my arm and squeeze; she then gasped as the sheet was slipped away.
There was no mistaking the man’s face; this was Patrick O’Cuiv. He appeared no different than he had on the day he came to supper at our house all those years earlier. He could have stepped from our table to this room only yesterday.
“He has not aged a day,” Matilda breathed.
Thornley slowly shook his head. “This cannot be. This man is a relative of some kind, of that I am certain, but he cannot possibly be the Patrick O’Cuiv we knew as children.”
“You still believe this to be some kind of trick?” Matilda asked.
“I’m not sure what to believe.” An idea came to me, and I began to explore the table.
“What are you searching for?” Thornley asked.
“His clothing and personal items. Perhaps there is something there that may help identify him.”
Matilda frowned. “I’m most certain the police searched his body thoroughly and any belongings found on his person. They found no identification.”
“Nothing to identify him by name, but there might be something familiar to us, something we might recognize.”
Thornley pulled a sack out from under the table. It was labeled with number 28773; this same number was inscribed on the body’s identification card. He removed the string at the top of the bag and dumped the contents on the floor.
Nothing but damp clothing. We searched the pockets but found them all empty.
Matilda screamed. Shrill and sharp, her voice cut through the morgue with the precision of a scalpel.
I turned from the bag’s contents to find her hovering over the jars containing O’Cuiv’s organs, pointing at one of the containers. I crossed over and placed my hands on her shoulders. “What is it?”
She shook her finger, pointing at the jar holding his heart.
“It just beat.”
NOW
Five wolves pace beneath the window, staring up at Bram, hunger in their eyes.
Bram pauses every few minutes in his writing to stand up from the chair, cross the chamber, and glance out the window. By this point, he has shot each of the wolves in turn, but little good it did. While the bullets pierce their thick coats and draw blood, they don’t injure the vile creatures in any way. Within minutes, the wounds heal, leaving behind no trace but for dried red patches of blood on the fur. He begins to suspect they actually wish to draw his fire—a distraction, possibly an attempt to get him to expend his ammunition.
The wolves watch him as he watches them.
The gray one is the leader, of that Bram is sure. Always the first to move, with the others responding to its cues—to what end, he is not certain.
My pets adore you, you know.
Ellen’s voice, muffled, behind the door. Bram glances back but says nothing.
Why not go down and introduce yourself? Or would you rather they come to you? They so like to play.
Bram believes these animals cannot traverse the path to this room, but there is no way to be sure. These wolves are not natural beings, and there is no knowing their true capabilities. As he thinks this, one of the black ones comes to the wall and stands on its hind legs, thick forelegs stretched upwards, reaching for Bram. The wolf’s ears are drawn back, and a long tongue laps at its nose. It whimpers as it glares up at him.
A sudden chill fills the air, and Bram closes his coat.
He hears a giggle—not that of a woman but a girl’s.
Wolves prefer the cold. Their fur shields them from the elements, whether hot or cold. In the heat, they sweat only through the pads of their paws, and their fur provides cooling insulation. In the cold, though, they thrive. Their fur becomes heavy in the winter months as the undercoat grows in.
The temperature in the room drops further still, and Bram can see his breath. The rifle feels like a block of ice in his grip, and he sets it down, shoving his hands into his pockets.
When it gets really