We stumbled to bed just before eleven. He wore his silk pajamas and I wore my silk negligee, but it wasn’t the same as two nights ago, though I wanted him just as badly. For one thing, we were too sober—literally sober, despite two shots each of excellent Russian vodka, but also in spirit—and for another, our journey together had just rounded its final turn. We could not risk further attachment. We could not allow our magnetic poles to lock together, no matter how great the pull of attraction.

Still, it wasn’t the same as our first night in Moscow, either. I wanted him near, even if I couldn’t touch him, and I felt he wanted the same from me. He lifted the covers for me. I scooted over to give him room. He leaned in to kiss me and said clearly Good night, sweetheart, and I like to think he said it to me, and not to the microphone tucked into the frame of the landscape that hung above the headboard.

I then slipped into a profound and dreamless sleep, so that my present jarred wakefulness makes me feel as if I’ve been propelled into a new universe. At first, I’m conscious only of the faint electricity of the intruder, the way you sense the presence of a living creature even if you can’t see or hear or smell it. I called out to Fox out of instinct, just now, not because I remembered he was there.

I regret it instantly.

Now the spook knows we’re awake.

A few feet away, Fox moves his arm, inch by inch. The mattress stirs delicately. I wonder what the hell he means to do. Launch himself into the dark? I can’t see anything but shadows and the faint light of the streetlamps outside the window through the crack between the curtains.

The room is so quiet, I hear the sheets move as I breathe. Fox feels fluid next to me, sliding too smoothly for sound, muscles coiling, cat ready to pounce. Don’t do it, I think. He’ll go away in a while.

Unless he won’t.

The blood rushes in my ears. My eyes ache from not blinking. I’m afraid to blink—I’m afraid to move—to distract Fox—to attract attention—

A shadow streaks across the room. I shoot up in time to hear an oomph, a crash, a cry—the cry’s mine—I jump out of bed and grab the lamp, yank it from the socket—a horrifying crunch of flesh and bone—thump thump thump as somebody bolts into the living room, thump thump thump as somebody chases him.

I run after them and scrabble along the wall for the switch. Find it, flip it on. Bright light fills the room, illuminating the dark-haired man who throws open the door and staggers out into the hallway. Fox dives after him. I dive after Fox.