at this, it has an inscription."

"What's it say?" John asked, easing his head closer, but still unable to see the tiny print.

"Hmm, let me see, it says 'Always and Forever.'"

"I wonder if that will be any help?" John asked.

"It's something to start with anyway," Frank said as he pulled a bag and a permanent marker from his pocket. He dropped the ring in the bag and sealed it before scribbling a message on its exterior.

"Do you think that it could belong to the one that did this?" Sam asked, pointing his cold, shaking hand towards the faint blue bruising around Jacob's throat.

"It's hard to say, Sam. At best it's a shot on the dark. But it's all we've got."

John cleared his throat and said, "It has to be, little Jacob gave it to me himself." He let the words trail off as he realized just how insane he must have sounded. He looked at Sam and then at his partner with earnest apprehension, hoping that his comment had been consumed by the strong winds and whisked away.

Frank groaned as he stood to his feet. "Sam, I've done all that I can here. Do you know if the coroner is on his way?"

Sam climbed from his knees and brushed the snow away. "The last that I heard was that an ambulance is en route. But it may be a while before it gets here. Seems that there have been a few accidents caused by this," he said pointing into the snow filled sky. "As soon as we learned that this was a fatality, it dropped down on the list."

"I'm sorry that you are stuck out here, Sam. But I need to check into some things. This ring, for starters."

"Yeah, I know, this is the norm. I'm usually the first to arrive, and the last to leave." he said with a smile.

"You're a good man, Sam." Frank said as he turned away.

"Make sure you tell my wife that when I am late for supper again," he yelled over the blustering wind.

"Will do." Frank said as he tossed his hand into the air.

### Chapter Two

Frank eased the car onto the snow covered roadway, making several attempts to turn the car back toward town before he let out a long sigh and sank back into his seat. John gave his partner a long look as the car crept down the snow covered roadway. He thought long and hard about the need to tell his partner and long-time friend about his meeting with the deceased boy. He wanted to tell him to really focus on the ring. But this desire soon faded. John knew that it wouldn't be in his favor to start telling ghost stories. He knew that Frank had always had his back and had saved his butt on numerous occasions – not only from gunfire, but from the cruelty of his co-workers. This would not be a good time to test that loyalty.

John wasn't a fool. He knew that he wasn't well respected by most of the officers that he worked with. He also knew that if it weren't for Frank, he would have turned in his badge long ago. But for some reason, Frank saw something in John that the others didn't and this made John a better cop. And for that, John would always be grateful. He turned to look out through the foggy windshield and past the working wipers and thought, _if I could just solve this case, they could pin that award to my chest, and finally get the respect I deserve._ He felt his stomach churn as he thought about the case, knowing that it would take more than simple luck to solve this case. Today's victim, little Jacob, made number nine.

John remained silent as they made their way back to town, his mind poring through the information that they had about the serial killer — the monster that had chosen their little town for his playground. He shook his head in frustration, knowing that the clock was ticking and they were no closer to having any real suspects.

They arrived back at the precinct an hour after the sky had turned black. The snow had nearly stopped, but the cold wind sucked the breath from John's lungs as he stepped free from the car. After catching his breath he called out to Frank. "It's late. Are we going to work on this tonight, or get a fresh start in the morning?" John heard the drivers' side door slam shut and Frank shake his head in disgust as he leaned forward, his hands pulling his jacket tight to his chest as he hurried toward the building. "I hate when he gets like this," John said, not caring if Frank heard.

He, too, pulled his jacket tight and started moving toward the main entrance to the police station being careful, remembering his lack of grace and the poor choice of footwear. As he made his way past the cruiser and successfully stepping up onto the sidewalk he raised his head, wanting to make sure that he didn't walk into a light pole or maybe one of the many trees that decorated the landscape. His throat tightened and his body froze. He was no more animate than the bronze statue of a past war hero that stood to his left. His eyes strained and his mouth opened, wanting to call out to his partner, wanting to make him see.

John let out a long desperate breath as Frank pulled the heavy glass door open and stepped through, not noticing the dead little boy with the blue tinted skin leaning against the wall at the station's entrance. It took everything that he had to break free of his frozen state, slowly moving forward, wondering what little Jacob was doing and at the same time doubting his own sanity.

He stopped in front of little Jacob as a shiver ran through his body. John didn't like the way the shiver affected him, making him feel weak and disoriented. He slowly shook his head as he gathered himself. "Jacob?"

"Yes Mr. John?" Jacob asked with an innocent voice.

"What are you doing here?"

"I want to help you find who did this."

John nodded his head and said, "That's good, Jacob, but you have already helped a lot. Besides, isn't there some place you should be?" he asked, realizing that he had always assumed that once someone passed, there was some force pulling them towards some form of afterlife.

Jacob looked up and smiled. "You mean because I'm dead?"

John nodded his head. "Yeah, I guess that's what I mean," he said, fighting to keep his emotions in check.

Jacob shrugged his shoulders and said, "Yeah, they have been calling for me. But I just keep telling them that they will have to wait. I've got something to do."

"You can hear them?" John asked, his voice filled with surprise.

Smiling from ear to ear, Jacob said, "Oh of course I can hear them, Mr. John. And it is the most beautiful sound ever. I think that I hear it more in my heart than I do my ears."

John leaned forward. "Then why don't you go, Jacob? Why would you want to be here instead?"

"That's simple. I know that I am dead. And I know that I will have an eternity there," he said pointing over his shoulder. "So I decided to stay and help you for a while Mr. John, just like you helped me when I was little."

John felt a heartwarming smile wash over his face as he looked down at Jacob. He nodded and said, "Okay, but you can't just show up like this. It makes me think I am losing it," he said as he hurried to look over both shoulders, frustrated with himself for becoming so comfortable with his conversations with the deceased that he might not notice someone approaching.

"Okay, deal!" Jacob said with a huge grin as his right hand shot out, offering it to John. John took his hand and shook it. Instantly he felt that dreaded shiver wash over him and his world began to tilt. Jacob couldn't help but see the effect on his only friend and quickly withdrew his hand.

With sadness now settling on his face he looked up at John and said, "There is a reason that I came to see you again."

John placed the palm of his hand against the wall, still trying to gather his wits as he took a long breath. "And what's the reason?"

"Any minute you will be getting another call."

"A call?"

"There will be another murder. Well, to be honest, it has already happened. But I believe that the body is being discovered this very minute."

"What? You can't know that."

"But I do."

"Who is it, Jacob. Who is the killer?" John demanded in a stern voice.

Jacob took a step back as he clenched his jaw. "Mr. John, is that the way you talk to your friends?"

John closed his eyes and had a hard time not letting out a chuckle, not wanting to believe that he had been rebuffed by a little boy, let alone a ghost. With a smile he said, "I'm sorry Jacob. You are right."

The smile returned to Jacob's face as he said, "I always liked you, Mr. John." He hesitated for a moment. "I don't know who the killer is, but I know that you do."

"What? How can that be? Have I arrested him before? How do I know him?" he blurted out at the same moment the doors of the police station opened and Frank stepped through in a hurry.

"I guess they found the body," Jacob said. John turned to see Frank hurrying down the steps, mumbling something about it being a long night. "Don't you think you should go?" Jacob suggested.

"Well, yeah, but first tell me how I am supposed to know who the killer is, Jacob. I need to know," he pleaded.

"Go on, Mr. John, before you get left behind. I'll see you there." The smile on little boy blue intensified an instant before his existence faded. John jerked his head back and forth, searching for little Jacob, not willing to let the question go unanswered. But he didn't have a choice. There was nothing in front of him but an empty brick wall. When he turned toward the parking lot he could see that Frank was already nearing the car and in a hurry.

"Great," John mumbled as he hurried away from the building, using Frank's footprints to hurry his pace. He slipped into the passenger seat just as Frank jammed the gear shift into reverse.

"What a way to spend the holidays," Frank said with sincere sadness.

"Only a few days until Thanksgiving," John added, feeling the shared hopelessness.

Staring out through the windshield, Frank said, "I wish that you could spend the day with us like before. We had some good times," he said, his expression filled with sadness.

John turned to look at his partner, unsure if his comment was because of the case or maybe he had done something to disappoint him. "We still can."

Frank just shook his head as he pulled the car out onto the snow covered street.

### Chapter Three

Frank pulled the car to a stop just outside the area bright yellow police tape. They climbed from the car, the dark night filled with flashing red and blue lights casting strange shadows into the woods and against the wall of the old, weathered-barn. "Let's do this," Frank said as he ducked under the barricade tape.

John followed his partner, ducking under the tape as his eyes scanned the area, searching for little Jacob. He let out a sigh as he straightened his back and moved carefully forward. _Only real people,_ he thought. John tried to keep pace with his partner, once again stepping in his footprints, but the snow was getting deeper, and with each step, he could feel the slick soles of his shoes losing traction. _You saw the weather report. You'd think you have enough sense to dress properly._ He shook his head in frustration as he grabbed a low hanging branch to secure his foothold.

"She's inside, Mr. John."

John closed his eyes and lowered his head when he heard little Jacob's voice. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes as he searched for his little spirit helper. Not finding him, he said, "I need you to tell me everything, Jacob."

Jacob moved from the far side of the same tree and extended his little hand. "Come with me, Mr. John, and I will show you what you need to know. John's body shivered, just as before when he felt the little hand grip his. This time the affect was even greater. He felt the air rush from his lungs and the strength leave his legs, causing him to drop to his knees. He wanted little Jacob to remove his dead hand from his, but the little blue boy just stepped in front of him and smiled. "You are going to be alright Mr. John, I promise. Just focus on your task."

John's brow furrowed as he looked into the milky eyes of Jacob's ghost. "I don't understand."

"You have a job to do, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"And you know that you don't have much time, right?"

"Yes, I know that, Jacob."

"Then come on," he said as he gave John's hand a tug. "Let's go, before it's too late." John braced his hand against the trunk of the tree and groaned as he fought past the strange sensations that he was experiencing and came to his feet, instantly feeling even more strange than before. "You have to be strong, Mr. John." Jacob said as he started moving forward, his cold little hand unwilling to release its grip.

John moved through the snow toward the large open doors of the barn. He could see the hectic activity within the barn, the artificial light casting long shadows across the perfect white snow-scape. His eyes opened a little wider as he couldn't help but feel a strangeness wash over him. John knew that it was because of Jacob and his touch. He couldn't believe that he was allowing himself to be led by the dead. He didn't like the feeling of dead flesh against his own. He tried to pull his hand free, but this only increased the little boy's determination. John let out a sigh as he was forced to accept this new role.

John started to slow as they stepped through the opening and was able to see the group of officers crowded at the entrance to the first stall on their right. He could hear several different conversations taking place as the room erupted with light and the sound of a camera's shutter being pushed to its limit. John's reflexes took over, slamming his eyes shut when he caught a glimpse of the dead girl in one of the bursts of camera flash, her bare feet protruding from the sheet that covered her body. He was almost relieved when he felt Jacob's grip tighten and his body being pulled forward, away from the newly deceased.

"Where are we going?" he whispered.

Jacob's voice, far from hushed, "Don't you want to talk to her?"

This time John came to an abrupt stop, causing little Jacob to spin around to face him. "What?" he demanded. He instantly felt his face flush, knowing that he had spoken much louder than he would have preferred. With his heart racing he turned his head, expecting to see the entire crew staring at him and ready to mock. But the only face he saw was Frank's. He stared at his partner, seeing him shake his head and then turn away. His voice now lowered, but still demanding, he confronted his little friend. "This has to stop, Jacob. It has to stop right now. I don't know why you are here and I have no idea why no one else can see or hear you. But I do know that I have a job to do, and I am running out of time. So it's time for you to be straight with me, Jacob. What is going on?"

Jacob shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "You will see soon enough. Now come on, she's waiting, and once she hears them calling, I don't know that she will want to wait." John didn't even realize that he had started walking until they were near the far end of the barn. The smell of straw and horse manure bombarded his senses as Jacob pulled him into the last stall.

"I can't see anything, Jacob," John said as he squinted his eyes in the darkness.

"You will," Jacob answered. "Emily, are you still here?" he asked, and then waited. "It's okay, Emily, you can trust him. He is trying to help us."

Remembering to whisper, John interrupted, "Jacob, there isn't anyone here."

"I think she is here, Mr. John, she's just scared."

"What is she afraid of, Jacob?"

"I think she is afraid of the truth, Mr. John. I think that she is afraid to accept what happened to her. Not everyone accepts this as well as I did," Jacob said, puffing out his little chest in a gesture of pride.

"So what do we do?"

"Talk to her, Mr. John."

"What do I say?"

"Just be yourself, like you were the first time that you saw me."

John nodded his head as his mind raced, trying to remember what he might have said to this little boy that might have gained his trust. He was doubtful he would find success. There was no training on how to deal with a ghost, let alone gain their trust.

John dropped to his knees as he felt Jacob's hand slip from his. He stared into the darkness, took a deep breath and then said, "Hi, Emily, my name is John and I want to help you. I want to find out who did this to you and I want to make sure that they pay."

A few seconds passed before John saw a shimmer of light flicker in the corner of the stall. "It's okay Emily. I promise that I won't hurt you. I am sorry that I wasn't here to protect you. But for me to be able to help you, you have to help me." He blinked his eyes as the light returned. But this time it was more than a flicker. It grew brighter and brighter as Emily's image started to appear. John covered his eyes to shield them from the light. He turned his head, expecting to hear at least his partner approaching, bellowing out questions about the strange new light.

Then he felt Jacob's hand come to rest on his shoulder and felt his cold breath against his face, "Remember, Mr. John, just like I told you, they can't see." John let out a sigh as his body relaxed.

"Please, you have to help me. He's coming for me. I'm so afraid!" Emily said as her still glowing image jerked her head to the left and then to the right, sincerely afraid.

"It's okay," Jacob said, stepping forward. He gently took her hands in his and continued. "Everything is going to be okay, Emily. You will never be frightened again. The place that you..."

Emily took a quick step backward and stared at Jacob. "Hey, I know you," she mumbled. "You are that little boy that I always see walking in town."

"I know, I have seen you too."

"What is going on?" she begged.

"You never have to worry about anything again, Emily," Jacob said, sweetness filling his voice.

"That doesn't make any sense. Why are you here, and," her eyes grew even wider, "What is wrong with you? You look..."

"Dead?" Jacob asked with a casual tone. After waiting for a moment and not getting a verbal response, he continued. "I am dead. I was killed earlier today."

She jerked her hands free from his and took another quick step back. "Get away from me! This is just crazy. I don't know what's going on here, but if this is some kind of twisted joke..."

"It's no joke, Emily. And I know that this is going to be hard for you to accept, but," he hesitated, trying to find the right words.

John shook his head, feeling empathy for his little friend and the task before him. He cleared his throat. "Emily, I am a police detective. The reason that we are here is to investigate a murder."

"Oh no," she cried out. "Are my parent's okay? It isn't my little sister, is it?" she begged as tears started rolling down her cheeks.

"No, Emily, your parents and sister are fine, physically. But I think that it will be a long time before they recover emotionally."

The look of understanding washed over her face as her shoulders dropped and her head tilted forward. "It wasn't a dream was it?"

"I'm afraid not sweetie," John said.

"So it's true, I'm dead?"

Jacob took a quick step forward before responding with his usual boyish charm, "It's not as bad as you think, Emily. Have you heard them calling for you?"

Emily started to sob as she choked out the words. "But I'm not ready. I have so many plans. I wanted to finish college and get married. I wanted to have kids," she wailed as she fell to her knees. John leaned forward and pulled her into his arms, feeling so sad for her and not caring if someone happened to see him hugging air.

"I know that it's not fair, Emily. But I really need your help."

"How can I help you? I dead!" she mumbled.

John caressed her back as Jacob patted her shoulder. "You can tell me who it was that did this to you."

### Chapter Four

"It's all such a blur," Emily said as she forced herself to a standing position and wiped the tears from her face. "I was hanging out with some friends at a party." She saw John shake his head in disappointment and countered. "It wasn't that kind of party. It was just a few of my classmates hanging out – a birthday party, Detective."

"I'm sorry, Emily, please continue."

She took a deep, frustrated breath, and gave Jacob a long look, as if asking if she should really trust this man. When Jacob smiled, she released the air from her lungs, her body seeming to shrink a couple of inches as the tension left her body. "The music was pretty loud when my cell phone rang. So I excused myself and went outside to take the call."

"And?" John asked, his tone urgent.

"And," she responded as her brow tightened. "The music was still pretty loud, so I moved to the side of the house where it was quieter." Emily hesitated for a moment, sure that John would interrupt her if she continued. But he held his tongue. "I guess I wasn't really paying attention to anything going on around me. You see, I was talking to, Mike, my boy—" The tears immediately erupted as she covered her face with her hands. It was times like this that John hated his job. And at that very moment, it didn't matter if one was dead or alive, it seemed that the dead went through the same emotion as the living — sorrow. "Oh my God," she whimpered. "Someone please take me to see Mike. I have to tell him that I love him one more time."

John felt the tears well up in his eyes as he shook his head. "Is Mike's last name Barton?" Emily slowly nodded her head. "Was he at the party?"

"He was on his way," she said, her tears flowing freely from her swollen eyes and dripping from her trembling hands.

John took a deep breath and exhaled as he turned to look at Jacob, hoping that somehow this little guy could make this easier. But all that he received was a gentle nod. John turned back to the emotionally distraught apparition and said, "I am sorry, Emily. But you can't see him. He is the one that called the police. I am afraid that he already knows about what happened to you."

"I don't care, I just want to see him!"

Jacob took a step forward and gently touched his cold fingers to Emily's arm. "I know how you feel. There are people that I want to say goodbye to also. But just think how hard that would be on them. Try to imagine what that would put them through."

"Jacob is right, Emily. If Mike were to see you right now, it would tear at his sanity."

She jerked her hands away from her face and in an act of defiance she shouted. "Then why can you see us, Detective?"

"I really don't..."

"Because he is special, Emily."

Jerking her head toward the little blue boy she yelled. "And what does that mean?"

"It just means that he is in a place right now that makes it possible for him to see both worlds."

Her body now shaking, she mumbled, "It just isn't fair."

"I know," John said with compassion filling his voice. "And I know that this is hard, but I need you to..."

"To tell you how my life was ripped from me?" She demanded.

"Yes," he replied, choking back his own tears.

"Fine," she said with gritted teeth, "But when I get done here, I am going to make him pay. I may not know how yet, but I am going to find a way to haunt him for the rest of his life!" Emily took a moment to compose herself, taking several deep breaths before returning to her story. "I walked around to the back of the house where it was quiet. I was trying to give Mike directions to the house when I noticed something odd in the darkness."

"What was it?" John asked.

"I saw two people standing in the alley. I thought they were my friends, so I wanted to surprise them. But when I got close, when I realized I was wrong, it was too late."

"How so?"

"It wasn't my friends, and I had seen too much."

John bit his lower lip for a moment, trying to maintain his patience. "What had you seen, Emily?"

"I saw the man that killed me taking money from another person. It wasn't just a few dollars either. There were several stacks bundled together. And then I saw the man hand him a duffel bag. That is when I stepped on the fallen tree branch."

"And the drug dealer killed you because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

She nodded her head. "Yes that is the reason why. But it wasn't that simple. I don't know how I reacted so fast. I could feel him pulling at my hair as I turned away. I just started running. I wanted to get away from the house."

"Why did you do that? Wouldn't you have been safer there?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Doesn't really matter now, does it? But to answer your question, I didn't want to get anyone else hurt. So I ran... here. I thought that I had gotten away. I thought that I lost him in the woods or maybe he had just given up. But I hid in that stall for a long time."

"So what happened next?" John asked as his chest tightened, not sure that he was ready to hear the first-hand account.

"I waited there for a long time. I don't know how long it was, but it was long enough for me to calm down and really listen. There wasn't a single sound to be heard. So I crawled out of the stall and was taking my time to get to the main doors. I wanted to make sure that I could get a good look outside and make sure that it was clear. But just as I was stepping out through those doors, my world fell apart. I don't know how he got into the barn, but he had. His hands wrapped so tight around my throat that I was sure I was already dead."

Not wanting to hear all the violent details, John asked. "Can you tell me who it was?"

Emily pressed her fingertips to her temples and started massaging them as she closed her eyes.

"I remember hearing the other man call him something. I don't think it was his real name though."

"What was it?" John urged.

"The man called him, 'Chief'.'"

John's head spun toward little Jacob as he heard the little boy gasp. "What is it Jacob?"

Jacob extended his little hand, grasping John's arm as his little body began to tense and his life-light flicker. John couldn't believe his eyes, and his heart couldn't stand to see the incredible fear and desperation in the little guy's eyes.

"I have a feeling that you might want to hurry and finish your story," John said with and urgent tone as he glanced back at Emily.

"There really isn't much more to tell."

"Just tell it!" he said, still unable to tear his eyes away from his little friend, his heart sinking as he watched the reality of terror in little Jacob's eyes. John knew the horrific expression was a true reflection of what little Jacob experienced the moment that he stared death in the eyes.

"The man drug me back into the barn. He had one hand around my throat, and one covering my mouth. I was trying to fight, I was trying to get away. But he just laughed at me as he described what he was going to do to me before he killed me." She hesitated for a moment before her eyes shot wide.

"Is there something else?" His voice tense.

"I think so. Maybe. I'm not really sure."

"Just tell me and I will decide whether it's worth anything. But please hurry," he begged. John reached out and pulled little Jacob to his chest and held him as tightly as one might be able to hold something that really wasn't there. He wanted to make everything better. He wanted to take their pain away. Instead, he was just reminded about all the people that he had failed over his career. His heart broke for all those who had died on his watch.

"Okay, well, he shoved me against the wall hard enough that I landed on the ground. Everything was so blurry. But I heard a sound that I will always remember, something that I heard every time my grandfather smoked his pipe. I saw the man's face light up as he lit his cigarette. The smile on his face was evil."

"So far this isn't helping."

"I know, I'm sorry, this is hard for me to get a grip on too, you know. Anyway, I made one last attempt to get away. I thought that I might have a chance with the flame so close to his eyes. So I shoved the heel of my foot between his legs as hard as I could."

"I'm sorry that didn't help you get away, Emily."

"Yeah me too," she said with a strong tone of regret. "But when I kicked him, it really surprised him. And I think that I might be able to show you something that will help."

"Please do," he said, coming to his feet. "What is it?"

"Let me have him," Emily said extending her arms, "I think I can help in that area too," she said as she reached for little Jacob.

John hesitated for a moment, but noticing that the light that surrounded his little friend was fading fast, he said "Okay, but take good care of him."

She nodded her head and smiled for the first time. "I will. Now go check the far corner of the barn. If it's still there, you should be able to find it."

"Find what?" John mumbled as he turned away. His heart sank, certain that he was going to look like a fool once again.

He stepped out into the open area of the barn and tried to act casual in case another officer happened to notice his wandering. Frank and two other detectives were approaching him, their eyes and flashlight beams focused on the floor as they moved in his direction. John took a deep breath as his mind raced. He had to think of something to say, something that would explain why he was standing in the shadows. He cleared his throat. "It looks like there was a scuffle here," he said pointing at the areas where Emily had been shoved against the wall. "And it looks like something happened over there," he said pointing into the dark corner.

