To his surprise, she tried to fend him off. No, she did more than try—she fought ferociously, spinning and kicking and punching as he stabbed clumsily with his blade, the angle all wrong, barely nicking her. Droplets of blood fell to the snow-covered street, but it was not enough to kill.

He drew back his hand to slash wide, but she ducked under the blade and kicked at his shin, unbalancing him. She ran before he could react, heading for the dark mouth of an alley.

The killer, knife still in hand, plunged after his prey.

10 THE DAMNED EARTH

“Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,

“But waft the angel on her flight with a Pæan of old days!

“Let no bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,

“Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damnéd Earth.

“To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven—

“From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven—

“From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven.”

—Edgar Allan Poe, “Lenore”

“James!”

Someone was on top of him, holding him down. James thrashed and kicked, trying to shake them off. The claws of the dream were still in him: not a real memory, but a feeling, a feeling of hatred and darkness, a choking sense of horror—

“James, please!”

His eyes flew open.

The world spun around him. He was on his bed, tangled in a snarl of blankets. Most of his pillows were on the floor, and the window had been cracked open—the air in the room was cold. There were hands on his shoulders—Cordelia’s hands. She had clearly climbed on top of him in an effort to control his thrashing. Her chemise was slipping off her shoulder, her red hair undone, spilling down her back like a river of fire.

“James?” she whispered.

He had dreamed something, something awful, but it was fading, gone like morning mist. This was the real world. His icy bedroom, the air so cold his breath puffed out in white clouds. The empty tincture bottle on his nightstand, the bitter taste of its dregs still on his tongue. Cordelia above him, her dark eyes wide. She was shivering.

“I’m all right.” His voice was rough, husky. “Daisy…”

He sat up, drawing her into his lap, trying to pull the blankets up around them both. He meant to warm her up. He realized how foolish that was the moment she slid against him. He was freezing, but she was radiating heat: suddenly he was hot everywhere her skin touched his. She was all warm softness under her thin chemise. He had never seen a girl in this state of undress at any point in his life, and certainly never imagined what one would feel like in his arms.

She felt perfect.