Monday: 

Tom found Chris and Shane at the breakfast table on Monday morning.  Elaine dropped a kiss on his cheek and propelled him toward his bowl of cereal.

“Sleep well?” Shane asked.

Tom nodded around a mouthful of Weetabix.  He swallowed quickly.  “Fine, thanks.  How’s Shelley?”

Shane grinned.  “Doing great.”  Then he darted a glance at their mother.  “I have some good news.”

Elaine whirled around.  “News?”  She narrowed her eyes at her eldest son.  “I never heard any news this morning.”

“I wanted to wait till everyone was here,” Shane said, unfazed.  “Shelley and I will be parents in August!”

Chris choked.  “What?”  He gulped down some juice hastily.  “You’re having a kid?”

Elaine’s hand flew to her throat, and her eyes watered.  “Shane.  Really?  Oh, congratulations!”  She grabbed him in a hug.  “I’m so proud of you!”  After a moment she straightened up and dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron.  “I’m going to be a grandmother!”

Tom smiled at his eldest brother.  “That’s fantastic news, mate,” he said.  “Tell Shelley congratulations for me.”

“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” Chris asked.

“We want to find out the old-fashioned way,” Shane said. He was positively beaming.  “You’re welcome to help pick names.”

“No juniors,” Tom said firmly.  “That’s cruel.”

Elaine nodded her agreement.

Chris glanced at his watch.  “Tom, get a move on.  Our ride’s here any moment now.”

“ ‘Our ride’?” Tom echoed.  He reached for his book bag.

“Yeah.”  Chris gulped down the last of his juice and stood up.  “Jen’s giving us a lift.  One of the others will fetch you after school.”

Tom frowned.  “But Chris, I --”

Chris and Elaine exchanged glances.  

“Look,” Chris said gently, “it’s  just to be cautious.  And you’ll earn your keep.”

Tom glanced at his mother and saw the worry in her eyes.  “Okay.  How?”

“Helping Meg translated.  You can do your own homework first, and hang out with Mike and Jono, but --” the ringing of the doorbell cut Chris off.  “That’s her.  Let’s go.”

The two boys kissed their mother goodbye and hurried out the front door.

Genevieve greeted her boyfriend with a quick kiss before she started her car.

The three of them chatted amiably during the ride.  Chris directed Genevieve to Tom’s school.

“Wow.”  She giggled.  “I feel like a mom already.”

“Thanks for the lift.  Have a good day.”  Tom slid out of the car, then dragged his book bag with him.  He stood on the pavement and paved, watching them leave.

“Who was that?” Jono demanded.

Mike appeared on Tom’s left.  “And what happened last night?  When your mum called she was absolutely spare.”

Tom sighed.  “I’ll explain later, all right?”

Jono mock-glared.  “You’d better.”

***

The first break after double moths came too soon, and Tom found himself cornered at his locker while Mike and Jono looked on expectantly.

“So who was that you gave you a lift?” Jono asked.

“Chris’s girlfriend Genevieve.”  Tom didn’t look at them, concentrating on sorting out his workbooks.  

“What happened last night?” Mike pressed.  “Your mum was really worried.”

Tom sighed.  He was doing that a lot lately.  “After tea I headed off to evensong like I always do, and afterwards I went to visit Meg.  I didn’t think to call home, and while I was gone they found the fourth body.  Mum was scared.”

Jono put a hand on Tom’s arm.  “What were you thinking, mate, going out alone like that?”

“I don’t know,” Tom lied, but his voice shook.  “Maybe that he wouldn’t kill a boy on his way to church.”

For all that Mike was the comedian, he was more intuitive than Jono.

“Who’s Meg, mate?  Why did you have to go see her?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Tom confessed.  “And Meg is one of Chris’s girlfriends friends, another exchange student.  She plays that game, too, and I just wanted to talk to her.”

“She plays that game the coppers are asking about,” Mike said grimly.

Jono frowned when Tom’s silence affirmed Mike’s statement.  “Are you trying to solve this murder yourself?  Are you mad?”

Tom shook his head.  “No, it’s not like that.”  Another lie.  “We just talked--”

“Does she know anything?” Jono pressed.

“No,” Tom insisted.  He glanced at the clock.  “Let’s go.  Music soon.”  As the three boys left the form room, Tom caught Mike’s eye - they would talk later.

***

A pin in the map, this one in Halesowen.  People were foolish enough to think that a killer wouldn’t take a like on a Sunday.  A date for Clan Tremere.  Hopefully the police would learn their lesson.  Eventually.

“Darling, supper’s ready.”

He frowned and turned, setting down the knife.

“I’ll be there in a moment.”

She appeared in the doorway of his office bearing a tray of tea and sandwiches.  “It’s all right.  I’ve come to you.”

His heart leapt into his throat.  “What -- how are you --”

She beamed and set the tray down on his desk.  “I love what you’ve done with this room.”  She ran a finger down the freshly-updated chart.  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He gaped at her.