The light from Frank's flashlight brightened the area of the wall and then traveled to the corner. "It looks like she put up a pretty good fight. You can see part of her blouse caught on a nail there on the wall."

"I agree, Frank," said the other detective, "I just wish it had been enough."

"Yeah me too," Frank said, moving the light back to the corner as he started in that direction. John let out a sigh of relief when he saw Frank had taken the bait.

"You see something?" The other detective questioned.

"I don't know for sure," he said as he covered the area with the beam of his light. "Look at the way the straw has been moved around. It's not matted down like everywhere else."

"Looks like someone was looking for something, and in a hurry," John added as he stepped past his partner and started to move the straw with the toe of his shoe.

"It sure looks like someone was looking for something." Frank said.

The third detective stepped forward, "And it looks like they were in a hurry."

John just shook his head. _Isn't that exactly what I just said?_ He thought to himself, wishing that just once his fellow officers would give him the respect he deserved. _Every one of them were in diapers when I solved my first case!_ His heart skipped a beat and he forget about feeling sorry for himself the instant that he felt the toe of his shoe bump against something hidden. In a rush, he dropped to his knees and started searching. He felt the cold object against his fingers as Frank adjusted the beam of his flashlight; the sharp, bright reflection caused John to clench his eyes shut for just an instant. When he opened them again, he saw that Frank had found their prize, moving the remaining straw with the tip of his pencil. "Someone get me an evidence bag!" ordered Frank.

"Here, take this one," the third detective said, handing the plastic bag over Franks shoulder.

"Thanks," Frank said, taking the bag and scooping up the shiny lighter. "We need to get this tested for prints and DNA." Frank closed the bag and lifted it up as he adjusted the beam from his flashlight. Squinting his eyes he said, "Looks like we have some initials engraved on it – J.D."

"Do those initials ring a bell for anyone?" John questioned. He looked each man in the eyes, finally shaking his head in frustration when he didn't get a response.

"Do you all have everything that you need?" Frank asked the other officers.

"I think so. It's pretty hard to tell if we have missed anything with it being so late." The second detective offered.

"Yeah, I think we need to call it a night. We can come back tomorrow and take another look. You two take this," he said, offering them the bagged lighter, "and get it printed ASAP. I'll wait here for the coroner."

"You sure?" the third detective asked.

"Yeah, I'm sure. Get out of here before the snow gets any worse."

### Chapter Five

John leaned against the open door frame of the barn as he watched the taillights fade away in the distance. "So why do we have the pleasure of standing here in the cold? I've got seniority and you are the highest ranking detective on the force, Frank. Those two _wannabe's_ should be the ones freezing their butts off, not us!" He turned his head to see Frank leaning against the stall door, tapping away at the screen on his phone. "Still not talking to me? So that's the way it's going to be?" He pushed away from the door frame and turned to the inside of the barn.

He tried to hide the shock when he turned to see little Jacob and Emily standing there, his little hand resting in hers. Both emitted a haunting glow as they stared at him. John jerked his head to see Frank still focused on his phone and paying no attention to him or his ghostly friends.

"Mr. John?" John looked down at Jacob and could see the fear and desperate concern in his eyes. John wanted to tell them that somehow everything was going to be alright. But he was held speechless knowing that if he were to verbalize his thoughts Frank would know that he was, in fact, insane.

"He's coming, Mr. John. The man that you are looking for is coming here," Jacob said. "And I know who he is. I remember now." John shrugged his shoulders as he nodded his head towards his partner, wanting the boy to continue without him needing to actually make that request. "His name is Jack, Mr. John. He used to be my mother's boyfriend. When Emily said that the other man called him Chief, the memory came flooding back."

"I'm going to stretch my legs, Frank." John said as he started moving toward the back of the barn. When he arrived at the spot of Emily's death, he stopped and turned around, nearly crawling out of his skin when he turned and realized just how close his ghostly friends had followed. John leaned forward and spoke to Jacob. "What happened, Jacob?"

"I saw him do something really, really bad a few days ago."

"What was that?"

"You know that crazy guy that is always down on Main Street? I think everyone called him Mooch."

"Yeah I know him. I busted him for possession on several occasions before we found his body in a ditch."

"I was walking down the railroad tracks and I saw Jack talking to him," Jacob said.

"Somehow I am not surprised."

"Well, when I got close, I heard Jack yelling at him. I got scared and decided to hide," Jacob said as he lowered his head. "And that is when it happened. I saw Jack stab Mooch. I've never seen anything so awful before, Mr. John. He just kept stabbing him. I know that I should have stayed in my hiding spot, but I was so scared. I couldn't stay there any longer, so I started to run."

"Did he see you?"

"Yes, sir. He saw me and chased me. But I guess he was more worried about someone finding Mooch, so he stopped. I thought that everything was okay. And when he came into my backyard and offered me the candy, I thought it was his way of telling me that everything was okay."

"And the candy is the last thing that you remember?"

"Yeah, that's right. But I am scared again, Mr. John. I tell you, he is coming back. He is coming back here to look for the lighter you found."

"And just how do you know this?"

"It's one of the advantages of being dead, I guess. When I was forced to remember what happened to me, my spirit must have left this place. I don't know how I did it, but I ended up in his truck. And he was really mad. He kept cussing himself for losing the lighter. He knows that it's the only real thing tying him to the murders."

"What about the ring?"

"That won't do you any good, Mr. John. It was a gift that he had planned on giving my mom before she broke up with him."

John nodded his head as he took a deep breath. "You don't have to worry, Jacob, everything will be alright. If he does come back here, we can catch him red-handed."

"I don't know," Jacob mumbled. "He seemed really mad and I don't think he is quite right up there in the chicken coop," he said, pointing to his head.

"Don't worry, I think we can handle it." John said, "He won't be the first thug with an attitude that we have dealt with."

John flinched a second later as he heard Frank yell out in surprise. John spun around to see his partner pressed hard against the wall, Jack's fingers clenching his throat. John bolted forward, praying that he could cover the span in time to assist his partner. Fear riddled his body, not able to imagine losing his partner this way. Jack searched frantically for something behind his back as he fought to hold the detective against the wall.

"No!" John screamed as the man pulled the revolver free from behind his belt. John fell to his knees, skidding to a stop as he shoved his hands over his ears, the sound of the gunshot deafening. His heart racing, he forced his eyes open, afraid of the truth that he was sure to see.

The man loosened his grip on Frank's throat and took a step back. He tried to raise his gun, but his trembling hand chose not to respond. The firearm slipped from his hand and hit the floor only a second before Jack's knees buckled. John let out a long sigh and grinned from ear to ear as he looked at Frank. His partner stood there with his snub-nosed .38 gripped tightly in his hand, a small tendril of smoke snaking its way from the barrel as Jack slumped to the floor.

"You got him!" John said as he hurried to his feet. You got the one that we have been after," he said with the excitement of a child. Frank just shoved himself away from the wall and made his way over to Jack. With a flip of his shoe, he shoved the killer's gun out of reach before he knelt at his side.

"So, I bet you didn't think that it would end like this did you?" Franks brow furrowed as he saw the strange expression wash over Jack's face, one of curiosity, confusion and finally, fear. Frank had seen the look before, in the eyes of those that were standing at deaths door. But at this instant, John understood the reaction better than Frank ever would. John knew that the fear in the man's eyes came from seeing the spirits of those that he had murdered hovering over him like hungry wolves.

"Get them away from me!" Jack screamed as he swatted at the air. John couldn't help but smile as he stood back and watched the numbers grow. In his mind he counted each one, and in time, the ghostly remains of each of the people that Jack had murdered arrived. Every one of them was eager to escort him to his final destination.

"Get who away from you, Jack? It's just the two of us here." John's brow furrowed as he heard his partners remarks. _I love ya, Frank, but you need to learn to share the glory, man!_

"Can't you see them?" Jack screamed, sending blood spittle into the air as he choked on his words.

"It's obvious that you are in shock." Frank said as he pulled the digital recorder from his suit jacket. He pressed the red button and asked. "So why did you kill Jacob, and this girl? Why did you have to take their lives?"

Jack forced himself up on his elbows and coughed twice before licking the blood away from his lips and then smiling. "Because they were getting in my way, pig! I couldn't let any of them live. I was so close..." his said, his voice trailing off.

"Close to what?" Jack demanded.

Jack opened his eyes wide and stared boldly at Frank. "I had connections. I had some important men coming down from up north. I was going to be rich, I was going to be in control!"

"Control of what, drugs?" Frank asked, shaking his head.

"Yeah, and the money!"

Frank nodded his head in a sarcastic gesture. "You were already as good as dead, Jack. Once they got their feet wet, yours would have been set in concrete."

"Whatever, man. I did what I had to do. They all died because they got in my way." Jack said as his eyes darted about, catching glimpses of those that wanted and needed revenge. "Can you please make them stop?" he screamed as he swung his hands through the air.

Frank eased back and spoke in a calm voice. "Just try and relax. I don't know what you will be facing on the other side, but I am pretty sure that you are about to find out. And I hope that it is a thousand times worse for you than it was for those that you murdered."

Get away from me! Stop it! Please, don't. Please just let me be!" Jack pleaded as tears began to stream down his face.

For an instant, John wondered why he wasn't feeling sorry for the man lying on the barn floor. But as he watched the ghostly apparitions swarming his body, he was reminded how cruel this man had been, each one returning the act of violence that Jack had used to end their lives — a woman dressed like a prostitute hovered over him, plunging a translucent knife into his chest while a man stood at his head, taking great aim with his golf club. They were just two of the many vengeful spirits. From the shadows, the ghost of a man approached, swinging an axe while his lips blew a silent tune.

As Jack's screams intensified, and Frank stood to his feet, John turned to his right to see his two ghostly friends standing at his side. Both wearing sincere smiles as they looked at him. "We did it, Mr. John, we did it," Jacob bragged.

Almost three hours later, the barn was nearly empty. The officers had returned and done their jobs and the coroner had retrieved the bodies. John knew that he would never forget what he witnessed when he saw the coroners van leave the premises, a trail of apparitions floating above, diving in and out of the back of the vehicle. With each plunging spirit, Jack's ghost cried out in fear.

Frank squinted his eyes against the bright lights and answered the reporter's questions. John stood at a distance with a smile on his face. They had been successful at solving the biggest case that they had ever seen in their little town of Springbrook. He let out a long sigh, knowing that he could now leave the force without any guilt.

He watched Frank handle the reporters with ease, thinking that if Frank hadn't turned out to be such a good cop, he could have been a successful actor. He shook his head as he turned around, wanting to say one last goodbye to his ghostly friends, and to thank them. He knew that without their help, more people would have died. But when he turned around, he found that he was alone — no shimmering lights or even a fading mist. They were gone.

The ride back into town was quiet, both men letting the relief sink in and trying to accept its reality. Frank eased the car into his driveway and said, "I know it's late, but I need a cup of coffee."

"Yeah, I could use one too," John said.

John followed Frank down the long sidewalk and up the two steps to the front entrance, waiting patiently for him to unlock the door. He couldn't wait to feel the warmth of Frank's house and the hot bitter sweetness of a cup of coffee. Frank stepped in and John followed, stepping out of the way to allow Frank to close the door.

"Honey, is that you?" came a familiar voice.

"Yeah, Annette, it's me."

"Are you all right?" she asked as she rounded the corner, pulling her robe tight.

"I couldn't be better," he said as he wrapped her in his arms and held her tight.

"Does this mean there is good news?" she asked with an apprehensive tone.

Frank stepped back and with a smile that beamed, he said, "I did it, Annette, I got him."

Annette's eyes shot wide. "You mean?"

"That's exactly what I mean," he said as he patted her arm and then stepped away, taking only a few steps before stopping in front of the wall decorated with photos. As he gingerly reached up and touched his fingers to a photo, he said, "I got the guy that killed my uncle John."

John felt his throat go dry and his knees go weak. "What did you just say?" he managed to spit out. He tried to blink the blurred vision from his eyes as he stepped forward. "What did you say, Frank?" he asked even louder. And when he didn't get a response he stopped directly in front of Annette and begged, "What did he just say Annette? Please, what did he just say?"

Annette wiped the tear from her eye as she turned away from John as if he weren't even there and moved to her husband. She stopped at his side and placed her hand on his back, gently rubbing it. "I know he is proud of you, Frank. And it's almost Thanksgiving, Babe. This year, we can really celebrate what we are thankful for."

"Seriously, what is going on here? What are you two talking about?" John begged as he took a step closer to the wall. His world began to spin and a tear rolled down his cheek when he recognized the photo. He felt his body shiver as he turned around. He didn't want to look at the picture. He didn't want to admit what it meant. He fought back the urge to vomit as the dates printed on the photo flashed through his mind. 1964-2013 was printed just below his photo.

"Mr. John?"

John looked up in disbelief to see little Jacob and Emily standing there before him. "I don't understand." he mumbled.

"I know Mr. John. But there isn't anything to be afraid of."

"But I can't be."

"I know that it seems strange, Mr. John. But it's true."

"How could I have not known?"

"Do you remember when you asked me why I was sticking around?"

"Yes, Jacob, I remember."

"I didn't tell you everything when I said that I told them I had something I had to do. After I died," he hesitated for a moment, searching John's eyes for understanding. "They actually sent me back to help you."

"Help me solve the case?"

"Kinda, I guess, but there was a bigger reason."

"Please, just tell me, Jacob?" John pleaded.

"To help you understand." Jacob said. "About a year and a half ago, you got a call to come to my house. And you came alone. You thought that it was just something to do with my mother and you thought that you could handle it. But that isn't really what happened. It was Jack. He knew that you were close to busting his drug ring. So he waited down the road—"

"And he made his car look like it had broken down," John said as he reached for the wall to brace himself, his knees becoming even weaker.

"Do you remember now?" Jacob asked.

John closed his eyes and nodded his head, "I remember," he said, placing his hand to his chest and applying pressure, as if trying to erase a forgotten pain. "He shot me in the chest before I had time to react." His voice trembling, he asked. "What now?"

"Just listen, John, just listen in your heart."

John forced himself to stand tall as he wiped the tears from his face. He turned and looked over his shoulder. "There has to be a way for me to let him know how proud I am of him. There has to be a way that I can tell them how much I love them."

"Just look at them, John," Emily said. "You are getting to see something that I wasn't able to. It's obvious that they love you very much."

"But..."

"Just listen, John. It will be the most beautiful thing you have ever heard," Jacob said as he grasped John's hand.

* * *

Did you hear that?" Annette asked in a startled voice as she spun around.

"Hear what?" Frank asked.

"I don't know, it was hard to explain, it was almost like... music, but..."

"But what?"

"But it was... too beautiful."

Frank turned to look at his wife with a surprised look and said, "I didn't hear anything, but I could have sworn that I smelled that cologne," he said with a grin. "That awful cologne that Uncle John always thought so much of."

### About Rodney Hall

My name is Rodney Hall, I am fifty years old and have been happily married for twenty-seven of those years. I am also the very proud father of two adult daughters. I haven't always been a writer. But I have been a story teller for as long as I can remember. Some of my fondest memories as a child were when a group of us kids would take the long hike through the darkness to the old barn and tell ghost stories. I believe that is the point that kick-started my imagination. This lay dormant for many years as I tried to find my place in life.

Nearly fourteen years ago, I was diagnosed with a rare neurological condition called "Hereditary Spastic Paraplegia". To say that it was a life changing experience would be a major understatement. No longer able to work in the field that I had trained for, I was forced to look at other possibilities. Almost on a whim, I decided to return to what I loved, only this time, I would be putting the words to paper. When I started writing my first book, I was thrilled to be reunited with my old friend, imagination. I was a kid again, telling ghost stories to my friends in the top loft of the old barn. It doesn't get any better than that.

<https://www.facebook.com/rodneyhallauthor>

### A Perfect Christmas

C.R. Garmen

The snow fell heavily from the night skies, quickly blanketing the earth in a thick powder. Jessie's boots crunched down on the pavement as she made her way inside the small local mart. She stomped them on the welcome mat and wandered down the medicine aisle with a hard cough. The store played soft Christmas music over the speakers while Rudolph and his friends hung in paper cut outs from the ceiling. She watched her footing on the wet tiled floor with short glimpses around at the decorative wreathes and the few other patrons who dared the storm on the night before Christmas. She felt crazy for going outside but was desperate for some relief. Her nose felt like it was draining down her face and her lungs worked overtime to draw in air. Being sick sucked, there were no two ways about it.

Bright orange sale tags decorated the shelves as she scanned over the selection of cold remedies and finally settled for the generic brand. Buy one get one half off was too tempting of an offer to pass up, especially in the current economy. Purchase in hand she turned to leave when a little girl's bright smile caught her eye. She darted down the main aisle with a book in her hands and tiny brown pigtails bobbing behind her. Jessie smiled and let out a quiet chuckle which quickly turned into a coughing fit. Children could be so darn cute.

She followed after the little girl to the check-out line and watched as the book was presented to her mother. The woman was short with greying hair and laugh lines around her eyes. Her nose was a bright red and skin slightly pale as she threw a glance down at her daughter. The cold medicine in her basket had Jessie offering silent sympathy to them. She understood the woman's current pain all too well.

"Mommy, mommy, can I have this coloring book? Look, it has princesses in it!" the girl announced with a wave of the item in question. The mother's face dropped as she checked the price and slowly she shook her head. "I'm sorry sweetheart, but maybe next time. Right now we have to get milk, bread, and some meds." The little girl nodded in understanding and turned to put it away but Jessie saw the flash of disappointment on her face that tore at her own heart.

It was then she really looked at this family and it felt like time slowed to a near crawl. The jacket the mother wore was frayed around the wrists and appeared to be slightly too small. The little girl had on one that was too big for her small frame. She didn't appear surprised or upset that she was told to put something back. It looked more like her hopes were dashed for a second, third, or fourth time.

It could have been a coincidence, or even an assumption on her part, but the scene reminded her of a time she would have rather forgotten. It said times were tough, and only going to get harder. She swallowed hard as the world around her melted away.

"Hey mom, can I have that doll?" It was small, about twice the size of her own hand, with blond hair and ocean blue eyes. Her jumper said 'friends forever' on the front with matching white shoes and socks. The painted smile on the dolls face was beautifully done with captivating minor details to her eyelashes and pink tipped nails. It would fit in nicely with her tea-party buddies back at home.

"I'm sorry, pumpkin," her mother said with a sad smile as she picked up a box of cereal. "Not this time, maybe the next time we come here." Jessie looked down at her second hand boots and tried hard to keep the disappointed sigh inside. She loved her mommy but she always said that. Her face quickly brightened up as she remembered what time of the year it was.

"Do you think Santa could get it for me? I know I didn't ask for it in my letter but he's magical so he would know, right?" she asked in a rush of excitement. Her mother turned away so she couldn't see her face, but she noticed the tension in her shoulders. It meant mom was upset or angry. What did she do wrong?

"I don't know, baby, maybe he will. But if he doesn't you can't be upset. Santa works very hard every year to get a toy under everyone's tree." She murmured before setting a brisk pace down the aisle to the check-out line. Jessie nodded but bit her lip against the questions she burned to ask. Why did Santa only leave her one toy every year when Jacob from school got seven or eight? She was always happy with what she got and didn't care if she never found anything more under the tree but it made no sense. Molly talked about how full her living room would be of wrapped presents, and Brenda would gush over full stockings hanging from her fireplace mantel. Santa wasn't fair to all of the boys and girls he visited. Was it something she did?

Jessie cast the doll another longing stare before hurrying after her mom. Customers looked as they passed with sympathy or judgment in their eyes but said nothing. They check out and hurried across the parking lot to the beat up minivan while snow fluttered around them. The vehicle had no heat but it was short drive to their apartment. Christmas lights were strung across the top of the tall building and were wrapped around a few of the small trees. Their neighbors had pictures of snowmen and wrapped presents in their windows with lush wreaths on their doors. The magic of the holiday wrapped itself around everyone, bringing a sense of cheer to the air that was missing any other time of the year. Jessie loved it dearly and dancing up the steps to their plain door. She stomped her boots off on the black mat and slid them off just inside the front hall while mom took care of the groceries.

"Mom, mom!" she called, running around the corner to the tiny kitchen.

"Are we going to put out cookies for Santa, and a glass of milk?"

Her mother's face visibly fell before turning into another sad smile. "Not this year but Santa will understand. Besides, he gets so many cookies from everyone else that we would just make him sick. How about we put out a piece of toast for the reindeer instead?"

Jessie's face lit up at the idea. Hardly anyone from her class talked about putting out snacks for the reindeer, and they worked so hard helping out Santa. It would be a very good gesture. She pondered it for a moment before asking, "Can we leave out some water for them to drink, too?" Her mother beamed at the thought and quickly agreed. "Sounds wonderful, baby doll. I'm sure we can find a bowl around here for them."

The end result washed away the thoughts of the doll from the store. A cleaned sour cream bowl was filled with water and a chipped plate held the piece of toast for their midnight visitors. Their small tree was turned on, dancing with colorful lights that reflected off of the ornaments grandma used to send every year. It wasn't much but it was perfect. Jessie sat on the carpet as her mother read her a Christmas story and sang a few Christmas songs- her favorite, Silent Night, was done at least twice- until Jessie rubbed her eyes and yawned. Then her mother picked her up and tucked her into bed. "Sweet dreams, pumpkin. I'll see you in the morning."

Jessie offered her a sleepy smile and a soft, "goodnight, see you in the morning." It was never long before she fell asleep and her mother snuck off to the hall closet. Behind the towels on the top shelf were the Christmas presents that she would quickly lay out under the tree. The toast was cold but she would force herself to eat it and take care of the water. At midnight, to no one in particular, she wished a quiet Merry Christmas than turn off all of the lights and head to bed.

Jessie received three presents that year; a pair of socks, a book on animals, and a stuffed teddy bear. Though she never forgot that doll it never dimmed her Christmas spirit. She loved spending the time with her mother who worked tirelessly throughout the year at two jobs to provide for them, singing and reading beloved stories about miracles and winter wonder. It was never about the gifts, it was about unconditional love. Her mother, however, seemed to wilt over the years when finally she confessed to her daughter that they were struggling to pay the bills and celebrations had to be an afterthought. It filled her with guilt that her baby would wonder why Santa gave more to other kids and not her. Or what she did that made her mother's smile dip into a frown. She couldn't bear to see another mother go through that.

She looked at the tense shoulders and worry glimmering behind the woman's eyes. The little girl shared a look with Jessie almost to say she knew what was really going on. It was an instant bond she had with them both. She understood the feelings spiraling through their souls in this one simple moment. The little girl turned to put the book back as her mother asked with a flash of a smile. Jessie flexed her hands, took a deep breath, and reached out for the kid before she skipped down the aisle. The little girl gasped when Jessie gave her shoulder a tender squeeze. Her mother's eyes widened with uncertainty. Jessie gave them a disarming smile and shook her head. "Hey, do you mind if I have that coloring book?" she asked. The little girl looked down at the item in question, brushing a hand the glossy bright cover.

"Yeah, okay," she replied.

"Thank you very much!"

The mother smiled and grabbed her bag from the cashier. "Come on Tina, we need to go." The little girl chirped an "okay" and skipped after her to the front door. The cashier was a lanky younger man who simply raised an eyebrow as he scanned her purchases. Jessie tapped a finger on the counter impatiently and when he announced the total she throw a twenty at him and all but snatched the bag away. "Keep the change, donate it to charity or something!" she yelled over her shoulder while darting out the door.

