"Let me tell you," said Camillo. He tapped the vermilion-streaked gut of the machine. "Harley-Davidson fifteen hundred super-charged engine converted for a trike. And here," he indicated the silvery spirals between the forward forks, "twelve-inch over-springer forks, nickel plated in twist-candy style. Yum."

Malach looked at the trike, where Camillo pointed.

"And the front wheel—the original twin-disc hub is laced into a nineteen-inch rim."

Camillo pivoted. He giggled. "The swan-neck frame has been stove enameled."

The fearful light burned on Malach's hair like white-hot flame.

Camillo said, "Cruise control is fitted. But I prefer to sit up when I ride. Methane injection built into the fuel system. That means my trike could go to one hundred and twenty miles an hour in two seconds. It would kill the engine but I'd be miles away."

He waved his hand in its skulls and rose masks at the black half-pumpkin. "A souped-up Volkswagen rear." He paused. "Do you like my horse?"

- "I remember four," said Malach, "one a black geld-ing which threw you."

"I don't remember that," said Camillo sharply. "Only the dogs. I remember all the dogs."

"Perhaps it will come back to you."

"Too old," said Camillo. He grinned and dived behind the trike as if for cover. "Well, we've met again," said Camillo, hiding around the pumpkin shell. "You can go away now."

Malach still stood there, under the light. Cold fire.

He seemed to be examining the trike.

Camillo stole out again. He said, "You've killed someone. Is it horrible Ruth?"

"Just men," said Malach.

"I remember that," said Camillo. "I remember in the sleigh—"

"No," said Malach.

"Here you are," said Camillo. "What do you expect?"

Malach turned and was gone.

Camillo's face slowly sank inward. He looked old now, ancient, a poor old man with a shiny trike that could not be his.

"We drove from the outskirts of the town. There were men running with torches but the horse bolted past them." Camillo sighed. "Out into the white woods we ran… I sobered, thinking of sagas I had heard of wolves, but my father said, 'Men are to be feared, not wolves.' "

Camillo patted the horse head. "Good horse. We'll get away. Light the fire, we can outrun it."

But no one was there to listen.

Tray had been sick. It was the mixture of drinks and no food. Lou was affected another way. She lay on the large bed, mildly snoring on a mat of Pre-Raphaelite hair. Her head was turned, so the tattooed rose showed on her neck like a vampire's kiss.

Lou and Tray both took the pill right through the month, so they need never have a period, but sometimes Tray felt funny, as if her physical clock were trying to come on.