The cold winter wind lashed at her body as she struggled to spot the two, praying they hadn't pulled away yet. "I can buckle my own seatbelt, mommy!" Tina's cheery voice rang out. Jessie blew out a breath of relief and let out another harsh cough as she chased after the sound. She rounded the corner of the brick building and spotted them closing the trunk of their Sedan. The parking lot was covered in a sheet of ice. Bravely, or maybe it was stupidly, Jessie ran across it anyway. Her boots slipped, causing her to nearly fall three times until she finally smacked into the back of their car. The breath left her lungs as she fought to keep herself up right. It smarted and startled the mother who quickly climbed out of the driver's seat to see if the insane stalker stranger was alright.

"What are you doing?!" she exclaimed while Jessie groaned and pushed herself off of the trunk. "I wanted to see your daughter again." She said between breathes. The mother's shoulders went back and her eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

"Look, I don't know who you are but you need to leave. Now." She growled out. Jessie threw her hands up quickly, jostling the bag. "No, no! That came out wrong, I swear I'm not here to be creepy or anything I—"

"Yeah, you're not doing a good job of that," the mother interrupted with a scowl. "Please, I just wanted to help." She begged, digging in the bag for the coloring book. When she pulled it out the mother gasped and covered her mouth with her slender hands. She shook her head slightly when it was offered to her. "Why would you do that? I mean, you really don't have to..." she began.

Jessie grinned, "because it's Christmas."

The mother shook her head again but accepted the gift with a gracious thank you and slowly got in her car. Jessie carefully made her way back to her own vehicle, watching as they backed out of their spot. Tina's face was lit up with a huge smile as she waved goodbye while they pulled away. All she got was a quick glimpse of the mother, but the smile adorning her face as well would be forever burned into her memory. It was another Christmas were she didn't have much, but it was perfect.

### About C.R. Garmen

C.R. Garmen developed her passion for writing at a young age. Starting with retelling the three little pigs, she went on to dream big of being an author one day. Born and raised in the suburbs of Detroit, she is very close to her family, especially her little siblings who light up her world and continue to support and fuel her passion for telling stories.

Another First for Christmas

### Michelle Rabe

Eric looked at the envelope in his hands, addressed to him but in care of The Dracul, Morgan's Hollywood nightclub. He slid his finger into the small slot at the edge of the envelope and, ripped open the paper, knowing what would happen if he wasn't careful. Mina, the kitten who'd adopted him a few nights ago, took the opportunity to bat at the other edge of the letter. The envelope shuddered in his hand, sending glitter and tiny cut out snowflakes spilling over his lap and the comforter.

"Thanks Miss Mina, I was trying to avoid making a mess." He scolded the now glitter covered kitten, though he was trying very hard not to laugh. Mina, shook herself, dislodging most of the glitter, before hopping off the bed and walking off, tail held high. Laughing for the first time in what felt like weeks, Eric slid the card out of the envelope, not caring that glitter and snowflake shaped confetti fell on the comforter and floor anymore, and looked at the front of it.

There they were, from Thanksgiving, no doubt. The whole Kincade family looked back at him from the card. His father's sparkling blue eyes were a match to what he saw in the mirror every morning. A somewhat lopsided smile curled his lips, echoing the one his mother wore in the picture. Their smiles seemed to accuse him as they stared out of the photograph. His sister, brother, mother and father all seemed to know that he was lying to them every time he wrote a letter.

_That's impossible, everything's been set up so that they think I'm in LA. It's a convoluted system, but supposedly it's for the best._ He thought, hanging his head. _The others keep telling me that my family will be safe and not worry too much about me. Unfortunately, Morgan doesn't know my mother though; she's going to worry no matter what._

"I hate lying to you." He whispered to the photograph as the conversation that he'd had with Morgan a short time before Thanksgiving flooded his memory.

_"Why can't I go?"_ He had demanded, for what felt like the hundredth time, after Morgan had told him that it was impossible for him to spend just a few hours with his family. She had spent the past fifteen minutes dancing around the issue, giving him several tactful, diplomatic answers.

_"It is dangerous."_ She growled. Both her voice and stiff posture screamed that she was fed up with his insistence.

_"Dangerous? What do you mean?"_ Eric pressed, grabbing on to her arm when she tried to turn away.

_"I mean that, should you decide to attend the family dinner, it is almost certain that you will lose control and hurt or kill one or more members of your family."_ She snapped, green eyes flashing with irritation as she wrenched her arm out of his grip.

_"What?"_ Eric gasped.

_"You are still new to this, and while you have more control than most, you will not be able to stop yourself. You will give into the bloodlust and you will loathe yourself for it._ Please _Eric. I_ know _how important this is to you but, if you truly love your family, you will stay away."_ Something in her voice convinced him that she was speaking from some type of experience. Woven within the words was a thread of anguish which spoke of dark, tortured memories.

_"What will I tell them?"_ He'd asked giving in.

_"Tell them your new boss is a bitch and won't let you have enough time off."_ Morgan answered, a smirks curling her lips.

_"You're not a bitch._ Eric sighed. _I'_ m just stubborn. _"_

Eric came out of his reverie when a small white paw whacked his leg. He looked down at Mina, she mewed and trotted over to the open bedroom door. A clear sign that she wanted to be fed. He turned his attention back to the picture. "I don't want to lie," he sighed, "but I have to. I can't control myself around humans for very long. The blood calls to me and I can't stop myself." He shook his head and stood. "Just like I can't stop feeding before I kill, without another vampire there to help me." Eric opened the card, hiding the faces, behind the flap. The change didn't help, his family's accusatory looks were replaced with hand written barbs that lodged themselves into his heart and wouldn't let go. He felt his eyes tearing up as he read over the messages of love that each family member had written. "This is stupid," Eric muttered looking up at the clock, "It's eleven o'clock. They'll be on their way to midnight mass." He chuckled shaking his head. "They're on their way to Saint Louis Cathedral: it's a high holy day so the family goes there." As he spoke he felt a sharp pain in his chest, the barbs digging deeper. "Then it's Christmas day at Saint Anne's, just like any normal Sunday." Eric told the kitten who had perched herself on the small antique table beside the door. "I've got to get out of here." He tossed the card toward the nightstand, not bothering to pick it up when it slid off and fluttered to the floor. He snatched his denim jacket off the back of the chair before he left the room with, Mina's plaintive mews following, behind him as he walked.

"Eric?" Morgan's voice drifted out of the living room as he stepped into the foyer.

"Yeah, I'm going to feed the princess." He answered without looking at the elder vampire as he passed where she was sitting in the living room. He heard Morgan's soft footsteps behind him as he entered the kitchen.

"That wasn't what I was going to say." She replied, her voice was calm, to the point where it tested and pricked at the edges of Eric's temper, fraying it.

"What is it?" He stopped in front of the pantry and opened it. This was Mina's cupboard. There were stacks of canned kitten food, a couple bags of dry, treats, and, off to one side, the supplies for her litter boxes. When Morgan didn't answer for a few moments he snatched a can from the stacks, then turned to face the other vampire. Mina was sitting on the counter watching him thorough golden eyes as she waited, tail twitching.

"I wanted to see how you are." Morgan replied stroking the kitten's back.

"I'm fine," he snapped, "I'm just going for a walk." He slammed the can on to the counter. Mina hissed as she scrambled on the counter for a moment, paws and claws not finding traction on the smooth granite slab thwarting her escape attempt. As Eric stormed through the living room he heard Morgan soothing the cat. He paused at the front door listening.

"Come on Princess Mina." Morgan's voice drift out of the kitchen, "let's get you dinner, or is it breakfast since you _are_ a vampire's kitten?" A tiny mew answered Morgan and Eric was certain that she was on the counter trying to push her small black head in between the bowl and food can.

_I really should go feed her._ Eric thought. _It's not Mina's fault that I got that card._ He stood at the door a few moments more, even making a partial turn as if to go back to the kitchen.

"I suppose it's really lunch since it's already midnight and Nicholas fed you at sundown." Morgan continued. "Yes I know about that, but let's keep it our little secret."

Eric shook himself, his mind drifting back to the card, and his family, to where he _should_ be, and he turned back to the door. He stepped out into a moisture laden evening and pulled his jacket on to cover the pair of forty-five's he carried in shoulder holsters; he still wasn't skilled enough with a sword to merit carrying one for defense.

I don _'t care that it's not considered honorable to shoot another vampire, I'll do it if it means the difference between this life and death. Why should I follow a code of honor that was outdated before my great grandparents were born?_ Eric thought, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. He looked around, a light low mist hung about the front yard, clinging to the trees and shrubs. Feeling the need to move, Eric pulled his hood over his head shoved his hands in his pockets, and started walking.

Eric followed his feet through the Garden district paying little attention to the colorful lights and decorations, which seemed to mock him. Artificial snow hid speakers that blasted tinny renditions of carols he'd heard all his life. The fog dimmed the glow of the lights a little, giving them a hazy almost dreamlike quality. Feeling the barbs dig deeper into his heart, he found himself walking toward the St Charles line. Walking in a strange sort of daze he caught a trolley, holding on to a hand railing to steady himself as the car rattled along. When the trolley pulled up to the Jackson Square stop, Eric was feeling more like himself again.

He hopped off the car and strolled through the square, admiring the lights. All around him the beating of human hearts was like the hum of a fluorescent bulb, just darting along the edges of his consciousness, something easy to ignore. He meandered down the lighted paths through the center of the square, past the bronze statue of old Stonewall himself and out the other side just across the way from the steps of the Cathedral.

Eric looked to either side and saw that the benches sitting along the fence were empty so, he walked over to one and sat down, closing his eyes. He could hear the music through the open doors and, though he knew it was impossible, he thought he could feel the warmth from emanating from inside surrounding him. He remained still, listening to the sounds of mass echoing through the cathedral, and into the still night air. After a time sitting there listening, he picked out the deep baritone that he'd grown up hearing every Sunday, his father's. Smiling he cocked his head to the left and was able to pick out first his mother's, then his sister's voices. His brother's voice was the most difficult, the most like his own, the most nondescript. When he was able to pick it out, Eric tossed his head back and laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks. _Oh God, I want to be in there. Would it really be as bad as Morgan said?_

Before he was conscious of making a decision, Eric found himself rising to his feet. Unbidden, they carried him to the doors of the cathedral. Hundreds of different heartbeats played a complex cadence in his skull, pulling at something deep inside him. He took a deep breath to calm himself, but the scents of perfume, cologne, candles, incense, sweat and underneath it all blood, filled his senses. It called to him, like the sirens of old singing their hypnotic chants to lure the unsuspecting to their deaths. Eric put his hand on the wall beside the door to steady himself. Breath coming in fast shallow pants, he tried to clear his mind.

The part of him that wanted blood rebelled, hijacked his mind showing him images of a bloodbath within. He saw bodies broken and bleeding on the oak pews, crimson stains spreading over the golden wood. The stone floor slick with gore under his boots as he stepped over faceless corpses. And the blood was sweet in his mouth, filling him with power and strength that he had never felt before. Eric felt himself step forward, into the church, ready to pull the heavy door closed behind him but a breeze carried on it the scent of moist fresh turned earth, an open grave. The scent he associated with other vampires.

Eric opened his eyes and looked to his left, the direction the wind had come from to find Nicholas standing several feet away, hands clasped in front of him, serene. Eric swallowed hard and shook his head. Without saying a word, Nicholas turned and started toward the benches. Six months of living with Morgan's husband had taught Eric enough about the elder vampire to know when he expected to be followed. He looked into the sanctuary and felt the barbs around his heart dig in deeper. Though he was reluctant, Eric turned and walked over to where Nicholas sat, silent. He sat beside him and waited.

After a while Nicholas spoke. "If you wish, you may remain and watch your family as they leave but do not try to speak with them. The bloodlust will get its talons into you again and I will not be here to stop it."

"That's what that was?"

"Yes. We will speak more of it at a later time. For now I will simply remind you to be home before the rising of the sun." Nicholas warned before he stood.

Uncertain about what had just happened, Eric watched the elder vampire walk down the street and out of sight. When he was alone again, Eric closed his eyes and focused on the sounds coming from the cathedral. He didn't know how long he sat there, but based on the length of past masses he figured it was at least an hour, maybe closer to two, before he heard the last strains of the final hymns ebb and die away. Knowing that he couldn't risk being seen by his family, he pulled his hood forward. Hunched his shoulders and tilted his head forward, further obscuring his features. Eric watched the crowd streaming out of the cathedral for several minutes, alert for any sign that he was succumbing to the bloodlust again.

As soon as they exited the building his breath caught in his lungs, his throat tightened and he had to grip the edge of the bench to keep from rushing over to them. His laughing younger brother was the spitting image of their father, tall and broad shouldered with chestnut hair shot through with gold. Eric had always looked more like their mother. He had her darker more mahogany hair and blue eyes. The main difference was that he had his father's broad shoulders. His mother and sister were both dark and petite with eyes that resembled mocha. Seeing his mother cut to Eric's heart, she was smiling but he could see something in her eyes. It was a sadness that didn't quite go away, even though he heard his brother's booming voice as he attempted to cheer her up. He watched as his dad put his arm around his mom and lead the family away from the church. Eric shifted in his seat to watch until they disappeared into the dark.

When they had been out of sight for several minutes, and the square was empty Eric slipped down the alley beside the cathedral toward Bourbon Street. Outside one of the many bars lining the way he hailed a cab and rattled off the address to the townhouse. Fifteen minutes later he stood before the front door and took a deep breath. The steps wavered under his feet, and the world seemed to spin out of control for a few moments as the realization hit him.

_God I owe Morgan such an apology._ He thought, feeling guilt settle on his shoulders. _She's dealing with her own shit while helping me out and I repay her by being a jerk._ He shook himself to clear his head before taking a deep breath and opening the door. The moment he stepped into the foyer Eric gasped. The living room had been transformed and the scent of pine filled his nostrils. He stood with his mouth hanging open for a few seconds, before he snapped out of it and walked into the living room.

Morgan looked over her shoulder and smiled. She beckoned to him without saying a word. He crossed to where she was sitting and settled on to the couch beside her. Taking a moment to look around the room, Eric was amazed. A massive eight-foot tall pine tree stood in the far corner covered in lights, and decorations, but not tinsel. Several stockings were hung over the fireplace, including one bearing his name and one for Mina. A crackling fire roared in the hearth, and candles flickered in various types of holders around the room giving it a warm glow.

"I'm sorry I left the way I did." He said after a few moments of silence.

"Thank you. Apology accepted." Morgan nodded and smiled. "However, I feel as though I owe an apology as well. You didn't realize that we celebrate the holidays, and with everything else on my plate I didn't think to tell you. So, for that I am sorry."

"How _do_ you celebrate?" He cocked his head to one side and furrowed his brow.

"Well within our little family there are a lot of different holidays." Morgan began as Eric sat on the couch near her. "I celebrate Yule, Marcus twelfth night. Nicholas, well he's not into holidays. For Charles and Christophe, we try to have as traditional Christmas as possible. We give gifts and spend the evening together. Granted, there is no meal shared but we do the best that we can."

"It sounds nice." Eric answered trying to ignore the images that popped into his head at the mention of a vampire holiday meal. Several were disturbing and one was downright silly.

"You need a better poker face my friend. There's something bothering you. Come on, talk to me." Morgan said as she picked Mina up and set her beside Eric. The kitten stretched, arching her back standing on tiptoe, before she hopped into his lap and curled up.

He paused, turning over in his mind, what he needed to say. "Christmas was always big in my family." He answered looking down at the kitten in his lap.

"And you miss them." Her voice was a soothing balm.

"Yeah, I got the family Christmas card and, for the first time in about ten years, I wasn't in the picture on the front." Eric sighed and looked up. "It hit me hard."

"I think I can understand that."

"That's why I left in the foul mood." He started petting Mina, letting the action soothe his emotions.

"Well, you did tell your family that you're living in LA right?" Morgan asked. Eric glanced at her and saw that she was biting her lower lip with one sharp tipped fang.

"Yeah." He answered, uncertain of what she had in mind.

"So you can call them tomorrow." She smiled and shrugged.

"Why didn't I think of that?" He chuckled; the answer was so simple, so clear that he had not been able to see it.

"Because you're still thinking that minimal contact means letters only." She paused, waiting for Eric to nod. "It doesn't. You just can't _see_ any of your family for a year."

"So, I can call them?" He asked just to be certain.

"As often as you like." She laughed while nodding.

"Thank you, for everything." Eric smiled and picked Mina up. "Come on, Miss Mina, shall we go to sleep?" He asked the kitten who yawned at him.

"See you this evening." Morgan called as Eric began making his way upstairs. Once in his room he set Mina on the bed and went through his usual morning routine. He found the card on the floor and picked it up, smiling he set it on the nightstand before climbing into bed. Mina curled up at his side, purring, and Eric smiled, his first Christmas as a vampire wasn't looking so bad... now.

### About Michelle Rabe

A lifelong California girl, Michelle Rabe tried the Hollywood thing but decided she preferred an author's den to the actor's trailer. She now lives in the Santa Cruz Mountains with her unhelpful author cat. If you can't find her in a cemetery with her camera you can find her online at: www.michellerabe.com. Her debut novel 'Cast in Blood' is available at fine retailers.

<https://www.facebook.com/AuthorMichelleRabe>

Above The Bridge

### Lindy Spencer

Even with every stitch of clothing on, the shivers rattled his bones and clacked his teeth. Threadbare, worn almost through, the thin wool gloves were better than nothing. Three shirts covered his upper torso, while two pairs of jeans, one over the other, kept as much of the chill at bay as possible. The standard issue Army jacket pulled tight did the most good. Still, he was a far cry from warm.

Snow continued to fall gently. It had fallen steadily overnight and through the day, blanketing Aspen Grove into a postcard-perfect scene. Joe had long since stopped enjoying winter; when there wasn't a home with a window to watch it through, the holiday season was nothing short of brutal. This early in the year it was unusual to see this kind of weather – snow usually waited until mid-December to pile up – so Joe had been caught unaware.

Thanksgiving was a particularly quiet day on the streets. With little to no traffic, he didn't worry about walking down the middle of the road where the plows had cleared the way. The less snow and ice under the holes in the bottom of his boots, the better. Plastic bags wrapped around his feet kept the moisture out but didn't do a thing about the warmth steadily leaking out with each step. Breakfast hadn't been as filling as it would have been had the shelter not closed last week. No funds, they said. They'd been sorry; he saw the pity in their eyes as they carted out the odd assortment of pots and pans, then handed out the blankets, sleeping bags and pillows to those who would be left out in the cold this winter. Mary, the head of the shelter, cried silent tears as she hugged each of them and slid a couple dollars into their hands with instructions on where the next shelter was, and the one past that. Some of them nodded and wandered off in the direction she'd pointed; others, well, the bus station would be full, Joe thought. With his newly-acquired sleeping bag and pillow, he'd be warmer than usual in the refrigerator box he now called home.

Lights glowed inside the houses he passed. Words couldn't be heard, but the pure enjoyment was evident in the way the men and women sat in groups, some holding mugs or cups, others balancing plates on their knees and cheering at an unseen show on television. Probably football, he thought.

Dusk wasn't far away. He should get back to the bridge, hunker down before the sun gave up entirely on its attempt to peek through the clouds. The moon would soon take over, and temperatures would drop quickly in the next half hour or so. Joe switched his bag from over his left shoulder to the right before shoving his almost-frozen left hand into the pocket. He ducked his head and picked up the pace.

"Mister? Excuse me," a young voice said. "Wait up," the child called louder this time.

Joe turned. "What are you doing out here? It's cold, you should be inside."

The toe-headed youth wasn't wearing an overcoat. His blue knitted sweater bore a snowman on the front, and the collar of his button-down shirt stuck out the top. Tan khaki pants covered his legs, and his feet were stuck in untied high top tennis shoes. His breath plumed as he exhaled, while rosy cheeks appeared bright in contrast to his alabaster skin and startlingly blue eyes. He hopped to a stop in front of Joe.

"I was, I'll go back, but I saw you from the window," he pointed back toward the row of houses, "and you looked hungry. Do you like turkey?"

For the first time, Joe noticed the large plastic container the boy held. Steam coated the inside. His stomach growled involuntarily, while a lump formed in his throat.

"Aha, I heard that. You _are_ hungry," he sing-songed, proud of himself. The smile that lit his face tucked a dimple deep into each cheek.

"You shouldn't be running around outside, chasing strangers down the street. Your parents won't be happy," he started.

"Oh sure, it's okay. That's my mom in the window there," he pointed again. "Wave at her." He waved, and Joe followed suit. The woman smiled, waved back, and continued to watch the encounter.

"What's your name, young man?"

"Petey. What's yours?"

"I'm Joe. Nice to meet you, Petey." Joe pulled his hand out of his pocket and offered it.

"Nice to meet you, too, Joe." Petey stood up straighter and stuck his own hand out. Joe's hand dwarfed his. The boy had a firm grip, though, and a solid shake.

"So, do you like turkey?"

At a loss for what else to do, Joe nodded. "I do like turkey."

"Good, 'cause I brought you a leg, and stuffing, potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce, and some Brussel sprouts." Leaning closer, he motioned for Joe to lean down. "I hope you like them, I gave you a lot of those. I think they're gross and even Spotty won't eat them. That's my dog."

Joe couldn't stop the smile. "I'll take care of them for you, not to worry. I didn't like them at your age, either, but when I got older I learned to eat them just fine."

Petey held the container out, and Joe could almost smell the scents swirling inside. His mouth watered. Setting his bag down, Joe took the container gently and held it with one hand while he reached into his jacket pocket with the other. "Thank you for sharing your dinner with me, Petey. But I can't take it for nothing. Here, I have just the thing..."

As he slipped his hand free, he turned it over and uncurled his fingers. There on the palm of his worn glove was the mother of all shooter marbles. Red with blue and white swirls embedded in the glass, it shone under the street light.

Petey's eyes grew wide. "Whoa, that's some marble."

"It belonged to my grandfather, then my father, then me. It's yours now, if you'll take care of it."

"Really? No way."

"Way."

"Serious? That's so cool. Thank you, Joe," he said as he reached out to touch it gently. "I'll take good care of it."

"Good. Thank you for the dinner." Joe smiled. "Go on now, get back inside where it's warm. You're going to catch cold out here without a coat."

"Okay. Happy Thanksgiving, Joe," he called as he hopped backwards.

"Happy Thanksgiving to you, too," Joe watched him go, and raised his hand in silent thanks to Petey's mother before opening his bag to store the container of food. Picking up both the bag and his pace, he headed for home.

The shadows fell long under the bridge when he arrived. Joe climbed the embankment toward his staked out area, thoughts consumed with the full spread dinner he'd been gifted. As he pulled the flap of the box back, he was startled by the shape of a man inside. Adrenaline flooded his system, warming him for the first time in days. "What the hell are you doing in my house?"

"This is MY house now," the gravelly words left no room for misinterpretation. Hands shot out and shoved Joe backwards, knocking him off-balance. He stumbled back, slipped on the loose rocks and lost his hold on the bag. He rolled down the embankment, slid across gravel and crashed sideways into a large chunk of misshapen concrete that stuck partially out of the ground. With a crack, he heard as well as felt a rib snap as he flipped over and tumbled the remainder of the way to the riverbed. Contents spilled from his bag and scattered haphazardly: mismatched tennis shoes; a bent golf club; an old, scarred wooden cigar box; seven pennies collected from gutters; a pair of sunglasses minus one earpiece; and an old packing blanket with a moving company's logo worn to unreadable long ago.

As he lay there, pain radiating through his body, his gaze traveled over his belongings and he took inventory. Everything was there, except...

Looking up, the grungy newcomer was every bit of six feet tall, and wrapped in worse-looking clothing than Joe. What he saw horrified him: the stranger held the container with his dinner. "No," he cried, "that's mine, give it back." Struggling to sit up, a sharp pain speared his side. Covering his rib with his hand, Joe took a slow, careful breath and pushed himself up. Stars shot across his vision, a warning he ignored as he forced himself upright. Right now, food was higher on the list than his ribs.

"Finders, keepers," the stranger growled. A hateful smile split his wiry beard from his moustache revealing blackened, broken teeth. "What do we have here? Is this what I think it is?" Gripping the lid, he pried it up. His tongue slithered out, sliding across his cracked lips. "Oh, yeah."

"I'll share it with you, but you can't have it all." Joe made his way back up the incline, grimacing from the pain of every step.

Tossing the lid aside, he scooped potatoes with his filthy fingers and lifted them to his mouth. "Mmm, still warm, too."

Out of sheer determination, Joe closed the gap. "Please, let's share. There's enough for both of us," he said between gritted teeth. Stars shot across his vision, causing him to stop until they went away.

The stranger lifted the turkey leg and opened wide, ripping off a hunk. He chewed with his mouth open, laughing at Joe while he did. "Yeah, okay, we'll share." The gleam in his eyes didn't match the words he spoke. "All you gotta do is get up here before I eat it all."

Jaw clenched, Joe took another step, then one more. He continued to make his way carefully back up the slope, and was within five feet or so when the stranger bent down and picked up the plastic lid.

"I changed my mind. This'll be mighty good for breakfast. Appreciate the hospitality." With a spiteful laugh, he secured the lid in place and reached inside the box. He withdrew his arm, and in his hand held Joe's flat pillow and ratty sleeping bag. "I'm gonna leave you this house, but these are mine. Sounds fair to me." He dropped his head back and roared at a joke only he thought was funny. "You wanted to share, right?" With that, he turned and strode away into the night, out from under the far side of the bridge and into the darkness on the other side of the pool of light cast by the street lamp. Joe watched until all he could see was the falling snow reflecting light as it crossed the same light pool.

The last few steps were torture. When he reached the edge of his home, he lowered himself carefully and sat down with his back against the cement wall. Not only was his dinner gone, so was his bedding. It was going to be a very cold night with just the cardboard box and a few newspapers to keep him warm. His gaze traveled to the old packing blanket currently laying near the bottom of the incline. Would it be worth the trip down and back up? As much as it was going to hurt, deep down he knew he would need that blanket to survive the night.

By the time he'd made it down, Joe was drenched in sweat. I'll rest here for just a minute, he decided. Even the slight movement he made to grasp the blanket and pull it across himself shoved another sharp spike into his ribcage. Maybe a couple minutes, he thought, and closed his eyes.

A cold, wet nose touched his cheek.

"Maxwell, get down. I'll take you for a walk in a minute. Let me get Billy ready for school. Billy, come on, pal, we have to get a move on it..."

Analisa rounded the corner, looking every bit the professional in her dusky grey suit. With her hair pinned up the way it was, swept away from her graceful neck, she was sexier than any psychiatrist should be. "I'll take him. My first appointment isn't until ten o'clock this morning. Plenty of time for the cross-town traffic." Stepping closer, she kissed him. "Good morning."

Heat shot straight through him, concentrating in one specific region. "Hi yourself. Have I told you yet today how much I want to pull that clip thing out of your hair and —"

She pinched his arm.

"Ow, wha —"

"I want to hug too," Billy's voice invaded Joe's thoughts, effectively derailing where he'd been going. Ah, that explained the pinch. He winked at her before looking down to see their son smiling up at him: dark brown hair, eyes the shade of milk chocolate, dressed in jeans and his favorite t-shirt — the one with the green dinosaur — holding his hands up in a 'pick me up' stance.

"Well come on up here then," he said as he leaned down and lifted Billy into his and Analisa's embrace for a group hug.

"Alright, young man, let's get your cereal in you and then we're off to school. Do you want Sticks and Twigs or Loopy-O's?"

Billy belly laughed. "Ew, mom, sticks and twigs!"

Joe snuck another kiss from Analisa before reaching for Maxwell's leash. "I'll see you tonight, and we'll pick up where we left off..."

"Yes, you will, and yes we will." She patted his butt before reaching for the cereal box.

"Have a good day, buddy."

"Bye, dad."

The drone of tires woke him. He blinked several times to clear his vision. Where was he and why could he hear vehicles? Realization hit. He was under the bridge, where he now lived. Analisa and Billy...he'd been dreaming of the last time he'd seen his wife and son alive. Pain squeezed his heart and hot tears flooded his vision. If only he'd been the one to take Billy to school, his wife and son would still be alive. They wouldn't have been on the expressway, wouldn't have been in the path of the semi-truck as it crossed the median and slammed into oncoming traffic, wouldn't have been two of the three people killed in that head-on collision. The police said the last entry in the drivers log book had been over twenty-eight hours prior to the accident, and for that entry to be correct, he had to have been driving continuously since. Twenty-eight hours behind the wheel of a thirty-six ton killing machine.

As he attempted to push himself up, the pain in his ribcage brought back the events of last night loud and clear. The stranger, his dinner, the cat's tongue licking his face. The cat? No, Maxwell. His heart ached as the dream flashed back. His life as he knew it, before. The tear left a line of ice cold as it trickled down his cheek and disappeared into his beard.

Traffic picked up on the bridge above. Black Friday. That explains the activity before the sun has even had a chance to come up. Early shoppers racing through the pre-dawn darkness to stand in line with hopes of scoring the best deal on whatever electronic or toy was the princess of the season. He and Analisa had done it once; only once, and it was horrible. They'd sworn never to do it again. People were hateful, and on the day after being thankful for everything they already had. Definitely one thing he didn't miss was all the rudeness exhibited during the early morning sales hours.

Cold seeped further in, bringing with it a shiver. Regardless of how much his ribs hurt, he had to get up off the ground if he didn't want to freeze to death. Did he want to freeze to death? What was there to live for? His family was gone. His home, gone. Job, car, and now his health, all gone. The final straw was that his gifted dinner was gone, as well. Too bad I'm not a quitter, he thought, and shook his head.

Joe took a slow, deep breath. Carefully, he rolled himself over, onto his good side, then onto his stomach. Dull pain radiated. I've felt worse, he thought, and braced his hand against the ground, drew another breath, and groaned as he drew his right leg up. It took what felt like hours but was surely only a couple of minutes to coax his body to stand. Touching his ribcage gently, he pushed and probed as hard as he dared across the sore area. As far as he could tell, there wasn't anything broken. If that were true, he'd be sore for a few days but none the worse for wear.

At the far side of the bridge there was a reflection in the pool of light that shone down from the street lamp above. Joe strained his eyes to see. Pressing his left arm as tight against his body as he dared, he took one hesitant step, then another. Aspirin would be good right about now, but Joe didn't have any in his pack.

Wind overnight had blown some of yesterday's freshly fallen snow under the bridge. The closer Joe got to the other side, the more there was. There, in front of him, appearing as if a ghost had gone before, were the clear outlines of paw prints. Very large paw prints. The last time he'd seen prints like these were when he and Analisa had taken Billy to an animal refuge. They had been imprinted in the mud, inside the enclosure of the Bengal tiger.

With his right hand he scrubbed his eyes; surely he was seeing things. He looked again. The footprint was still there. His eyes followed the direction it would have gone, and saw the next print, and the next, each deeper than the one before as it tracked through the mounting snow. There weren't any cats around Aspen Grove that were big enough to leave what he was seeing. Even the occasional cougar wasn't this large. Besides, if a huge cat had come through since the snow blew under the bridge, it would have come past him as he lay there passed out, and...a flicker of memory, a piece of the dream, flashed back. No way, he thought. That was Maxwell in my dream. Holy crap, what if that _wasn't_ Maxwell, what if it was whatever huge cat left these tracks? An involuntary shudder, one that had nothing to do with the cold, dove down his spine, chased by fear. Sweat broke out on his face. I'm delirious, surely that's it. This is a dream. That's the only thing that can explain it. And since it's a dream, I'll just follow these tracks, see where they go.

As Joe stepped to the side to avoid marring the tracks, his rib screamed in protest. He winced and stood still, taking a shallow breath in, then out, until the pain quieted. "Not a dream," he said aloud, his voice echoing off the cement walls. Pain doesn't happen in dreams. Still, the need to follow the tracks was all-consuming. Step after slow step he made his way to the edge of the bridge. Following the trail of paw prints led him closer to the object that had drawn his attention with its reflection.

The prints took a hard left while Joe continued several feet further forward. His breath clouded as it left his lips, creating a fog screen. He bent his knees to lower himself down without hurting his ribs more than necessary. He'd been correct in thinking it looked like the lid to his dinner container. It was. Picking it up, he stood again and his gaze followed the direction the tracks had taken. They led through the clearing to the wooded area thirty feet away. Each new print was farther away from the last than they had been at the edge of the bridge; there was also a large disturbance in what should have been a pristine snow bank. Something had happened here while he'd slept, and it didn't appear to have been quiet. How had he missed the noise?

Curiosity led him to follow the tracks several steps into the woods. Another disturbance in the snow within feet of the first line of trees; this one marred by what could only have been thrashing limbs, or the drunken snow angel of a fully engaged matador. Off to the side were the pillow and sleeping bag. From here he couldn't tell if they were bunched up from being dropped or if they covered a person. Even more cautious now, he moved further into the woods and closer to the bag. Resting his palm against a nearby tree, he leaned down just far enough to grasp a corner and gently tug the bag. It pulled easily, the pillow riding along on the edge. As he lifted it to carry over his shoulder, the light dusting of snow fluttered down and away. Joe was relieved to find it empty; he was in no condition to fight.

Turning his attention back to his surroundings, Joe took stock. A few feet further up, the tiger prints led directly to another disturbance, much larger this time. If the prints continued out the other side, they were obscured by the drag marks of something large and quite heavy. They were also drizzled in a trail of what was most assuredly blood. Could it be anything else? He thought not. Straining to hear, the only sound Joe could make out was from the cars. Nothing made by man or animal.

At a crossroads, Joe mulled his current situation over. Continue to follow the path, or walk away? If he followed the path, he might find himself in the middle of a dangerous situation. On the other hand, if he walked away, could he live with himself all the while not knowing if he'd ignored the obvious signs of someone in need? Granted, that someone was a person who had stolen his belongings and taken food from his mouth. But was he the kind of man who could turn his back on another human being when they needed help he might be able to give?

Looking to his left, on the far side of 'fight club,' his eyes came to rest on the food container. A painful hunger settled deep in his belly. Joe stepped carefully, well aware that if he fell here and was unable to regain his footing he would be unseen by passing traffic and no one would find him until the spring thaw and only then by the smell of his decomposing body. That is, if the tiger didn't get him first. Shoving that gruesome thought down, he picked the path of least resistance and stopped when he reached the container. The food was no longer warm, but it was still mostly there. Ice crystals formed over what was left of the stuffing, potatoes, and long-since congealed gravy, while a full half of the container still held a vegetable pyramid. Other than one lone Brussel sprout and a half-eaten turkey leg lying outside the container, it looked as if someone had set the dish down and flown away. Outside his own, there were no footsteps that even came close to where the container sat.

Joe looked around and, for the first time since he'd left the riverbed, realized with absolute certainty how unprotected he was against attack. Traffic sped by on the road, headlights leading them on and tires spitting slush in their wake. Where he stood, he was nearly invisible to passersby; not so much to the tiger in the trees. Tracking his eyes upward, he scanned the branches above him to make sure that wasn't where it had gone. No sign was a good sign. Still unsure where the beast was, Joe stood still for another minute, once again listening for telltale sounds, undecided whether to continue following what could only be drag marks into the woods or beat feet back to a safer distance.

From somewhere nearby, Joe heard chuffing. He'd heard that sound once before, when he and Billy had gone to the zoo. They'd arrived at feeding time, and the reverberations of the sound large cats make when they're hungry is unmistakable. That chuff was the same as this one. He was still in the vicinity of a very large feline. If he needed a sign, this was surely it. Squatting down carefully, Joe lifted the container and brushed off the snow that clung to the outside. He slid the lid back on and pressed it into place, palmed the loose Brussel sprout, then began his retreat.

The journey back was downhill, making his retreat less painful. The only climb he needed to make was up the short incline to his box. With his reacquired food and bedding, he picked his way carefully. It only took half a minute to set things right and another half to slip into bed.

The snow floating down wasn't nearly as difficult to watch from the warmth inside the sleeping bag. His chill had almost subsided; feeling returned to his limbs and his body relaxed. He gripped the container close to his chest in hope that his body heat would thaw the food enough to eat. The one Brussel sprout he'd carried in his hand had begun to thaw, and even partially frozen he couldn't help but think it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. As he watched the lazy flakes drift to the ground, his eyelids grew heavy. The rhythmic sound of the car tires humming along the road above finished the job of lulling Joe to sleep.

* * *

Joe woke slowly. For a few seconds he forgot where he was and waited expectantly for Billy to run in and jump on the bed. Waited for it. Instead, reality took over and his current situation crashed back in. Deep sadness overwhelmed him, and he let it, for just a minute. As he took stock of his surroundings, he counted his belongings. Everything was here that should be, and nothing extra. Thank God. He didn't need another surprise like the last one. The stranger, then the cat tracks, the blood trail, the food. He felt for the container. Still there.

Cautiously he sat up. The pain in his ribs had dulled to an ache, and he was able to take a breath without too much trouble. Probably not broken, then. Good news, but aspirin would sure be nice, he thought as he tugged off the worn glove and pulled the corner of the plastic lid up. Keeping it inside the sleeping bag with him seemed to have worked; the potatoes were thawed, as were the veggies. Using his fingers as a fork, he made short work of the leftovers. It wasn't until he'd licked the last remnants from the inside corners that he realized he hadn't retrieved the turkey leg. Though he would have liked to have it for later, he wasn't going back to where he'd found the rest in search of the leg. No telling what else he might find, and Joe was no fool. Some things were better left unseen.

With a full belly, the thought of aspirin floated back to the surface of his consciousness. Maybe Thomas at the gas station a couple blocks over would be kind enough to give him a couple pain relievers. Wouldn't hurt to ask. He could also wash his hands in the restroom, if the last person had left the door unlocked. Thomas ran the one station left in town that had the bathroom door on the outside of the building. Not many people used it, and Joe always left it cleaner than he'd found it, so Thomas looked the other way and didn't give him grief about it.

Joe rolled up his bedding and lifted it slowly, hyper aware of his rib, and placed it on top of the cross beam to hide it. Less visible meant less chance he'd come back to see it gone. Joe tucked the empty container into his bag, slung it over his shoulder and made his way carefully down the embankment. Falling now wouldn't be good. In fact, when the temperatures warmed back up he might think about digging the cement chunk he'd fallen against out of the ground and getting rid of it.

Traffic was much heavier today. Joe stuck to the shoulder of the road until he got to where the sidewalk began. Not many walkers, lots of cars. Some portions of the sidewalks had been shoveled — probably by the owners of the houses they were in front of — while others were still hidden under snow and ice.

Thomas was behind the counter when Joe walked in. He raised a hand in greeting before finishing with the customer at the register. Joe turned down the closest aisle in search of aspirin.

When he'd finished and the customer was out the door, Thomas came out from behind the counter. "Joe, haven't seen you in a few days. How's it going?"

"Alright, thanks. Everyone at your place good?" Joe knew Thomas had his grown daughter and her young son temporarily living at home, and they'd talked about his one-bedroom apartment and the challenges of adding extra people to the mix. Family or not, it was still a cramped situation.

"Yeah, the same. Angie is working at the café, and Loretta is watching Toby while she does. She should have enough saved up soon to get their own place. Eyes on the prize."

"Eyes on the prize, for sure. Hey, do you mind if I use the sink in the back? I've got this bowl thing I want to wash out before I return it." Joe set his bag down and reached in to pull out the container, wincing as he stood.

"Yeah, sure." Thomas looked Joe up and down. "You're holding your side. What happened?"

Joe didn't even realize he'd been doing it until Thomas said something. He dropped his hand and looked at the shelf in front of him, suddenly very interested in the athlete's foot cream found there. "Oh, I had a visitor. We disagreed, and I found my way to the bottom of the hill. Met a chunk of concrete on the way down. I'm a little sore." At the last minute his pride kicked in and he changed his mind about asking for a handout.

Thomas looked at him until Joe lifted his eyes and met his gaze. "Old Doc Swenson would see you for a story, check you out. Have you been by there?"

Joe shook his head. "Honestly, I'm sure it isn't broken."

Reaching across, Thomas pulled a bottle of acetaminophen from the shelf. "This doesn't belong here. It's taking up too much space. You'd be doing me a favor by getting it out of here for me." Turning, he stalked down the aisle to the end and opened the refrigerator door. "There's really no room for this, here, either. I'm sure I quit carrying it," he said as he removed a large bottle of water from the lowest shelf. "Yeah, I remember now, I did quit carrying it. That delivery guy must have forgotten to pull it when he took his stock back. Here." He held the bottle out.

The bell above the door rang, indicating a customer had come in. Thomas patted Joe's shoulder as he walked past, tucking the bottled water in the crook. "You know where the sink is, feel free. It's good to see you, Joe. Don't be a stranger, okay?"

Emotion clogged Joe's throat and kept him from answering. He picked up his bag and made his way to the back room. Before anything else, he opened the bottle of pills and the water, downing a couple pills. Tucking the pain reliever and water bottles into his pocket, Joe got down to business. There was dish soap next to the faucet; he made quick work of the cleaning duties. He took a quick sponge bath while he was there and dried off with nearby paper towels. Once he'd finished and packed his bag back up, he headed out through the front, catching his eye and lifting a hand. Thomas nodded and smiled. "Come back soon," he called as Joe pushed through the door.

* * *

If memory served correctly, Petey's house was on 7th street. Joe headed that direction. The temperatures were warming up slightly; the sun had come out, and reflections from the snow were bright enough to have him squinting. It only took twenty minutes or so, but in that time he saw several yards with children outside building snowmen and having snowball fights.

His mind's eye took him back to a day last winter when the snowstorm had closed the day care and he'd stayed home from the office with Billy. Analisa had braved the roads and gone to work; her paycheck made a bigger difference in their budget than his did at this point, and Christmas was coming. Joe let Billy help make the pancakes for breakfast, and as was their custom, chocolate chips went in because mom wasn't there to say no. After cleaning up the kitchen, the two of them donned their boots, coats, scarves and gloves, and set out to make the biggest snowman family they could possibly make. The snowman-building wore them out, which led to falling on the ground. That, of course, turned into making snow angels, and a game of snowball catch ensued. He could still see Billy's face, nose and cheeks rosy and the smile... oh, the smile. Joe smiled to himself at the vision. They'd finished off their snowman family with a snow baby sister as Billy's way of telling his mother he wanted a sibling, and they'd gone inside to warm up with some hot cocoa and a blanket while they watched Frosty the Snowman on DVD. When Analisa came home that night, she'd ooh'd and aah'd over all of their hard work, and even made mention to Billy that she and his dad would talk about a baby snowman. Later that night, they'd done just that — right before they started trying.

"Hey, Joe!" The voice snapped him out of his reverie. He looked up, and saw Petey running toward him.

"Hey, Petey. How's it goin'?" Joe smiled. Unlike last time, this time his young friend had his boots on, jacket zipped, and a stocking cap on his head.

"Good. We've been building a fort. Its guys against girls in an epic snowball fight. Wanna join? We could use you on our team," he tried.

"Not a chance. Girls scare me." Joe smiled bigger and winked at him.

"Aw, man. Well, come look at our fort anyway, okay?"

"Um, okay." Joe wasn't used to being treated like a regular person anymore; since he'd lost his home and begun living in the underbelly of the beast, he'd been invisible more often than not. He followed Petey toward the empty lot next door to his house and saw the boys were serious about their building skills. "This looks great, guys. I think you've got a shot at winning."

The kids high-fived each other and thanked Joe before getting back to putting finishing touches on their wall.

"So did you hear about the tiger?" Petey's face tilted up, excitement evident. "The news said there was a couple people called in reports of a tiger just a few roads down and that's the way you went when you were walking. Did you see him?"

His heart skipped a beat. It wasn't a dream. "Sorry, little dude, I didn't see him. That's scary for sure, though, a tiger on the loose. Did they say where it came from? Did the zoo leave the door open or is there a circus in town?"

"I don't know anything about a circus. The zoo's like, I don't know, miles away. Someone would've seen it before now, right?"

"Probably. You're pretty smart, you know that?"

"The teachers all think so." He grinned. "It's pretty easy, if you pay attention instead of goofing off."

The other boys called out to him. He looked over.

"Petey, let me return this to you real quick before I let you get back to it." He set his bag down and pulled out the container. "Tell your mom I washed it the best I could, but she might want to run it through the dishwasher just to be on the safe side."

"She's right there, want to tell her yourself?" His miniature mitten pointed toward the back porch of his house, where his mom and a man, most likely his dad, stood watching the activity.

"Yeah, okay, sure," he stammered, thrown off-guard a second time in a matter of minutes. He lifted his hand in greeting. Both of the adults returned the gesture in tandem. Joe took that as a positive and made his way toward the back porch, stopping a few feet shy.

"Good afternoon, Ma'am, Sir. I wanted to return this with my sincere thanks for the wonderful meal your son shared with me yesterday. It was the best meal I've had in a long time." He extended the container toward Petey's mom.

Her smile could have lit the sun. "You're quite welcome, Joe. Petey showed us the shooter marble you gave to him right before he put it on the shelf in a place of honor. That was kind of you."

"Hi, Joe, I'm Petey's father. You can call me Mike," he said and held his hand out to shake. Joe shook it, and Mike continued. "This is Shelly, my wife. She makes one heck of a mean turkey dinner, doesn't she?" His eyes sparkled when he looked at her. True love lived here.

"That she does, Mike. Your son is a respectful young man. He..." Joe cleared his throat and blinked several times in quick succession to clear the tears that threatened to overflow. "He reminds me of my own son."

Several girls in Petey's age range came out of the next house down and squealed as they ran behind their own wall, and the game began.

Mike and Shelly looked at each other, then back at Joe. An unspoken conversation took place in less than a second. "Joe, would you like some coffee?" Shelly said, turning toward the sliding glass door. "I've just put a pot on. It should be ready any second." Without waiting for his answer, she continued back into the house.

Joe looked to Mike, who said, "She doesn't take no for an answer, that much I can tell you." Motioning him inside, Mike held the door open and followed behind.

The warmth enveloped him as soon as he stepped through. It was as if the door represented a portal to another world, one where he used to live but now was not permitted. The pale yellow walls added to the homey feel, while the smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon rolls invaded his senses. "You have a lovely home." He worked to overcome his discomfort.

"Thank you." It didn't used to be this difficult to meet new people, Joe thought. The couple of years living in solitude had obviously taken its toll.

With three mugs in one hand and the coffee pot in the other, Shelly moved to the dining room table. "Let's have a seat in here. I'll be able to keep an eye on the kids and run referee duties if things get out of control." One wall in front of the table held a large picture window with a great view of the game currently in progress. She moved back toward the kitchen. "Do you take cream or sugar?" she asked.

"Cream if you have it, thank you." At least he hadn't forgotten his manners. His own mother would roll over in her grave if he forgot those.

Shelly came back to the table with a tray: cream, sugar, spoons, plates, a pan of cinnamon rolls, butter, and knives. "Help yourself." She busied herself fixing her own cup of coffee while Mike did the same.

The aroma of the warm rolls assaulted him and had he not already taken a seat, he surely would have melted into a puddle. He flicked his eyes to Mike. He nodded, motioning for Joe to go first. Didn't have to offer again, Joe chose two for his plate, added butter, and watched the steam rise. As the butter melted he poured cream into his coffee.

The trio sat there in what turned into a comfortable silence while they finished off the rolls. Shelly refilled all three mugs. "You have a son?" she asked quietly.

Joe bowed his head and stared down into his cup, not really seeing the coffee at all. He nodded. "I do. Did."

"I'm so sorry." Her voice was full of compassion for his loss of family; people she'd never even met. A woman and child who were everything to Joe, and he was someone she'd only met a few minutes ago. A tear formed in his eye, spilling over before he could stop it.

"What happened?" Mike's curiosity had him asking.

"Billy and my wife, Analisa, were killed in a car accident two years ago. She was taking him to school and a semi crossed the median. The police told me they never had a chance. The coroner said they were killed instantly. I lost everything that day. My wife, my son, and with the depression that came, my job, home, car, everything."

Shelly reached over and patted his arm. She had no words, but offered the comfort of human touch. She looked pointedly at her husband, then back out at the children.

"What did you do before? For your job. What kind of work did you do?" Mike asked.

"I was an artist. I designed tattoos. I didn't ink people; they told me what they wanted, and I drew what they said. We worked on the design together until it was exactly what they envisioned, and then I turned them and their creation over to the tattooist."

"The company didn't give you time off for grieving?" Mike couldn't understand any boss who wouldn't give some leeway for a death in the family, especially like what Joe had experienced.

"Oh, no, Lexi told me to take all the time I needed. The day came when I got the call saying they couldn't keep the business open without me, and it was failing. I was the only one people wanted to work with for their designs, and the tattooists that were on staff didn't have the vision to create from words. She'd hired another designer, but his work wasn't like mine. By the time she called, I'd been off work for three months. The word was out that I wasn't available, so customers were all taking their business to another shop. It was too late. My grief had taken its toll on me, my bank balance, and by extension, Lexi's business. She had to close the doors."

"That's no good." Mike shook his head.

Shelly patted his arm again. "Joe, I've got a roast about to go in the pressure cooker, and it's too big for the three of us to eat by ourselves. Would you like to stay for dinner?"

"Yeah, you'd be doing me a big favor. If you stay, I won't be eating it every way imaginable for the next week." His wife shot him a look. He winked at her.

To Joe, it felt like a sincere offer, not pity. "I'd like that."

"Thanks, man. Hey, how are you on cars? Want to see my '67 Mustang?"

"You have a '67 Mustang? Is it all original?"

The two stood and Mike led the way to the garage. "Almost. I've got a taillight cover left to find, and an ashtray before it'll be fully restored to original."

They'd been married long enough that Mike knew the look shared between him and his wife was an unspoken agreement. They would help Joe get back on his feet, if he wanted it. He wasn't on the streets because of a drug habit he couldn't kick or any other self-imposed reason. The tragedy that befell his family was a shame and shouldn't have happened. They would offer him a hand up and a way out, and let him take it from there.

After they'd gone into the garage and closed the door, Shelly went to the freezer and pulled out the larger of the two roasts she had there. The hamburger in the refrigerator she'd taken out earlier for spaghetti would hold for tomorrow's dinner. Tonight, she'd do it up right with all the fixins and feed Joe a good and proper meal.

By the time they came back in, she had the roast on, the dishes cleared, and was standing at the kitchen window watching the kids. Looked to her like the boys were getting as good as they were giving; the girls had good arms on them. They'd been outside long enough to get chilly and would be happy to see hot cocoa, so she made enough for all the kids while the men talked cars.

When she opened the door and stepped outside, the kids came running. They gathered around the porch, filling it to capacity, and discarded their sloppy wet mittens and gloves to take the offered cups. Their chatter and laughter filtered through the closed glass door.

"I never got tired of hearing Billy laugh." The wistful tone of Joe's voice told Mike he was reminiscing, seeing a film play in his head. "Petey has a laugh kind of like his was. Infectious."

"He's a great kid. I couldn't have asked for better. Yeah, that laugh gets me to smile every time, too."

Sheila came back inside with Petey hot on her heels. "Joe! Mom says we're having roast for dinner. Are you gonna stay? She makes the best roast ever."

"Yep, little dude, your mom already asked me. How could I say no to the best roast ever?"

Petey clapped his hands together. "Yay, now there won't be leftovers," he smiled and high-fived his dad.

"Alright, you two. I only made that casserole one time. I promised not to make it again." She shook her head and turned away, but not before a smile played across her lips. "Young man, you've got about half an hour left outside before you need to come in and clean your room."

"Aw, mom..." he started, then checked himself. Christmas was coming, and Santa was watching. He sighed. "Okay. Half an hour, bye," he said as he turned and shot back out the door to enjoy every second of it before play time was over for the day.

"Joe, if you'd like to wash up before dinner, there are clean towels on the shelf in the bathroom, and a robe on the back of the door. I'll wash your clothes for you, if you like."

"That's very nice of you, thank you." A hot shower sounded wonderful. He'd been taking spit baths in bathrooms for a good while now; a real, honest to goodness hot shower might help his aching ribs, as well.

"The bathroom is down the hall, first door on the left. The light switch is on the left, inside the doorway. If you'll set your clothes outside the door, I'll get them in the washing machine quick."

He nodded and made his way down the hall, leaving his bag of worldly goods next to the sliding door in the kitchen where he'd set it when he came in. He didn't think twice about trusting them; they didn't need anything from him, and they were the kindest family, feeding him and letting him get cleaned up properly. Surely they were angels.

Their bathroom was spacious; the shower was separate from the bathtub, there were two sinks, and the shelf of towels was actually a closet filled to the brim with fluffy towels and matching wash cloths in every color of the rainbow. He chose one of each from their respective stacks.

Slipping the bottle of pain reliever from his pocket, he shook out two pills and downed them with the rest of the water from the bottle Thomas had given him. The pill bottle he set on the counter and his clothes he piled in the hallway before closing the door and turning on the shower.

Steam filled the room. Joe stepped in, and the water flowed over him, pummeling the knots out of his muscles that he hadn't even realized were there. He lathered up and scrubbed layers of dirt from his body, then stood under the water until his fingers and toes were wrinkly. The shampoo smelled clean and fresh; luckily, nothing was scented with overpowering smells like rose or lilac. It smelled nice.

While Joe was in the shower, Shelly started his clothes washing and sat down with Mike. "How can we help him? Do you think there's a position open at the shop that he would be good for?" The shop she referred to was Mike's architectural design firm. He'd built it from the ground up, and they'd been lucky enough to continue on through the housing collapse as well as both times the stock market had crashed in the last few years. Mike's business sense had kept the business afloat, and even better, the shop had flourished.

"I've been thinking about that. One of the guys put his two weeks' notice in last Monday, and we've put the ad for his position in the newspaper. With Joe's background in artistic design, I'm willing to bet he would be able to pick it up rather quickly."

"Perfect timing. I've been thinking, too. There are those bags of clothes I've cleaned out of the closets and haven't taken down to donate yet. I wonder, he looks about the same size as you. I think some of the clothes in those bags would fit him."

"He'll need some office-casual clothes if he wants the job. Are there some of those in the bags?"

"Yes. There's a little bit of everything. Oh, I've got an idea. Let me get some clothes from the bags, and see if he'd rather wear them than the bathrobe. I'll get them, you set them outside the door, okay?"

"Sounds good. Let's take this slow, though. We can talk with him after dinner, see if he's even interested in our help. We don't want to overload him. You have a tendency to do that sometimes."

She waved the words off. "I know, you're right. At least we'll know if your clothes would fit him, and even if he doesn't want our help with a job, he'll still be able to take some clothes with him."

"You're right, there. But Shelly..."

"I know. Don't worry. You can do the talking."

They continued to discuss, their heads close together, voices low.

When Joe finished his shower, he toweled off and put on the robe. It was dark blue and engulfed him. It was also the softest thing he'd ever felt. He found several combs in a new package in the drawer, as well as several disposable razors. After running a comb through his hair, he took a few minutes to shave. It had been so long, he'd forgotten what his face looked like without a beard and moustache. Though now he could really use a haircut.

He opened the door to find a stack of folded clothes in the hallway. These were clothes he didn't recognize, but were clean and dry. Picking them up, he closed the door again and changed. They fit surprisingly well.

Joe combed his hair back against his head, doing the best he could to make it look presentable. There wasn't much else he could do, so he opened the door and headed back down the hall. There wasn't anyone in the dining room or kitchen. The kids were gone from the backyard, having left a wide swath of destruction in their path. Snow was trampled down and built back up all over the yard. This is what childhood happiness looks like, he thought.

Voices floated on the air. Joe followed the sound to what he imagined was the family room. The three sat around a table, working on a jigsaw puzzle. He stood in the doorway, watching them. Petey was the first to notice.

"Whoa, Joe, you shaved your beard. Help us with this puzzle, okay?"

Mike and Shelly looked up, both smiling. "Come on in, you look great. I meant to tell you there were razors and things in the drawer, if you wanted to use any. Glad you found them." Though Shelly didn't say it out loud, she was secretly glad she'd thought of the clothes bags.

"We thought you might want to put on clothes instead of Shelly's pink bathrobe." Mike grinned, waiting for the smack he knew was coming from his wife. He didn't have to wait long.

"Oh, you. It's not my robe in the bathroom, it's yours. Anyway, Joe, do they fit okay?"

"They fit fine, thank you again. For everything. I feel like a new man." Joe smiled, a dimple creasing his cheek visibly for the first time. He was a handsome man, even more so when he smiled.

"Great. They're yours. I'm going to check on dinner." With that, Shelly left the room. She had a hard time keeping good ideas to herself, but was doing well so far.

Dinner preparation noises came from the kitchen. "Sounds like we've got about five minutes, guys. Petey, why don't you set the table? Joe and I will clean up the puzzle pieces for later."

"Gotcha, dad." Petey followed the path his mom had taken and disappeared.

After dinner, Shelly changed the washer load to the dryer and sent Petey to take a bath. She said she'd check on him in a few minutes, and the three adults went back to the family room.

So, Joe," Mike started. "Shelly and I were talking, and I've got a proposition for you."

Joe's stomach clenched. He tried not to let his anxiety show. "Okay," he said slowly. His voice sounded tinny to his own ears.

"You may or may not know I own an architectural firm downtown. This past week one of my employees put in his resignation. I've now got a position I need to fill. Earlier you said you were a designer. The position that will be open is on the design team. Would you be interested in going back to work?"

The knot in his stomach tightened. "Oh, um, wow," was all he could get out.

Mike took this as a positive response, and used the open door in the conversation to continue. "It's something I think you would be good at, with your previous experience."

His head was spinning. He was being handed an opportunity to get back on his feet. Then reality sunk in, reminding him of his current situation. "I'm not in a position to go back to work, Mike. Your offer is generous, and I thank you for it, but I don't have clothes or a place to stay, no way to get back and forth..."

"We have a spare room. You're welcome to stay until you've saved enough money to get your own place again. That makes getting to work easy. You can ride with me."

"I just...I don't have anything to wear, or any way to get a haircut."

"Listen, man. Shelly cleaned out our closets and has clothes that were going to be donated. Some of them were mine, like the ones you're wearing now, and they would fit you. I'd rather know they went to someone who would appreciate them."

In the last twenty-four hours, Joe's world had taken its own tumble down the rabbit hole. End over end, which way is up, where would it land? Seems it landed on its feet, or at least in a position where he could climb back up and out to rejoin the world above the bridge. Was this his karma?

He looked from husband to wife. Both were looking at him, patiently waiting.

"Yes. Yes, I will." The words came out of his mouth before he realized what he was going to say. "Mike, you won't be sorry."

The two shook hands. "I'm sure I won't."

"You'll do great, Joe. I'm going to get those clothes for you, and make up the guest bedroom. Petey is going to be so excited. He ran like a squirrel through the kitchen yesterday, gathering a dinner plate for you, and when I asked him where he was going, he said he saw someone special. He's got a sense about people, and when you came back today just to return the container and say thank you, I knew my son was right. There are good things in store for you. I can see it, too." She patted his arm again. "I've got work to do. Mike, honey, will you two clean up the kitchen for me, please?"

"We're on it." Mike stood and kissed his wife on her way by. They were doing a good thing here, he could feel it.

Joe's world was righting itself; the least he could do was help it. A job offer, a place to stay, clothes to go to work in, and a way to get back and forth. If that wasn't karma smiling on him, he didn't know what it was. Looks like he has something to be thankful for, after all.

### About Lindy Spencer

Lindy Spencer currently lives in Oklahoma with her superhero family — Amazing Husband and Super Smart Dog. When she's not writing, she can be found curled up at home reading, or out with Amazing Husband riding motorcycles and shooting things with a Canon.

Her other works include: The Boomerang Effect, Ripples of the Boomerang – the sequel to The Boomerang Effect, and Between the Devil and the Darkness, an anthology of short stories. Head on over to her website for up-to-date news. She would love to hear from you, and can be found on Facebook and Twitter. Stop by, say hi!

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### Now is the Winter

### Jamie Sheffield

I came to my senses behind the wheel of a strange car, on a strange street, with a strange woman (in both/all senses of the word) beside me, and the day quickly got more strange and unpleasant from there. The tropical heat and humidity, along with a chorus of blaring car horns, told me that I was in tropics, in traffic, and in trouble. I was drunk and dry-mouthed and muzzy-headed; under my white knuckles, the steering column was sweat-slick and on entirely the wrong side of the car for this day to not be a complete disaster. I turned to my passenger, cleared my throat, and aimed for a normal tone (if there is such a thing in these circumstances).

"Excuse me," I said, trying to ignore the ongoing honk-a-palooza coming from behind us, "do you think you could ..."

"Oh my Goddesses," she said, whistling a bit through the sibilants and a sizable Letterman-gap. "Go, go, go! Get us out of this intersection before the cops come to see about all the honking."

I stepped on the gas, and promptly stalled the car as my left foot slipped off of a clutch I hadn't been aware of until the car jerked a couple of feet forward and died. I looked stupidly down between my legs as my passenger started chanting, "Go, Go, Go" in time to her hitting my left arm, which had dropped from the wheel to find the shifter. I hadn't driven a stick since Father taught me how to drive using his ancient Saab 900 (and I certainly couldn't remember driving one with the stick on the wrong side, especially not drunk or in traffic).

"If you don't stop the hitting and the shrieking this second," I said, "I'll rip your fucking hand off at the wrist and jam it in that noise-hole. I can get us out of here if you'll give me a moment of quiet to think."

Her teeth clacked together, sounding like the ancient Cubanos who played dominoes out front of the bodega near Nana Cecily's. The offending hand flew up to cover the offending noise-hole; more importantly, away from my hand, which now found the shifter, and eventually first gear. I feathered the gas and clutch as gently as if they were made from baby bunnies. I got clear of the intersection just as the light was turning red, pulled away from the angry drivers behind me, and drove until I found the first left turn that I could make. I made the turn without any honking or yelling or crashing, pulled into a shady spot under an enormous fig tree, shut the engine of the car off, rolled out of the door, climbed to my feet and went to lean against the slick and cool bark of the tree.

She walked over and said my name a couple of times before I figured out who she was talking to. My eyes were tightly closed against the sun and the day and the headache that was trying to split my skull open right above those same eyes.

"Richard, we have to get to the wedding," she said. "You said everything would start at two, and it's half past already."

The shock opened my eyes, and I looked the two of us up and down, "Jesus Christ, please tell me it's not our wedding?" I was only half joking.

She smiled and reached out to slap the back of my head. My altered-state muted my normally muted response, and I nearly broke her wrist before I reined in my reflexes.

"Goddess! That hurt, asshole," she said. "No, we just met at the Swizzle. I'm from Yellow Bird Escorts. We're paid through nine tonight to go to the rehearsal for your brother Eddie's wedding to whatshername. I wouldn't even have hung around, much less gotten in this car with you in this state, if it weren't for your story of the orphaned baby fox."

"Barb, not Barbara," I said, as things finally started coming back to me. "Eddie's marrying his new girl, Barb, in... Bermuda. We're in Bermuda!"

"Congratulations, Richard," she said as she queued up her next question. "Now, do you think we could get going, it's not getting any earlier. Do you need me to drive?"

"Nope, I'm good," I said, which is my inevitable answer to that, or any question regarding my well-being, or capacity to function in any given situation; I slid back into the roasting-hot rental, gingerly touching the steering wheel, listening to my knees crack as I settled into the car.

"I have a picture of the general layout of Hamilton, and some idea of how to get from here to the resort the wedding's at. I feel like an ass for asking, ma'am, but can you remind me of your name?" I asked.

She looked at me, sitting behind the wheel, squinting in the tropical glare, sweating out what must have been an impressive number of rum swizzles, and she gave a deep, rumbling laugh before taking pity on me, sharing a sweet and pretty smile, and answering, "Pepper Divinity, Richard, pleased to meet you." She took in my reaction to the name, and continued, "I know, right?"

"There is no way I can introduce a two-stripper-name 'date' to my family with a straight face, what's your real name, or at least real-er?"

"That's the real deal, honey," she said, nodding as she did. "My workin' name is Norma-Jean, 'cause people say I look like Marilyn Monroe."

I couldn't see it, but also couldn't think of a good reason to mention that.

"Norma Jean it is," I said, shifting the car into first gear, putting the car through a three-point turn, and heading back into the noise and traffic of a minute ago, somewhat more clear-headed. Long years of hard-drinking and a mixed bag of blackouts and brownouts were finally paying off in the form of partial function while fully inebriated.

I managed to get through town, and onto the right road to feel my way towards the resort that was perched on a cliff at the far end of the island. I'd never been to Bermuda before, but my brother Edward and I had decided on it as the perfect zombocalypse retreat nearly twenty years ago, so the roads and general layout were still etched in my mind from long hours spent with maps and the fancy glass globe in father's study. My head cleared further while I drove farther, and by the time I handed off the rental to a valet and escorted Pepper Divinity inside (I had perversely decided on introducing her to everyone at the wedding by her real name while crossing the island). I could remember whole stretches of the flight out of JFK. I had been alone and drinking early in the first class section. The limo driver, who provided the ride from the airport into Hamilton, arranged for me to meet the lovely lady herself at The Swizzle Inn (which serves those vicious and eponymous drinks). More importantly, I remembered that I was planning to kill my eldest brother, Eddie, tomorrow, on his wedding day.

"Would you be a peach, Pepper," I said, giggling, though, who wouldn't, "and get us a couple of swizzles from the bar that must be hiding somewhere nearby, while I check in; tell them to charge it to the Gloucester Wedding Party. Thanks."

I pressed a fifty dollar bill into her hand as she started across the grand entry hall, just in case, enjoying the briefest of touches as our hands made a nest around the money. Her fingers and palm were smooth and muscled and not at all soft, much like what I could see/imagine of the rest of her. On a whim, I told the woman behind a yard of cool marble (upon which I may or may not have rested my forehead for a few delightful seconds) that I was Richard Gloucester, checking in, would need a suite instead of a single, and that there would be two of us staying for the wedding.

"Lord God, Ricky," Father said from next to me, appearing, as always, as if out of thin air. "You smell like a high-speed collision at the corner of Fruit and Rum. You missed the entire luncheon, and a walk-through of the wedding by the planner. Your brother's only going to get married this one time; do you think you'll be sober for the dinner tonight, or the ceremony tomorrow morning?"

"Father," I said, gathering my thoughts, and thankfully hearing Pepper's heels clacking across the Italian marble, obviating my need to think up anything meaningful to say. "So nice to see you too; this is my friend, Pepper Divinity, she'll be joining us at table tonight, and tomorrow."

She reached out to hand me my drink, and continued the movement by sliding her arm inside of mine for a quick caress before turning to face Richard Gloucester Senior with a confident outstretched hand, and a fun and fierce and frantic smile that wholly surprised Father. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to throw her over my shoulder and take her up to the suite for a grown-ups' play date.

"I'm so pleased to meet you, Mr. Gloucester," Pepper said. "Richie has told me so much about you."

Something about her tone or touch or the way that she held his eyes, warm and friendly, but not giving an inch, seemed to stop the snarky comment in his throat. He held their shake longer than the 1.2 seconds he had drilled into Eddie and me when we were growing up, and even moved his left hand to give her forearm a brief squeeze that was outwardly proper, but which seemed to me, based on my family's general level of warmth and human contact, almost obscene.

"I am pleased to meet you, Pepper!" he said. "Richard the lesser's 'dates' for family gatherings generally leave something to be desired, but seeing you on his arm makes me want to think better of the boy."

I had never wanted to be any place less, or to kill anyone more. I could feel the red climbing up and out of my shirt collar, and felt the retort pushing its way out of my mouth like angry vomit when she answered him for me.

"If my daddy could see me today, he'd likely say the same thing about me, only with Richie dressing me up in this case. He had a talent for saying exactly the right thing to make me feel about as big as a grasshopper; but then he always was a nasty sonofabitch."

Father looked stunned for a few seconds, debated getting angry for a few more, and then surprised all of us by laughing out loud, at her, at himself, at all of us.

"By God," he said. "I like you girl. Pepper? That's one hell of a loop to be hung on your whole life, but it fits you. You kids get up to your room and get settled in, and I'll see you down at beachside where Edward and Barbara and some other members of the wedding party will be heading out for a guided snorkel at four."

"Sounds like fun, we'll try to make it, but we may take a nap or shower or something first, so don't hold things up for us," she said and turned to walk after the bellman hauling my bags up to the suite. As she walked away, she perhaps put a little extra sway in each step... a bonus that was not lost on Father, who was watching Pepper walk away like there would be a quiz on her ass later.

"Father," I said sharply, trying to reel him back in for a moment's talk before I followed Pepper down the hall to the suite, "we need to find time to talk about that ridiculous proposal and paperwork you had Mitchell send over last week. It virtually drops Eddie into the CEO slot, and freezes me out of the company."

"There's no 'virtually' about it son," he answered brusquely. "That's what's happening, effective immediately. He's a man; you're a boy, a drunk, Peter Pan without the boyish charm or ability to fly. You are far too irresponsible to help Eddie take over The Company when I officially step down next month."

I had no answer to this. He was right, which pissed me off and made me want to slap the self-righteous, self-assured smile off his face. Instead, I finished the drink in my hand, grimacing at the fruitiness, and turned quickly enough to slip, slightly, on the slick floor and nearly pratfall in front of the man I least wanted/needed to look a fool for on this day. I recovered, but dropped the empty glass to the cold, hard floor, then stomped off towards the room, the happiness and horniness and hopefulness of moments ago broken on the floor too. I remembered my reasons for planning the death, murder, of my brother, and wondered if I should start with the old man instead.

Pepper's high heels were a few feet inside the door to our suite, my bags had been placed on the bureau, and her lovely silk dress was hung neatly, but casually, on the back of what looked to be a comfortable reading chair. I could hear her singing in the shower (Patsy Cline, "Walking After Midnight") with more gusto than talent. She must have heard or felt my presence in the suite, because when she reached the end of the stanza, she warbled the ending into an invitation and an offer that I couldn't refuse.

"I'm lonesome as I can beeeee," she sang. "Richie, can you come and help me wash my back?"

I haven't gotten undressed as quickly since the nineties, and the grace I'd been lacking a minute earlier was thankfully mine again, as I negotiated the high and slippery wall of the enormous tub/shower to climb in behind Pepper, who was rinsing her face and hair.

"Reporting for duty, ma'am," I said, and, unable to help myself, I brushed my lips against her perfect neck, and ran a hand down her spine and then around to the front of a hip. "You taste like sunshine and dewdrops, and look good enough to eat."

"We'll get to that in a couple of minutes, mister," she said, "but no serious monkey-business in the shower. I have a girlfriend who broke her elbow and a wrist getting frisky in the shower. You can look, you can touch, but save the good stuff for the bed out there, okay?"

She turned and gave me a long and acrobatic kiss that almost unmade her logical argument, then slapped a soapy washcloth into my hand, turned, and presented me with her back again. I dutifully scrubbed, albeit spending more time and energy on some parts of her than others, and she did the same for me (which again, almost convinced me to try and get her to break her rule about showers). Father and family and a fortune just out of reach were forgotten, and after a quick rinse and toweling off, I chased her, both of us giggling, to the bed.

Watching her race naked across the room took my breath away and put my heart in my throat; she was tanned with a few pale stripes, long-limbed and lean, but with just enough curves and softness and then still more curves to leave no doubt of her femininity.

"Jesus, you must do yoga or whatchamacallit," I said. "You're hard."

"You too," she said, turning to give me the onceover, and a ridiculously endearing giggle, "Come here and let's do some Pilates."

It was a wonderful afternoon... perfect really. The air was warm and smelled like a flowers and spice, the sheets were crisp and clean, the ceiling fan dried and cooled us between interludes of love, and we kept the room-service staff busy and amused with outrageous and extravagant, even unlikely and hard to believe, orders for food and drink. The sex was fun and frenzied and athletic and playful/experimental without guilt or power-struggle or inhibition. Pepper was enthusiastic and greedy and giving and genuine in bed, and by the time we should have long since started getting ready for dinner, I felt like some Caribbean god of carnal pleasures. I also felt as though I'd been beaten with sticks, had layers of skin sanded off, and been bitten/licked/kissed everywhere I had nerve endings.

"Will your father send someone for us if we skip the dinner?" she asked as she finished the last of the champagne out of a coffee mug and threw a tiny cube of ripe and juicy mango into her mouth. All of the flutes had been broken in an explosion of Greek exuberance; now broken glass littered the area around a (wholly unnecessary) fireplace.

"Eddie would actually feel betrayed in some small way," I said, "and something about the way we've spent the afternoon makes me want to not hurt my little brother."

"I must be a fucking magician in the sack then," she said, "because the drunk, angry, airplane-cramped you of a few hours ago was intent on killing him, unless my memory's going, and it's not."

I tried to play back the tapes of my jittery, drunken, and grumpy morning. Could I have been stupid enough to share my plans to murder my way up the Gloucester corporate ladder with a woman I'd just met, hardly knew, an escort (let's call a spade a spade, she's a hooker)? I was simply incredulous at my credulous simplicity; I went from feeling a Pirate King to one of the boobs singing loudly about their 'cat-like tread' as they stomp towards the house of General Stanley. The look on my face must have betrayed my emotions and confusion.

"Don't sweat it," Pepper said. "You were very drunk when you told me about coming down from the icy depths of Manhattan to kill him and his blushing bride because you were being edged out of the family business, whatever that is. I didn't believe you until I met that beast who spawned you; with that monster in your gene-pool, anything is possible. All the intrigue and plotting and murderous greed was a nice counter-balance to the drunken, morose, and moping cutie-pie who talked about his dreams of opening an 'animal shelter and wildlife-rehabilitation center' in the mountains somewhere north of 'The City'; the guy who cried telling me about the baby raccoon."

"It was a baby fox, and it died in the exact same moment as those stupid dreams," I moved over to the bar, feeling once again fat and old and slow and impotent. I filled my own coffee-mug with a few inches of mid-market single-malt, and drank it down like the medicine it was.

"I'll go in and rinse off the afternoon," I said, eventually. "Unless you want to go first, and then we'll head down to the dinner after."

"New rule," she said, "as long as we're gonna be together, we're gonna be together. We'll rinse off together, to save water, and be downstairs all the sooner."

"Sounds perfect," I said. I was relieved and happy and thought that I just might be able to face the dinner, and Eddie, and Father, after some scrubbing-bubbles therapy-time with Pepper.

"The discussion of our taking a team-shower does raise another point, possibly two," she said, looking down my body and smiling, not without kindness or fondness. "Given this wonderful room, and a bathroom bigger than my apartment in town, and the wedding you sorta invited me to tomorrow, we need to talk about money."

"I want you," I gushed, then pulled back, slightly embarrassed/embarrassingly. "I mean I want you to stay with me during my stay in Bermuda, until I leave the day after tomorrow. How much money do we need to talk about?"

"I like you, Richie," she said, "like this place, had fun in bed with you this afternoon, wouldn't mind snorkeling tomorrow if there's time, or the morning after. Five thousand dollars is a nice, round, and steeply discounted number."

"Done," I said, before she finished. "Can I run it on my card, like before? I'd like to get it out of the way, behind us, before dinner and tomorrow."

Pepper beamed at me, and I noticed a tiny chip missing from one of her incisors on top that I chided myself for thinking was cute, charming even. She walked across the room like she owned it, and me, kissed me like no mother ever kissed their child, and dragged me into the shower.

Two hours later, I was near the center of a long bridal-party table, under a tent with dance floor and mirror ball and a DJ to shield us from a possible tropical rain that had been threatening. I was sweating under a heavy load of lights and booze and banquet food and the pressure of being with a small group of people I didn't like, and a big group of people I didn't know. Father had said something to Eddie when we first came in, about me, or about Pepper, or about both; whatever it was, it had diminished the usual happy/wrestling hugs of greeting Eddie and I usually shared to a quick/dry handshake. It had also soured our too-brief initial conversation, and every word or smile or glance since. Father kept up a campaign of gently leering at Pepper, and savagely winking at me, while I continued lovingly to drink tumblers of their mid-market single-malt to help me avoid stabbing him with the tiny cake-fork at the top of my place setting.

"Can I steal my brother for a moment?" Eddie said from behind us.

"Only if you promise to return him in time to dance with me later," Pepper said.

I got up, located my drink, and staggered off after Eddie into the growing dark outside the tent. He stopped near an embarrassingly bloom-tastic and gratuitously wonderful smelling hibiscus bush, and leaned in as if to share a secret with me. I considered, for the briefest moment, breaking his neck and chucking him off the cliff and into the pounding surf below, but assumed that someone, likely 'Barb, not Barbara', would be watching and spoil everything.

"It's winter," he said.

I expected more, so I waited for it; he could never hold onto a clever thought for long, and didn't in this instance.

"You've lived your whole life like the bug in that stupid story," he said.

It was a grasshopper, I mentally corrected him.

He continued, "The one that lives it up all summer long, making fun of the ants and everyone else for working and planning ahead."

I nodded at him, having heard versions of this story before, from both him and Father.

"That fucking bug parties like a rock star until he feels the chill of winter, and then expects the ants and everyone to help him out," he continued, projecting spittle onto my shirtfront with his vehemence. "Well, fuck that noise. I've worked for what I've got, to be where I am, and you can freeze for all I care... Grasshopper. You'll have what you inherited from Grandfather, and that shitty cabin Cecily left you, but I'm telling security to keep you out of the offices come Monday."

"Is that all?" I asked, trying to play it off as unimportant, unwounding, to me.

"That is it, Rick," he bit off the last syllable an inch from my nose. "Winter is coming for you, and you're on your own from here on out; enjoy the whore tonight, she's out of your price-range from now on."

I nearly lost grip of my unravelling control, but I heard Pepper laugh from inside the tent behind me, drained my tumbler, tossed it over the side instead of Eddie, and felt my way back to the table, taking a detour by the bar.

She leaned over a few moments after I'd regained my seat, perhaps sensing an approaching tipping point, and placed a hand over mine for a moment. It was a tiny gesture, but so loaded with support and warmth and sharing and commiseration, that I looked up into her fierce green eyes with my rheumy and scratchy-feeling ones. She moved her head close in to mine, as if to kiss me, (perhaps she did, I certainly felt her soft lips on my ear), and whispered.

"You could kill them," she said, the words tickling the side of my neck in a way that was disturbingly erotic. "You could kill Eddie and your father. But, people who should know have said that living well is the best revenge. For two hours mingling and talking and listening, I've watched you and watched them, and you're not one of them, any of them. You can fake it, probably have been your whole life, but you are different. Just walk away... from killing Eddie, from running or not running your father's stupid company, from all of these hustlers, hustling in Hustletown (by which I assumed she meant Manhattan). Just walk away."

"And there will be an end to the horror," I said, completing the line from the movie; although Pepper was as unlike Lord Humungous as was possible for a human to be, she made, perhaps had already made, the connection, and smiled.

I thought, envisioned, imagined for a few moments, then took a deep swallow from my glass, and waved it at a passing waiter, slopping an ice cube over the side and onto the table. When one of the white-coated minions had swung by to take my glass, I leaned in to Pepper's neck, smelling the soap and sex and a dab of expensive perfume on the soft skin just between her jawbone and a lovely, perfect ear.

"I wish we could, I could," I quickly corrected, "but after playing the game for so long, so hard, it's as much about the game as it is about the prize, or prizes, or winning. This is my story, and although the chapter with you has been both wonderful and unexpected, unexpectedly wonderful in fact, the ending can only go one of two ways at this point; if Eddie wins, I lose, and for me to win, Eddie has to lose. The only one way for me to win is for Eddie to lose everything; the best place, the best way to do that, is here, in this sunny exile."

I could feel her turn her head toward me so I pulled back and looked into her eyes. "I wish you didn't know," I said, "wish you could keep seeing me as the man you spent the afternoon in bed with, not the man who'll kill Eddie for money, for power. I don't want you to see me as one of them," now gesturing at the room-full of 'hustling hustlers from Hustletown'.

"But I don't have to see you like that," she said, "because you don't have to end up like that. This is your story, you can change the ending."

The tone of her voice, the urgency, grabbed me. I looked at her face, so close to mine, our conversation a private island of conspiracy in a room of conspirators and conspiracies. Her eyes were earnest and wet and wide and I wanted to believe her, desperately wanted it to be my story, not Eddie's or Father's. I saw movement beyond her, and shifted my whisky-slowed focus to Father who was eyeing me, us, and speaking in Eddie's ear. My defenses, my resentments, my vulnerabilities, all came to the fore as I imagined him whispering with Eddie about my whore. I felt someone, some hand, put a glass, filled with a reassuring liquid weight, promising surcease of pain, into mine; the moment, her moment, her promise, my hope, was gone. I turned from her to take a drink, and saw Father smile.

Eddie picked up his knife and gently tapped the rim of a water glass with it, to get everyone's attention. The room quieted quickly, and enough eyes darted quickly to, and away from, me that I could tell that I was soon to be put under the spotlight... as brother, drunk, failure, passably witty, and introducer of the best man. This was evidently something discussed at the lunch I'd missed, and mentioned briefly by Eddie when Pepper and I made our slightly late entrance to the pre-dinner cocktails on the bluff overlooking a pink sand beach and the infinite ocean beyond.

Pepper seemed to sense (or possibly just remembered it better than I, being considerably less drunk) what was coming, and leaned in close to me. She gave me a short, fierce kiss on the mouth, ending it by sucking my lower lip in to her mouth; surprising me by biting my lip quite savagely.

"Remember me," she said, "remember us, remember yourself. None of the rest of it, or any of them, matters. You can rewrite your story from here on out... you just have to decide to do it."

I could taste blood mixing with the whisky in my next swallow, and the inside of my lip stung... crazy bitch.

Eddie had just finished saying something; people were laughing, and looking in my direction. Beyond Eddie, Father smiled wryly at me, and held up his own glass of bourbon (never whisky, which explains at least two things about him, and me). I climbed the seemingly endless distance from the comfort of my chair to the stilt-tall, wobbly feeling of my tired legs, and felt the chair tip over behind me as I pushed it back while standing. It clattered and bounced for a second, which brought first a shocked silence and then some nervous laughter from the crowd scattered around the tent. I felt in my breast pocket for the three by five card Eddie had pressed into my hand during our shake, loaded with first and last names of all of the people in the wedding party, along with their roles; it was gone.

I drank the last swallow from my glass, glad of both the fire it brought and the mists it promised, and put the glass down on the table, over hard. Pepper reached over to give my hand a squeeze, and I felt it, like electricity all through my body, ending in my throbbing lower lip. She smiled up at me, I smiled down at her, everything else was gone, or at least unimportant for a moment; then Father stage-coughed loudly.

"Thank you all for coming to help my brother, Eddie, celebrate his wedding, marriage, with... Barb," I said, drowning in inanity, and feeling the fear and anger and booze climb back up and fog my already foggy brain.

I looked out across the room for a friendly, or even a marginally sympathetic, face. Finding none (not even the wait-staff, whom I had kept relentlessly and thanklessly busy fetching my drinks all evening), I cleared my throat, reached up and back into my brain for the words I would need to talk my way across the next few minutes (and then back down into my chair) as gracefully as possible.

Standing there, balanced on the triple-edge of drunk and embarrassed and angry, a thought came to me. Pepper said this was my story, and that I can write it however I'd like. If that's so, I thought to myself, "I'd like for my glass to not be empty."

I looked down and nearly gaped at the half-full tumbler.

I imagined a fat and balding writer correcting his work in a stuffy cubicle up on Mount Olympus, and a reader somewhere near Dubuque rereading the last sentence to make sure they'd gotten it right.

I shifted my eyes again up to the crowd, looking to see if anyone had noticed, and continued my thought process. "If this was my story to rewrite, there'd be a bic lighter..." and before I could finish my thought I felt the slight bulge and weight I'd lived with for years when I smoked, but had given up five years ago.

"No, a gold doubloon," I thought, and I barked out a short laugh that I barely covered with a cleared throat as I felt the weight shift and increase and flatten. I looked around the room at increasingly impatient faces, smiled, and thanked my imagined writer and reader.

Booze-fogged, and still not ready to give my little speech, I nervously/accidentally chewed my lip, aggravating the Pepper-spot and with that pain came a brief flash of clarity... in that moment I rewrote my story, my too-drunk-brain, the evening, and I began to talk.

I pointed above and beyond the tables, at the mirror ball and dance floor behind the restive mob seated in front of me, as they waited for dessert or the best man or something besides this drunken, fat, and red-faced 'Eddie's brother' they currently had to suffer, and said:

Now is the winter of our disco-tent,

made glorious summer by this son of New York;

and all the clouds that lower'd upon our houses

in the deep bosom of the Atlantic buried.

I saw a few appreciative nods from the ones who'd read The Bard in prep school or college, and as I reached for the next bit, I thought that it would be nice if the rest of the night and the wedding tomorrow could simply be sped through in a pleasant montage.

The rest of the evening was pleasant and as stress free as could be reasonably, or even unreasonably, hoped for with Father present, and Eddie and his best man angry at my speech stealing their thunder a bit. I only had eyes for Pepper, she was by far the loveliest, sexiest woman in the room, and she only had eyes for me, as we danced deep into the next morning. The rest of the crowd faded first from our view, and then actually faded from the tent, until there was only us and a yawning DJ who remained long after everyone else, spinning a perfect web of music for us to dance within. We fell into bed as the sun crept over the horizon, napped until just before the wedding, had a fabulous time with each other and with the wonderful people we met at the reception, who seemed more lively and interesting and fun than any of Eddie's friends normally did. We had no problems with Father or Eddie all day. Pepper and I again collapsed into the huge bed in our suite, drunk on life and love (or sex and lust and something maybe a little bit more), in a sea of warm skin, teasing/stroking hands, and happiness to the horizons.

I woke the next morning alone, terrified in those first instants of gently hungover muzziness that it had all been a dream, and that it was the afternoon before the rehearsal dinner (which would be a distinct possibility if Father, and not me, had been working on the rewrites of my life story). Then I heard Pepper singing in the bathroom, and knew that everything would be okay... not okay, wonderful.

"Crazy," she sang, the words pulling me out of bed and into the shower, "for thinking that my love could hold you... Lord God, Richie, I didn't even hear you."

"We've got to save water, Pepper," I said, reaching for the loofah and bath gel. "I understand Bermuda depends largely on rainwater for their supply."

We fell giggling into bed twenty minutes later, having very narrowly avoided breaking Pepper's rules about sex in the shower, and spent a slow and relaxed and comfortable and leisurely hour of lovemaking; by now we each knew how to touch and kiss the other for maximum effect, and affect, it was delight.

"I can drive you to the airport this afternoon, and return the car for you, Richie," she said, looking away towards the open window and the emerald sea we could smell beyond it. "It's been a fun few days. I'm glad that you seem to have decided not to kill your family, I'll miss you, and them, even."

"That would be great, I'm not looking forward to driving that wrong side car on the wrong side roads again," I said, starting to respond to her statements as though they were questions. "They've been the best days and hours and minutes and seconds of my life, Pepper Divinity. When it comes to my family, I've decided both to leave them alone, and to leave them entirely, entirely thanks to you, my dear."

"But as to the last, sweetness-heart," I said, kissing my way down her spine to that glorious, world-class, ass, "I have to confess that I won't miss you a bit."

She turned quickly at this, leaving me with a chin full of pubis, and her startled and sweetly sad expression (two and a half feet north of my current position).

"I won't miss you, because I'm not leaving you... here, or anywhere," I said. "This is my fucking story, and I don't know how the writer wrote it, or what the reader wants to read, but I'm riding off with you in that Delta 737 to the cold and grey slushiness of New York in February. I'm taking you away from all of this hot sun and pink sand and good money, and giving you the chance to chuck all of that for a hunting cabin up in the Catskills that Great Grandfather built, and Cecily left me."

"It'll never work," she said, in a voice that betrayed her desire to be proven, or at least convinced that she was, wrong. "We're too different. I live in paradise, you'll be poor, I'm a two-stripper-name 'date', and you're probably Richard 'something fancy' Gloucester, the 17th."

"Richard Broderick Gloucester, the 3rd, actually," I said. "But I don't give a shit about any of that because it's my story, and I know how I want it to end. I want to spend another couple of hours in bed with you and a couple bottles of champagne. I want to race to the airport so late that we can't possibly make it onto our flight, but somehow do. I want to rejoin the mile-high club in the first-class bathroom, and then skate through customs and security in the airport without hassle, without even having to take off my fucking shoes."

Pepper looked me in the eyes for the longest ten seconds ever to pass in Bermuda, before reaching across to order the champagne from room service (along with some strawberries and chocolate sauce and whipped cream and a ginger root and paring knife... oh my).

The rest of the day went just as I had hoped/rewritten, faithful reader (thank you, faithful and patient writer). We're adjusting to life in my adjusted story, and absolutely cannot wait to live the next chapter.

Not quite the end... the other shoe

Three weeks later, Pepper and I were sitting on the porch of the cabin, watching snow fall, bundled and coffeed in Adirondack chairs, watching the stray cat who'd found us play 'lick the fallen icicle' with painful deliberation.

"You're going to leave," I said, knowing it as I said it, without having known it the moment before. "You're going to leave here, leave me, leave Cat (we didn't know Cat's sex, as he/she hadn't let us get close enough to tell yet, so we'd been holding off on a name)."

"I have to," she said. "This is your dream, your story; it's not mine."

I reached across the space between us, praying that she wouldn't pull away; she didn't instead reaching her hand out to meet mine halfway.

"It could be yours too, we can rewrite it, write the ending, however we want," I said, working to keep the desperation and fear and longing out of my voice, "We could make it work."

"You could," she answered. "You could probably rewrite this story, your story, our story, my story, so that we stay here in this sweet and kooky cabin, fucking like minx until we're nothing but wrinkles and liniment, but I hope you won't."

She wanted me to figure it out, to say it for her. I didn't.

"If you write the story that way, or make it so that it's written that way, I'll lose myself, be less, maybe be gone. I can't be a supporting character in your story, I need to be the protagonist in mine."

I covered dark thoughts with a prolonged slurp of coffee. She was right. I could rewrite the story, rewrite her, to serve my needs and wants. I had considered minor alterations in the very fabric of Pepper (bigger boobs, her being awake when I woke up horny in the night, small things like that), but to date I had rejected it due to some nagging and niggling fear in the back of my skull.

"Your power to change was a gift that saved you from the brink of some genuine horrors," she said. "But using it from here on out won't be good for you, I think."

"Explain," I said, pausing to reach out and try to rub Cat with my foot while leaning over acrobatically to kiss a soft and sweet-smelling spot behind her ear. "I can have whatever I want. How can that be bad?"

She smiled up at me and waggled her empty coffee mug, signaling that she wanted another cup, and said, "Montage-ifying chunks of time, smoothing out the tough stuff, making sure that things always work out, all of that will make your life soft and grey and boring. You stayed up for two straight days as a kid, feeding that tiny baby fox by hand every hour, and warming it inside your shirt against your chest; that was real experience, real pain when it died. If you had montaged it, regardless of how you wrote the outcome for the fox, you would be a less interesting person. You need to let life soak you in pain and angst and frustration and helplessness from time to time, in order to connect with other people and with the world, in order to matter; if you don't, you'll end up being a shadow-person. I need my life, and want your life as well, to be filled with those details. I agree with John Lennon that 'life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans'. I love you, in my way, Richie, and love the cabin, and Cat, and the thing you're starting with the shelter, but it's not me, any of it... well almost any of it, so I gotta find mine, and you gotta let me."

"I'm scared Pepper," I said, flatly, returning with the French press coffee that I'd left just inside the door off the porch. "Scared you'll take the magic with you when you go. Scared I'll be less interesting, less magical, less strong, less the 'new' me when you're gone."

"Growing up, we once had a Lab named Puck," I said, "Father got him with the idea of hunting, but Puck was a useless and scared thing, he gravitated to me as I was largely the same way. He would sleep with me every night, and what I remember most was the feeling of safety and love, having him curled up and warm against my back, guarding my flank."

"So I'm your dog?" she said, affecting a hurt tone, but I could see the smile creeping in at the edges of the faux-pout, showing off her chipped tooth to glorious effect (at least on me).

"Don't take it the wrong way, Pepper," I said. "I love that dog more than anything in space or time, except you. You make me feel safer and stronger and loved-er than I am, or deserve to be; I don't want to lose that feeling."

"But you understand why I have to go?" she said.

"I do," I said. " But, or, and, I don't know which, I fucking well hate the thought of losing you when I seem to have the power to have or do anything I want."

"Choosing to do the right thing even, especially maybe, when you don't have to, is a sign of being a grown up," she said. "You might be losing your Pan-ness, but in a good way."

"So you're leaving me, us," I said, gesturing dramatically at Cat. "Where will you go, and when, and how can I reach you, and when will I see you again?"

I looked over casually, topping up her mug, pretending my heart wasn't breaking, that I wasn't terrified almost beyond rational thought or deed, and that I wasn't considering using the power that she or God or you (the reader or writer of this, my story) gave me to change her; and force her to stay.

"I'll ride into town with you tomorrow morning," she said, "and catch a bus to Albany. I've got a friend in Santa Fe, and I might ride out the winter with her down there. I'm travelling, dearheart, exploring, not dying... you can reach me on my cell or by email, same as my momma does."

She stood up and shook off the quilt she'd wrapped herself in when we'd come out onto the porch, and flashed me a thousand watt smile that took my breath away (although her standing there, nearly naked and all goose-bumpy didn't hurt). "Take me to bed and screw me wobbly, lover. Give me another reason to remember this crappy, wonderful, leaky, lovely cabin, say you love me in a convincing tone, and then promise you'll let me go. I'll hide in the high-desert for a few months, cry some and probably drink too much red wine. Then I will miss you too much, and one of us will come to the other, and we'll be together for a while, and then I'll run away again, maybe forever," she finished this crying and smiling and goddess-beautiful in her pain and wanting.

We ran inside, Cat following our two-soul stampede, certain that if we were fleeing the porch, there must be a reason. Cat ended up cowering in the corner for hours, as we celebrated Pepper's decision and story and protagonist status in that story, ignoring my only-partially broken heart, with a mixed grill of love and lust and lewd behavior.

I'm not sure how it will all turn out, what will end up happening with me and Pepper Divinity, if I'll learn to stop using my/your gift, if I can make a go of it as a recovering grasshopper, or what the next chapter will bring, but I'm eager to see. Yes, it's winter, but the cold days and long nights hold a certain beautiful magic for Cat and me, particularly because we can feel a well-earned spring just around the corner. You keep writing and reading, and I'll keep living, the words.

### About Jamie Sheffield

Jamie Sheffield lives with his wife, son, and dogs in the Adirondack Park. When he's not writing mysteries, he's probably camping or exploring the last great wilderness in the Northeast.

Besides writing, Jamie loves cooking and reading and dogs and dozens of outdoor pursuits that his friends and family classify variously as dangerous, foolish, nerdy, stupid, and likely to get the attention of Homeland Security.

He has been a Special Education Teacher in the Lake Placid Central School District for the last 15 years, and loves the kids, the work, along with the variety and intensity of his days.

"Here Be Monsters" was his debut novel, in 2013. In the years since this best-selling novel was published, he has also written a series of shorter ebooks that follow the exploits of his protagonist, Tyler Cunningham. Jamie won the 2014 Adirondack Literary Award for Best Novel of 2013 with "Here Be Monsters"!

His second full-length novel, "Caretakers", was published in January of 2014; a third novel, "Between the Carries", also in the Tyler Cunningham series, will be published around New Years of 2015.

Links:

Website: <http://www.jamiesheffield.com/>

Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/groups/JamieSheffieldWriter/>

Merry Christmas, Baby-

A Nightshade Short

Brenda Tetreault

Dedicated to all of Nightshade's fans...

Merry Christmas!

One

_Roman stepped_ into the darkened bedroom on cat's feet, doing his best not awaken his sleeping wife, Sabrina. Moving through the dark room, he stripped out of his clothes in silence before pulling the blankets back and sliding into bed beside his wife's warm body. In moments, he'd settled against the pillows and pulled Sabrina into his embrace. Feeling her snuggle against him with a little sigh, Roman closed his eyes and let sleep steal over him.

_Sabrina awakened_ slowly, luxuriating in the warmth of the blankets surrounding her. Sliding her hand across the bed, she reached for Roman, and felt a stab of disappointment when she realized that he wasn't asleep beside her. Before she could do more than register his absence, however, she felt her stomach give a mighty lurch. Clapping her hand over her mouth, she rolled from bed and bolted for the bathroom. In moments, she was on her knees before the toilet, helplessly retching. She wanted to call out to Roman, but knew he wasn't home. She could tell by the sound of the silence in the apartment around her that she was the only living being in the place. So she kneeled on the cold bathroom tiles alone and lonely, and retched into the bowl until she was certain she would shrivel up and blow away.

This was the third morning in a row and the fifth in ten days that Roman had been gone when she awakened, and though she was certain it was business at the club that kept him out until well after she'd fallen asleep, and caused him to leave so early, it still unsettled her. Christmas was just a few days away, and she hadn't spoken to Roman face- to- face in days. To make matters worse, the apartment looked dark and dreary without the festiveness of lights and a tree, and though she was certain Roman wouldn't mind if she went ahead and decorated, she wanted to have him by her side, just like their previous two Christmases together. But for some reason, Roman didn't seem to want to spend any time with her, and the idea that he was growing more distant from her twisted her already oversensitive emotions closer to the breaking point.

Pulling herself to her feet, Sabrina flushed the toilet and turned to the sink to rinse her mouth out and brush her teeth. Then, feeling as if she hadn't showered in days instead of hours, she pulled her old nightshirt over her head and dropped it into the hamper. Reaching into the shower, she turned it on. While she waited for the water to warm up, she turned sideways in front of the floor to ceiling mirror and studied her reflection. The four parallel scars that ran from her left shoulder, between her breasts, and down her belly before curving to her right hip were no more than soft and silvery fine lines that she took as much notice of as she would the color of her eyes. They were the reminders of a Strigoi attack that had occurred the first time she'd gone out with Roman. In the end, Roman's friend, Caine, had saved her life, but Roman, with his love and devotion, had saved her very soul.

Running her hands over her body, Sabrina noted the slight rounding of her belly and cradled her hands protectively over it. Closing her eyes, she sent a silent prayer heavenward.

_Just a few more days, please,_ her heart whispered _._

Then, before she could be caught up in maudlin thoughts and worries, she shimmied out of her panties and dropped them into the hamper before stepping into the now steaming shower.

_Thirty minutes later,_ Sabrina sat down to a small breakfast of fresh fruit and plain scrambled eggs. She took a bite of the eggs and looked up to give Morgan, Roman's right hand faun a smile. "Perfect," she said, meaning it.

"Miss," Morgan began, wiping his hands on the hand towel he carried with him, "Don't you think it's time to tell him?"

Sabrina set her fork down with a little shake of his head. "I don't want to get his hopes up just yet, Morgan," she said in a soft voice, "Just a few more days, until I'm certain."

Morgan gave a stiff nod, obviously not happy with Sabrina's words, but knew it would be useless to try to talk her out of the course she'd set herself upon. With a sigh, he returned to the kitchen to allow Sabrina to finish her breakfast in peace.

_Roman stared_ at Callahan Salter, unable to believe that yet another issue had cropped up. "Are you kidding me?" He asked in disbelief, "Who let them change the reservation like that?"

Callahan shook his head. "I don't know," he replied, shrugging, "But Alex won't be here to cover the kitchen staff that evening." He gave Roman a commiserating look. "I can do double duty that evening, if you need me to," he offered, "As long as no one expects me to do any of the actual cooking."

Roman gave a mock shudder of fear at the thought; Callahan Salter had become rather well known for being an agent of culinary disaster; the man had once burned _water_. Picking up the phone, he dialed the kitchen extension. A few spoken words later, he sat back in his chair and gave Callahan a steady look. "I'm leaving standing orders that you are never to be given so much as a pot of water to boil," he said dryly.

A quiet knock sounded on the office door a few minutes later and a tall, blonde haired and blue eyed Adonis walked into the room.

"Alex," Roman said, warmth in his tone, "I'm desperate here, man." At his head chef's questioning look, Roman went on. "The Bennett party added twenty more guests, and three are special meal orders."

Alex closed the door behind him and sauntered across the floor. "And this has made you desperate, why?" He asked, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled.

Roman pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes closed. "Alex," he sighed, striving for patience, "Twenty more guests and three more special meals means that many more ways for the staff the screw things up without you there to make sure things are right."

Alex hitched a hip up onto the corner of Roman's desk and crossed his arms over his chest, causing the sleeves of his chef's jacket the strain at the seams. "Roman," he said, his words layered with a heavy French accent, "This is nothing; I will simply tell the kitchen staff of the change, and you will trust them to do what needs to be done to ensure that everyone will be delighted with not only the food, but the entire evening."

Roman stared up at Alex in silence, his eyes narrowed. The quiet between the three men stretched unbroken, until Roman finally heaved a heavy sigh. "You're right," he told his head chef, "Your staff can handle the extra workload." He stood and turned to Salter. "Go ahead and hire the extra security you feel you need for that night." At Callahan's nod, Roman turned to Alex. "I trust you to make sure everything goes smoothly."

"Roman," Alex rumbled, "Relax. Nightshade is in good hands. Take your woman and run away with her before I do it for you."

Despite knowing that his friend only teased, Roman still found himself growling possessively and flashing his fangs in annoyance. "Alex, you go too far," he threatened, turning on his head chef and taking an aggressive step in his direction.

Recognizing that Roman's temper was frayed to the breaking point, Callahan stepped between the two men as Alex straightened with a cocky grin wreathing his too handsome face. "Roman, settle down, Alex is only teasing you," he said, his tone calm and implacable. "And Alex, if you value your life, you will stop baiting him."

The tension ebbed, but didn't vanish completely; Roman was too keyed up and Alex was having too much fun poking the bear.

Grumbling and growling, Roman began to pace. This was the third time in a year that he'd wanted to take Sabrina to their cabin in the mountains. The first two attempts had been scrubbed due to last minute emergencies at the club and he'd had to break their plans, much to Sabrina's disappointment. He'd vowed that this time would be different. This time, he would make sure that nothing would go awry. This time, nothing would stop him from absconding with his wife for a Christmas weekend of gift giving and love making. He'd even asked Morgan to have a tree delivered to the cabin and decorated, the lights set on a timer, so that the very first thing Sabrina would see when they walked into the warm, snug cabin would be a Christmas tree in all its festive glory.

And here Roman felt a twinge of regret; Christmas was Sabrina's favorite time of year and he'd purposefully held off taking her to pick out their Christmas tree for the apartment, and was even now, pretending that Christmas was the farthest thing from his mind. He knew the lack of decorations, Christmas cookies, and carols made his wife feel a little blue, maybe even a little confused. However, if everything went as he planned, his surprise would be perfect and she would realize all that he'd done, just to make her holiday perfect.

Nodding more to himself than Cal or Alex, Roman sighed and sat down behind his desk.

"Go," he told the two men, "Do whatever needs to be done. Oh, and whichever one of you sees Amanda, send her to me, please."

He listened to their murmured agreements then put them out of mind as they quietly left the office. With a sigh, he picked up the framed photo of Sabrina that sat on the corner of his desk and touched her smiling face with a fingertip. "It'll be worth it, baby," he murmured, "I promise."

Thirty minutes later, there was a soft knock on the door, and as Roman called out for Amanda to enter, he gave the photo of his beautiful wife one last lingering glance as he set his pen aside and looked up. Sitting back, he watched as Amanda- pretty, vivacious, and curvy Amanda- bounced into the room. He knew if it had been up to Sabrina, Amanda wouldn't have been hired just because of her head turning looks but Amanda had the skills and experience needed for the job, and had a knack for dealing with the more exotic of the supernatural beings that frequented Nightshade that the other candidates hadn't possessed. Amanda was bright, vivacious, and possessed such a positive attitude that anyone who encountered always felt better for it. Case in point: as she breezed into the room with a cheery greeting, Roman noted absently that a bright red Christmas bow decorated her shoulder length dark hair, and found himself smiling, in spite of himself.

"Hey, boss," she said, with a cheeky grin, "I just got back from my mission."

"Good," Roman said, clearing off his desk to make room, "Show me what you found."

Grin widening, Amanda did as he asked.

_"I won't be long,"_ Sabrina told Morgan as she shrugged into her wool coat, "I'm just meeting Gaela and Ava for lunch and then doing a little shopping. I'll be home around five-ish."

Morgan murmured his understanding as she opened the door and watched as she left the apartment, knowing this little venture was simply because Miss Sabrina was bored, restless, and lonely for her husband. A slight frown of disapproval marred his features as he considered Roman's actions, or lack thereof, lately.

Roman Arceneaux was a focused and driven business man, and had been for most of his centuries' long life. Unless something drastic had occurred in the last week and a half, he'd also reached the point in his life that he had surrounded himself with people capable of insuring that operations ran smoothly with minimum guidance from Roman. So his late nights and early mornings were not easily explained away. The man was up to something, but Morgan didn't know what. It wasn't another woman, though anyone else who didn't know the half-breed as well as Morgan did, would immediately assume such a scenario. But Morgan knew better. What irritated him was that Roman had failed to keep Morgan in the loop, and as a result, he didn't know how to comfort Miss Sabrina now that she was beginning to grow worried over her husband's sudden apparent lack of interest in her, their marriage, or even Christmas.

With a heavy sigh, Morgan turned to the kitchen, deciding that perhaps a batch of Christmas cookies would cheer Miss Sabrina up.

_Sabrina smiled_ the moment she saw Gaela and her daughter, Ava, sitting at a window table in the Voodoo Beanery, and laughed when she heard Ava's excited squeal. It was early in the lunch hour, so the shop wasn't too busy and Ava had plenty of room to run to greet her favorite aunt.

Gaela watched as, with a delighted laugh, Sabrina scooped Ava up into her arms and kissed her niece's cheek loudly.

"There's my girl," Sabrina said happily, wrapping her arms around Ava's little body and hugging her tightly.

Gaela smiled at the scene, but had to wonder if she was the only one who noticed the underlying sadness that seemed to have settled over Sabrina. Something wasn't right. Gaela could tell without even talking to her sister-in-law. She waited until they were once more settled before leaning forward to ask in a low voice, "What has my idiot of a brother done?"

Sabrina looked up from her menu in surprise. "What are talking about?" She asked, once more studying the menu, though she knew what the coffee shop offered and what she would end up ordering, "Roman hasn't done anything."

"Sabrina," Gaela said in a gentle tone as she reached across the table to take the menu out of the other woman's hands, "Look at me."

Reluctantly, Sabrina looked up at Gaela, tears already beginning to pool in her eyes. "I don't know what's wrong," she confessed in a choked voice.

That's all it took. A veritable flood of worry, anxiety, and stress came pouring out and Gaela just sat and allowed Sabrina to get everything off her chest. It took a few minutes, but by the time Jeanie arrived to take their orders, Sabrina's words had wound down and she was covertly drying her tears.

Gaela waited until Jeanie was out of earshot before asking, "Have you thought about simply _asking_ him if everything is all right?"

Sabrina nodded as she dabbed the tears from her cheeks, "I have, but every time I want to talk, he's either not home, or too tired."

Gaela narrowed her eyes. "Hmm," she murmured, taking a sip of her coffee, "He's at the club right now," she mused aloud, "Maybe you should pay him a visit after you eat."

Sabrina shook her head. "I don't want to bother him," she began but Gaela cut off her words.

"Do you love Roman or not?" She asked in a direct tone. At Sabrina's startled nod, she continued. "Then you need to _fight_ , Sabrina. Roman is being an idiot and you need to find out why. Curling up and hoping things will get better isn't going to fix things, and might only make things worse."

Sabrina lowered her eyes and bowed her head. "You're right," she said, "And I know you're right," she continued, "But there's a part of me that's afraid that talking it out with Roman won't fix anything."

"Sabrina," Gaela said, leaning back as their lunch order was delivered, "Roman loves you, I know he does, but something's going on, and you need to remind him that you need him more than the club does." She paused to squirt catsup on Ava's French fries. "At the very least, you should tell him that you're tired of waiting on his ass and that you're going to get a Christmas tree for the apartment."

Sabrina nodded as her resolve strengthened. Now was not the time to fall back on her old habit of quietly standing aside and letting the world walk all over her. One of the things Roman had taught her was how to stand up for herself and what she wanted. And what she wanted was to celebrate Christmas with her husband. She wanted to spend Christmas Eve night making love. She wanted to surprise him with the gift of her news the next day. But none of that would happen if she just allowed things to carry on as they had over the last ten days.

"You're right," she told Gaela, picking up her sandwich, "It's time to make this holiday merry and bright again." At Gaela's laugh, Sabrina grinned and took a bite of her sandwich, suddenly feeling ravenous.

An hour later, she kissed Ava on the cheek, said goodbye to Gaela, and climbed into a cab.

_Roman eyed_ the lingerie as he imagined Sabrina wearing it. "The blue," he said pointing at the sapphire blue satin corset with its matching panties and garter belt, "It's the color of her eyes."

Amanda grinned as she began putting the other pieces away. "Good choice, boss," she said, giving him a wicked little wink. She paused and held up a sheer baby doll nightie in a beautiful shade of peach and eyed it appreciatively before carefully folding it and placing it inside a bag at her feet. Maybe if she put it on layaway, she could buy it for herself after the holidays.

Roman saw the longing in his secretary's eyes and said as he stood, "When you purchase the blue one for Sabrina, pick something out for yourself, as well."

There was a beat of shocked silence, then Amanda gave a squeal of delight, and laughing and babbling her thanks at the same time, she threw her arms around Roman's neck and kissed him.

_And wouldn't you know it,_ Roman would later think ruefully, that was when the office door opened and Sabrina walked in.

Two

_Sabrina came_ up short, a gasp of shock tumbling from her lips as she walked into Roman's office to find a buxom brunette in his arms, kissing him. The sound of her surprised exclamation caused the slut to stumble back from Roman's embrace.

"Roman?" Sabrina stammered, blinking rapidly as she tried to comprehend an innocent reason why she would walk in on her husband kissing another woman, "What the hell is going on here?"

Her eyes landed on the brunette who, Sabrina noted, had the grace to be blushing a furious red and seemed happy to stare at the floor between the toes of her shoes.

Roman sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. "Amanda," he said in that calm, smooth tone of his that Sabrina associated with the business man side of her husband, "Please carry on with your assignment. I will expect delivery within the hour."

Amanda nodded and mumbled her understanding. As she scooted past Sabrina, the curvaceous brunette kept her eyes down. When the door closed behind her, Sabrina closed her eyes and counted to five.

"Sabrina," Roman began, but Sabrina shook her head, cutting him off.

"Please don't tell me that it wasn't what I think it was," she said in a quiet, hurt voice.

"Well, really, it wasn't," he said, crossing the room to take her hands in his. "Amanda is my secretary and she's a little on the unconventional side, and sometimes acts from the heart instead of the mind."

When he attempted to pull her into his embrace, Sabrina resisted and pulled away instead. "I guess I know why you've been spending so much time here lately," she said, making her way to the door. "I came to tell you that I planned to order a tree for the apartment, since you didn't seem too eager to do it, but instead, I think I'm going to spend the holidays with my parents." She paused a moment and glanced back at him. "Your secretary, Roman?" She scoffed, "How cliché."

Before Roman could protest his innocence, before he could stop his wife and explain to her what she'd walked in on, she was gone, and his carefully laid plans were once again in jeopardy of falling through.

_Sabrina kept_ her emotions in check on the cab ride back to the apartment. Though there was a growing pressure in the middle of her chest that demanded release, she kept a tight lid on it. The last thing she needed was Morgan to see what a wreck discovering Roman with his secretary had made her. By the time she arrived at the apartment there was absolutely no sign that she was devastated by her husband's perfidy. She breezed into her home, calling out to Morgan in a cheery voice.

When he stepped out of the kitchen, Sabrina was tossing her coat over the back of a kitchen chair. "Don't worry about dinner, Morgan," she told him as she made her way to the bedroom, "I've decided to visit Riverfall for a few days."

"What do you mean you're visiting Riverfall?" He asked cautiously, as he stood at the bedroom door, watching her toss clothing into an overnight case.

Sabrina flashed him a bright smile. "I find that I'm missing my family right now," she lied smoothly, "I spoke to Roman, and in a way, it was his idea."

She glanced up at Morgan and saw that he was watching her closely, a suspicious look on his face. "Really, Morgan," she laughed as she went into the bathroom to collect her toiletries, "Stop looking so disbelieving. Roman knows, and he's all for it." She tossed her toothbrush and makeup bag in the case and closed it with a snap. Looping the straps over her shoulder, she said, "I have a cab waiting to take me to the botanical gardens; I can't keep him waiting forever."

Morgan stood back as Sabrina made her way from the bedroom and into the hall, and followed close behind her. "Don't you think this is a bit sudden, Miss?"

Sabrina set her overnight case down and lifted her coat to shrug into it once more. "I need a change of scenery, that's all," she sighed, praying that he wouldn't see the edges of her composure beginning to crumble. She once again lifted her bag to her shoulder. "I'll see you soon," she told him, turning for the door and not one hundred percent certain she was telling the truth. Then, before he could say another word or possibly even stop her, Sabrina walked out of the apartment. Within minutes, she was settled in the back of her cab once more, not doing anything to stop her heartbroken tears.

_Following Sabrina's departure,_ Roman fumed and paced the room while he waited for Amanda's return, counting each minute like a miser counts his coins, agonizing over each one. When his secretary finally returned an hour later, Roman felt as if he were climbing the walls. Taking the garment box, he was able to nod his thanks, and barely managed to compliment Amanda on her excellent taste in choosing a ribbon and bow to match the outfit inside the box. Tucking it under his arm, Roman strode from the office, already knowing that by the time he got home, Sabrina would be long gone.

"Merry Christmas, Amanda," he called over his shoulder. "I'll see you after the new year." He didn't wait to hear her reply and didn't wait for her when he reached the elevator.

The ride up from his subterranean office seemed to take forever. Roman passed the time pacing and by the time the car came to a smooth stop, Roman was ready to climb out the access hatch in the top and shimmy up the cables. When the doors slid open, he immediately ran into Salter.

"Something's come up and I'm leaving for the mountains tonight," he told his head of security as he walked with quick strides through the now empty club. "Tell Alex; I'm leaving everything up to the two of you."

Salter grunted his understanding, secretly relieved. He'd known the half breed vamp for more than twenty years, and knew how difficult it was for him to relinquish control of the nightclub for even so short a time as the week he was going to be with his wife. Speaking of Roman's wife...

"Did I see Sabrina here earlier?"

From the corner of his eye, Salter saw Roman's clipped nod. "That's the something that's come up," Roman said tersely, "And I've got to act now, or her Christmas will be ruined."

Salter's steps faltered a moment. "Don't tell me," he muttered, shaking his head, "She met Amanda."

When Roman turned to look at him, Callahan was startled by the level of pained desperation in his friend's expression.

"I ask Amanda to go to the lingerie shop and bring me back several different items that I could look at privately; it was for Sabrina's gift," he continued, pushing a hand through his hair. "I found what I wanted, and told Amanda to take everything back and when she bought what I had chosen for Sabrina, to go ahead and choose something for herself. You know how Amanda is; she was so happy and excited that she kissed me." He glanced up at Callahan, a wry expression in his eyes. "Sabrina walked in."

Salter whistled low between his teeth. "I'm not going to say I told you so, but I told you to make sure you introduced those two when you hired Amanda. Told you it would save a boat load of aggravation."

Roman kicked back into motion, waving his friend's words away. "I know," he sighed, aggravation at himself evident in those two words, "The point is, Sabrina thinks something's going on between me and my secretary, and she's gone home to her parent's place for Christmas."

They reached the front doors of the club, and Roman paused to look at his long time friend. "I don't know how long this is going to take," he said, "I went about this whole thing all wrong, and if I don't do something about it now, I'll end up breaking Sabrina's heart- if I haven't already."

Callahan clapped a hand over Roman's shoulder and squeezed. "Take as long as you need," he told his friend, "Alex and I have this end covered."

Roman sighed, relieved. "Thank you," he said before pushing open the doors. Moments later, he was settled into a cab and calling ahead to Morgan to have preparations made to kidnap his own wife.

Three

Several hours later...

_Roman slipped_ silently through the night darkened house, his feet moving unerringly through the shadows until he reached a back staircase that would take him through the less travelled hallways of the upstairs. Just as Morgan had promised, there were no family members and no servants wandering the house this late at night, and Victor, Sabrina's father, had made sure to keep several candles burning low in their wall sconces to light his way. Though accustomed to his major domo's efficiency, this time even Roman was impressed by the level of preparation and cooperation that Morgan had been able to achieve on such short notice.

And all it had taken was one phone call to the faun to set things in motion.

Between leaving Nightshade and arriving at his apartment a few blocks away, Roman had not only made sure to have a bag packed for himself, but to also make sure that Morgan contacted Victor Autumnwind though his fey connections and have things made ready ahead of Roman's arrival. Upon arriving at the apartment, Roman endured several long minutes of Morgan's chastisement, and much to the faun's surprise, had agreed with everything Morgan said.

"You're right," he'd said, ignoring Morgan's look of shock at his admission, "I screwed up and I need to fix this before it gets worse, but I can't do that if I can't get a few things done before I arrive at Riverfall tonight."

Within the hour, all of Roman's plans had been relayed and finalized, and it was with a grateful and hopeful heart that Roman once again climbed into the back of his car, this time ordering the driver to take him to the botanical gardens. Once there, it was only a matter of minutes before Roman was stepping through a magical gate into the fey realm. His sister, Gaela, and her husband, Caine, were waiting for him on the other side, having agreed to allow Roman to stay at their cottage until it was time to put the rest of his plan into action.

Now Roman found himself skulking through the shadows of Riverfall, doing his best to remain as quiet as possible, for though he was certain that all but Sabrina knew of his plans, he didn't want to run the risk of someone hearing him and accidentally alerting Sabrina. So though he wanted to rush to his wife's side, he took his time, gritting his teeth against the urge to hurry.

After what felt like a subjective eternity, Roman arrived at the door to the suite of rooms he and Sabrina shared whenever they visited her parent's home. Stepping inside the room, Roman saw that a fire was banked in the hearth, warming the room and casting a warm, golden glow over everything. A glance around the room showed Roman a serving tray and dome sitting on a side table to his right. Moving closer, Roman lifted the dome to find that Sabrina had barely touched her evening meal, but that the goblet of wine that had been served with her supper was empty. Roman lifted the goblet and sniffed the dregs of the wine, and smiled as he detected the subtle trace of chamomile and lavender. Lady Autumnwind wanted to make sure Sabrina was asleep when he arrived; though the herbs were non-narcotic, they were often used to promote deep relaxation and restful sleep.

Setting the goblet down, Roman replaced the cover and turned toward the bedroom. Quietly, he stepped inside, walked swiftly to the bed, and paused to look down at his sleeping wife. A fire burned in the fireplace here as well, and by the light of the glowing embers, Roman saw the telltale proof that Sabrina had cried herself to sleep. The sight of her dark lashes clumped with still drying tears and the dried, salty tracks that previous tears had left behind on her cheeks were enough to bring him to his knees. Reaching out, he gently touched her cheek, brushing a chestnut colored strand back.

"I'm so sorry, baby," he whispered, reaching down to pull the blankets back.

Minutes later, he was striding from the room, Sabrina cradled in his arms.

_Sabrina came awake slowly,_ gradually becoming aware of a sense of motion. Which didn't make any sense at all. Confused, she opened her eyes and saw... nothing. No glow from the fireplace, no morning light. Nothing. She found herself floundering in absolute, stygian darkness, and was unable to stifle the panic that roared to life. With a cry of alarm, she kicked out, trying to free herself from the blankets of her bed, only her feet encountered nothing but air and when she tried to sit up, she found herself overbalanced and it was only when someone reached out and steadied her that she was able to save herself several bruises.

And then the complete realization that she wasn't alone and she wasn't safe in her bed at Riverfall crashed over her. She tried to throw herself away from the hands that continued to hold her. Turning, Sabrina raised her hands, reaching out in blind desperation for anything that could tell her where she was. The moment her hands encountered the cool glass of a window, she felt her blood run cold as she realized what that sense of motion meant. Screaming out in denial, she turned blindly toward the window. She began to bang her palms against the glass, hoping against hope that a passing motorist would see her and be concerned enough to call the police.

"Sabrina, stop."

The voice was as gentle as the hands that took hers and pulled her away from the window. She struggled against their hold, but soon felt herself being held close against a warm, solid body as a broad palm stroked her hair.

"Shh," the quiet voice soothed, "You are safe."

Sabrina held herself stiff, though she was unable to still the trembling of her body. "What do you want?" She demanded, doing her damnedest to keep the fear out of her voice, "If you just stop the car and let me go, I promise I won't tell anyone what happened. I haven't even seen your face, so I'm won't be able to tell the police anything."

Her abductor's chuckle rumbled through her ear and she knew that she wouldn't be released anytime soon. "Is it money you want?" she asked now, letting her scorn be heard, "Then  
I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you."

"Why do you say that?"

Despite her circumstances, Sabrina found the deep timbre of his voice almost soothing. "Because my husband doesn't want me anymore," she said quietly, "I saw him with his secretary."

There were several long moments of silence. "Any man who was lucky enough to call you his wife would be the luckiest son of a bitch in all Creation."

Sabrina scoffed and relaxed under his touch, despite everything; there was something about her unknown captor that seemed so familiar. Reaching up, she touched the soft material that covered her eyes. Almost immediately, she felt warm fingers pull her hand down.

"Leave the blindfold on," that deep, brusque voice commanded, "You don't want to see anything you might regret in the future."

There was a hint of threat in his words, and Sabrina was abruptly reminded that she'd been abducted from her bed in the middle of the night. For a moment, she'd been lulled into a sense of warmth and security, such as she felt whenever she cuddled with Roman on the couch as they watched old movies together.

But this wasn't Roman. This was a stranger who possibly meant to harm her. Struggling, she pushed hard against his hold. "Let me go," she demanded angrily, "Even if he is cheating on me, if you hurt me, my husband will make sure you live to regret it."

His hold slackened and she was able to push herself into the corner of the seat, huddling against the door, as far from him as she could get. The silence stretched between them, and she strained her ears, listening to him breathe. Slowly, she inched her hands over the door panel, learning the layout, finding the handle and latch.

"The doors are locked automatically, Sabrina." His words sounded almost humored. "You're not going to be able to open the door and jump out."

Sabrina ground her teeth. _How the hell did he know what she was thinking?_

"I know you, Sabrina," he said, and she felt his hand touch her hip. She flinched away and felt a flare of satisfaction when she heard his disappointed sigh. "I know you don't give up very easily; that's how I knew to make sure you couldn't open the door."

Once again, Sabrina felt a sense of familiarity, and reached up to pull the blindfold off. His next words stopped her.

"I'm allowing you to remain unbound, Sabrina," he told her, warning coloring his tone, "But if you can't leave the blindfold on, I _will_ restrain you."

She felt a chill of apprehension shiver through her at the thought of being tied up. When she felt him lean close she was unable to pull away. She felt his warm breath on her cheek, and held herself as still as possible.

"I have always fantasized about tying you up and having my way with you, you know."

His words, whispered in her ear in a low, dark, sensual voice, sent an odd thrill through her and left her heart beating erratically in her chest.

"Keep dreaming," she whispered in as spiteful a voice as she could manage. She turned her face away and though she couldn't see, closed her eyes behind the blindfold and silently began to pray that Roman would find her in time.

Four

_Roman smiled_ as he watched his wife sit in stoic silence in the corner of the back seat. She was keeping up her haughty iciness damned well, overall. He hadn't expected her to awaken before their arrival at the cabin, but had taken the precaution of slipping a blindfold over her eyes, just in case, so his surprise wouldn't be ruined. But she'd awakened too soon, and in order to keep his plan under wraps, he'd disguised his voice enough that between her blindness and the uncertainty of the situation, she was unable to recognize him by just his words.

And he'd taken advantage of the situation. It had pained him to hear the desolation in her voice when she said that her husband preferred his secretary to her, but then he'd felt damned near heroic when she'd threatened that her husband would make him regret taking her. And he hadn't missed that little shiver that shot through her when he mentioned tying her up...

Gritting his teeth, Roman fought the urge to reach out and drag her into his lap, whip off that scrap of material over her eyes, and kiss her senseless before sinking his fangs into the satin skin of her throat. But though the need to take his sexy wife in the backseat of the car was overwhelming, he forced his baser urges into submission. He needed to make things right between them before he made love to her again, needed her to know that he was sorry for making her feel so insignificant and unwanted.

A soft sound reached his ears then, and looking over, he saw Sabrina lean her head against the window. "Please," he heard her whisper, "Please just let me go; I swear I won't tell anyone what happened. I just want to go home and spend Christmas with Roman; he's going to be so worried."

Even as his heart broke it melted. Leave it to his beautiful wife to be so sweet at a time like this. Reaching out, Roman pulled her into his side and pressed her head against his shoulder. "Rest," he told her, pressing his cheek against the top of her head, "You'll understand soon."

It was obvious by the stiff way she held herself that Sabrina didn't intend to allow herself to be comforted by her kidnapper, but as the minutes passed in silence and the car continued its way along the winding road of the mountains, even she was unable to maintain her icy disdain for long. Eventually, her body relaxed against him and he soon became aware that she had fallen asleep.

_They arrived_ at the cabin just hours before dawn. With his driver's help, Roman was able to get Sabrina into the cabin and settled under the blankets of the king sized bed in the master bedroom without awakening her. After making sure he had everything he needed, he sent the driver home to the city with instructions to return for them on New Year's Day. Then, with a jaw cracking yawn, Roman lit a fire in the bedroom fireplace and once it was burning brightly, he stripped and, leaving his clothing where they dropped on the floor, turned to crawl into bed beside his wife. Rolling onto his side, Roman watched her sleep, knowing that he had a lot of groveling and explaining to do to make things right between them once more. Yawning again, he pulled her into the curve of his body and luxuriated in the way she snuggled against him. Reaching up, he carefully removed the blindfold and tossed it on the floor beside the bed. When Sabrina awakened in the morning, he wanted her to see who it was that held her, safe and warm, as she slept.

Then, as so often happened once he had Sabrina in his arms, his worries and troubles eased away, and he was able to close his eyes and sleep.

_Sabrina's eyes_ fluttered open as the sweetest dream she'd ever had slowly faded from her mind.

Roman and she sat together, laughing as they watched their children play. Bright and colorful wrapping paper littered the floor around the boy and girl and Christmas lights twinkled on the tree as carols played softly in the background. She watched as her little girl climbed her feet and clamber onto Roman's lap.

"Daddy," she said, her words carrying a slight lisp from the tiny fangs that were only now beginning to grow in, "I love my new baby!" She threw her arms, her doll clutched tightly in the crook of her elbow, around Roman's neck in a tight hug. "How did Santa know?"

"That's the magic of Christmas, Princess," Roman replied, ruffling his daughter's dark hair.

The little girl, no more than four or five years old, seemed to accept her father's explanation for she kissed his cheek then crawled into Sabrina's lap. Sabrina hugged her daughter close, taking in the youthful strength of her body and the softness of her hair against her cheek. A sense of completion, of peace welled up within her heart, and Sabrina held her daughter tighter. "Merry Christmas, sweet pea," she whispered.

Her daughter pushed out of the embrace just enough to look up at Sabrina, her dark eyes so much like her father's. "Merry Christmas, Mommy."

The dream faded as she awakened fully then, and blinking, she first noticed bright morning light streaming through a multi-paned window set into a wall made of smooth logs. She frowned, and blinked harder. _I must still be dreaming,_ she thought drowsily as she watched fat, heavy snowflakes fall lazily past the window. Closing her eyes, she settled deeper into her pillow, allowing her mind to drift into slumber once more.

She became aware of the person sharing the bed behind her as a deep rumbling snore sounded behind her less than a minute later. Her eyes popped open and she went still, not even allowing herself to breathe as she listened to the deep, slow breathing behind her, tense and frightened as the events of the previous day and evening sorted themselves out in her mind.

Then she realized that _her kidnapper was in bed with her._

Panicked, she kicked free of the blankets, bolted from the bed, and stumbled clumsily to the bedroom door. Hands shaking, Sabrina rattled the knob, panic making her unable to make her fingers and brain work in concert. She had to get away. She had to escape. There was no way she would allow herself to be a victim. She'd go down fighting. She'd...

"Sabrina? What's wrong, baby?"

The sound of his voice, so dear to her, so sleep rich and sexy, hit her like a bucket of water, and she slowly turned on her heel to face the sight of her husband sitting up in bed, his hair pillow mussed.

"Roman?"

She whispered his name, unable to believe that he was there, that he'd found her, that he'd rescued her...

_Wait a minute_....

"It was _you_?"

Roman flipped the blankets off his body, swung his legs off the side of the bed, and sat up. "I had to do something," he said, not looking at her quite yet.

"So you made me think I'd been _kidnapped_?" Her voice rose in volume right alongside her disbelief as she continued to stare at her husband. "Why on Earth would you _do_ something like this, Roman?"

Roman pushed to his feet with a heavy sigh and turned to face her. "You weren't supposed to wake up when you did," he said, wincing at how lame his explanation sounded, even to himself, "I blindfolded you just in case, so the surprise wouldn't be ruined."

"Why didn't you tell me?" She shrieked the words, her memories reminding her that she'd been frightened and uncertain, "Why didn't you tell me it was you? That you had a surprise for me? Why did you scare me and threaten to tie me up? I thought I was going to be raped, Roman!" She threw up her hands, palms out as he took a step towards her. "Stay away!" She cried, pressing her back against the door, "Don't touch me, Roman!" Tears blinded her as she once more turned to open the door. Now that she knew she wasn't about to be hurt or worse, her panic had calmed, but now her hands shook from anger. "I want to go home to Riverfall," she told him as she flung open the door, "And I want to go home, _now_." She stomped from the room, her anger palpable.

Roman pulled on a pair of sweatpants as he crossed the room to follow his extremely irate wife. None of this was going the way he'd imagined, and if he didn't do something to smooth things over, he feared he would lose Sabrina forever.

Walking into the main room of the cabin, Roman found Sabrina standing still before the large picture window, the expression on her face aghast as she watched the snow fall heavily. "Please tell me you have a dog team and sled," she said, not looking at him.

Roman sighed and moved into the kitchenette to stoke the fire in the stove in order to make breakfast. "I sent my driver back to the city once we were settled," he told her, "He won't be back until New Year's to get us."

Sabrina spun to face him, a look of horror on her face. "You mean I'm _stuck here_? _With you_? For a _week_?"

"No need to make it sound so torturous," Roman snapped back, "I _am_ your husband, in case you've forgotten."

"My _cheating_ husband," Sabrina snarled back.

"I've already told you," Roman shot back, his voice rising with his frustration, "I wasn't cheating on you! Good gods, Sabrina!" He continued, pacing the room in agitation, "You're the best damned thing that's _ever_ happened to me! Why the hell would I do _anything_ to destroy that?" He looked up at her and found that she was simply staring at him, tears flooding her eyes and tumbling down her cheeks.

"You don't come home," she whispered, the words wretched with pain, "You don't come home, you aren't there when I wake up. We haven't spoken or eaten together in _days_ , Roman. And then I walk in to find you kissing your secretary; what am I supposed to think?"

"Amanda kissed me," Roman shot back, "And I _didn't_ kiss her back!"

Sabrina waved an impatient hand at him, as if dismissing his words. "Is that what this is?" The words were caustic now, "A peace offering? A buy off? Something to make me forget what I saw?"

"Gods damn it, Sabrina!"

Roman lunged at her, grabbed her by the upper arms, and shook her. "I have never, and would never cheat on you!" His sudden flare of anger died the moment his hands touched her, and he softened. "Why won't you believe me?"

Sabrina stared up at Roman, unable to give voice to the hurt and worry that had plagued her for the last two weeks. "You're never home," she repeated, her voice weak and failing in the face of his frustration and anger, "You come home late, you leave early," she continued, "You and I haven't spoken in nearly a week, Roman; you may not have noticed, but I have. I've missed you so much, but you weren't ever home for me to tell you how much."

His hold slackened and she was able to turn out of his grasp to wrap her arms around herself and stare out the window once more.

"Baby," Roman whispered, reaching out to touch her shoulder, "I was trying to make everything perfect for us. I've been planning this get away for weeks, and I didn't realize until you walked out of my office how much I'd screwed everything up. I was so worried about work interfering and ruining my plans for us, that I was blind to what _I_ was doing to ruin those plans."

He stepped closer, and dared to wrap his arms around her. Despite her obvious anger with him, it seemed that she still needed and loved him; she sank back into his body without a fight when he pulled her closer. "I'm sorry, baby," he whispered against her ear, dipping his head to nuzzle her neck, "I'm so sorry I hurt you. I didn't mean to."

A sob shook its way out of her. "Oh, Roman," she said, unable to stem the flow of tears, "I'm sorry, too." She turned in his hold and buried her face against his chest, her arms wrapping around his waist. But before he could tighten his hold, before his could soothe and calm her, Sabrina bolted from his embrace, a hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes frantically searching her surroundings. A moment later, she bolted for a door across the room.

Just as the echo of the door slamming shut faded from Roman's hearing, a new sound reached his ears. One that had him bellowing his wife's name as he charged across the room and threw open the bathroom door.

Five

_Sabrina clutched_ the sides of the toilet bowl, doing her best to keep her stomach from jumping up her throat and out of her body. The gagging was relentless, and she barely had time to gulp in air between retching fits. Thankfully, for her peace of mind, Roman remained silent; as it was, she could feel his unblinking stare and it made her feel sicker.

At long last, the nausea and retching ended and she was able to drag herself, weak and shaking, to her feet. She rinsed her mouth out at the sink and washed her hands before turning and using a towel of dry her hands. All of her motions were careful and slow, and she never once glanced in Roman's direction, not yet ready to face his condemnation of her keeping her pregnancy a secret from him. Finally, she was ready to leave the bathroom and turned to look at Roman, raising her eyes slowly to his face and bracing for whatever his expression revealed.

"Sabrina," he whispered, unable to say more. He knew what early morning nausea and vomiting meant. Having witnessed this kind of thing three other times in the three years of their marriage, his emotions were now torn between elation and gibbering terror. His eyes fell to her belly; was it rounder? "Sabrina..."

Sabrina felt as if a ton of weight was suddenly lifted from her shoulders; Roman's pole axed reaction was far from anything she had expected, and she reached out to take his hand and place it over her belly. "I didn't want you to worry," she whispered, reaching her free up to touch his face, "I know how heartbroken you were the other times. I wanted to make sure there was no danger before I told you."

Roman pulled away from her touch, still silent, still not reacting, and returned to the main room of the cabin. Sabrina frowned at his retreating back and followed slowly behind him. The silence stretched around them, tense and unbroken. She watched as he knelt before the fireplace and began to build a fire within the cold grate. Looking around, she noticed the tall decorated Christmas tree for the first time.

And that's when everything made sense.

Roman's late nights.

His leaving early before she awakened.

His harebrained idea to kidnap her.

The only thing that didn't make sense was her thinking that he'd been cheating on her.

"I'm so sorry."

Roman stiffened at her words but that was his only reaction.

"Oh, Roman, please talk to me," she cajoled, crossing the room to kneel beside him. "I understand everything now, and I'm sorry I suspected you." She wrapped her arms around him and held him tight.

Roman shook his head and Sabrina felt her heart give a painful lurch in her chest. "Okay," she said, releasing him and climbing to her feet once more, "You don't want to talk about it. Okay."

She turned on her heel and walked back to the bedroom, but before she could enter the room and put a closed door between them and give them both some much needed space, Roman was behind her, his arms wrapping around her as he propelled her towards the bed, his elongated fangs grazing her neck. He pushed her face down onto the bed and followed her down, his big body covering hers as he rolled her over beneath him. Automatically, her thighs parted to allow him into the cradle of her body.

Propping himself up on his elbows, Roman looked down at his beautiful wife. "I had it all planned out," he told her, leaning down to sample the honey of her lips, "Or I thought I did," he amended when he once again came up for air. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "Baby, let's not fight," he whispered, "Let's forget everything that's happened, and pretend we just walked in and we can't keep our hands off each other one second longer."

Sabrina looked up at him, biting her lip. "I don't know," she hedged, looking him over in mock suspicion, "I might need some convincing..."

Roman dipped his head and gave her bottom lip a playful nip as he growled. Sabrina's laughter soon melted into sweet little sighs of pleasure as she succumbed to her husband's more than thorough skills of persuasion.

_Later that day_ , Sabrina sat within her husband's embrace as they sipped hot cocoa and watched the snow continue to fall through the picture window. The lights of the Christmas tree twinkled and sparkled as crystal icicles caught and held their light and in the corner of the room, a small stereo softly played Christmas carols. Sabrina sighed in contentment and sipped her cocoa. Roman's hand rubbed gentle circles over her belly and she was certain that the child growing within her felt the same golden glow that imbued her heart.

"If it's a boy, we should name him Tobias," Roman murmured in her ear.

"Tobias?" Sabrina asked, wrinkling her nose. "Toby? Really?" She giggled.

"What's wrong with Toby?" Roman asked, sounding affronted.

"Nothing," Sabrina sputtered through her giggles, "If you're a basset hound."

Her giggles turned to outright laughter as Roman tickled her, and she hurriedly set her cocoa aside so it didn't spill just before he pulled her beneath him and kissed her breathless.

Roman pulled back to stare down at her, marveling at how beautiful she was with her cheeks pinkened by laughter and her eyes sparkling. "I love you," he told her as his hand roamed the length of her body.

Sabrina caught hold of his hand and pressed it to her belly. "Merry Christmas, Roman," she whispered as happy tears filled her eyes.

Roman kissed her slowly, his lips lingering over hers as he whispered, "Merry Christmas, baby."

And there, amid the glow of the fire and the Christmas tree, he made love to his wife, his heart full of joy, and his life as perfect as he could ever wish.

About The Author

Brenda Tetreault is the author of the paranormal romance series, The Nightshade Series, which include the novels Tempted, Salvaged, and Beloved. Brenda is known for a 'smooth yet sassy' writing style and a story written by Brenda certainly brings the heat!

Due to graphic language and sex scenes, Brenda's stories are meant for readers 18 years and older.

Follow Brenda:

Facebook- http://www.facebook.com/BrendaTetreaultAuthor

Goodreads- http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3370827.Brenda_Tetreault

Twitter- http://twitter.com/BooksofBounty

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