She gazed up at the picture of the boy.  “I miss him too, you know.”

***

During the second break, Jono had to speak to Mr. Harrison.  Mike tugged Tom aside.

“What happened last night with that girl?” Mike asked.  “It’s all over your face, mate.  She’s messed about wiv our head, hasn’t she?”

“Is it so obvious?”

Mike punched him lightly in the shoulder.  “Not to worry.  You can’t be an actor all the time.  ‘Sides, blokes like Jono are too busy being reasonable to know what’s what with their mates.”

“I don’t know what happened,” Tom confessed.  He darted a glance at Jono; the dark-haired boy was still occupied.  “This whole serial killer thing has been really stressful for Mum, and I wanted to talk to someone.  Chris’s friend Meg, she’s, well -- I talked to her.  We were talking, and the next moment we were kissing, and then I don’t know.”  Tom ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.  “Her cellphone rang, and Mum was out of her head, and she drove me home.  She hasn’t talked to me since.”

Mike’s eyes went wide.  “You kissed a uni girl?”

“It’s not that simple.”  Tome groaned.  He was a teenaged boy - he couldn’t explain his emotions; he mimicked others’ emotions for money.

Mike nodded understandingly.  “D’you fancy her?”

Tom pictured Meg in his head, but the ghoul haunting the fountain as replaced by a delicately pale girl stretched wantonly across a bed surrounded by the black lace of her dress and the ebony silk of her hair fanned out around her head.  He swallowed hard.  “No, I don’t think so.  It was panic and comfort, I guess.  She was there and she was safe, and...panic and comfort.  That’s all it was.”

Mike smirked.  “And a load of hormones, no doubt.  But if that’s all it was, why are you in such a tizzy?”

“I don’t know!”

Mike patted his shoulder.  “Let me meet her, mate, and I’ll see if she likes you back.”

Jono leered at Tom.  “Who’s the girl, mate?”

Tom jumped.  Why did people have to sneak up on him?

“What did Harrison want?” Mike asked, effectively diverting the conversation.  Tom shot him a grateful look.

Jono shrugged carelessly.  “Mr. Harrison has found some poor uni students to feed his Japanese history fetish, and as class president he wants me to do some promotional work on the other GCSE history students.”

Mike laughed.  “Poor uni students indeed.”

Tom felt a strange nausea creep over him.  Meg was one of those students.  He assembled a façade of calm.  “I have some great news, by the way.”

“Really?  Did we do well on Chris and his Yank?” Jono asked.

“Better.”  Tom grinned.  “Shane and Shelley are having a kid!”

“That’s absolutely brilliant!” Mike cried.

Jono’s eyes shone.  “Is it a boy or a girl?”

Tom shrugged.  “They don’t know yet.”

Mike clapped him on the shoulder.  “Give Shane my congratulations.  You’re going to be an uncle!”

Jono nodded in agreement.  “That is really fantastic.”  He glanced at his watch.  “C’mon.  Class starts soon.  Double science, lads, look lively!”

The three musketeers slunk into Mr. Jackson’s comprehensive science lass ten seconds after the bell tolled.

He cast the infamous trio a glare over the rim of his spectacles an pointedly cleared his throat.  They ducked their heads penitently and scrambled for their seats.  Some of the other students snickered.

Mr. Jackson picked up a piece of chalk and began writing a series of chemical equations on the blackboard.  “Happy solving and balancing.”

Tom resisted the urge to groan and fished his workbook out of his book bag.  He began working silently.  Lunch came soon.  He just had to hold out till food come. 

The lab door swung open, and Chris, Angela-the-Tom-stalker’s elder sister, stood in the doorway.  Her prefect badge gleamed.

“The headmistress asked me to fetch Thomas Phillips,” she said.

Tom frowned; what could she want him for?  He hadn’t done anything wrong.  

Mr. Jackson gave a put-upon sigh.  “Go, Phillips.  One of your friends will mind your things, I’m sure.”

Tom shrugged on his blazer and followed Claire into the corridor.

“Angela still fancies you, you know.”  She smiled at him.

Tom shrugged uneasily.  “She’s not a bad actress.”

Claire laughed and began walking.  “I’ll be sure to tell her.”

Tom followed, wondering why Mrs. Georgeson had summoned him.

Claire cast him a sidelong glance.  “Is that why you don’t audition for school plays now, so your leading ladies don’t fall in love with you?”

“That’s not why, no.”  Tom loosened his tie slightly.  Claire was in the lower sixth form whereas Angela was in her fourth form.  Angela was friends with Jono’s little sister Marianne.

“Are you too good for amateur school acting, then?”  Claire smirked at him.

Her goading was annoying him.  “That’s not it either.”

She swung around to face him abruptly, and he pulled up short.  They were mere centimeters apart.

“Then what is it, Tom Phillips?”  She tilted her head up, and Tom was starkly aware of how tall he had grown.

He took a step back.  “I simply prefer to keep my personal life and my career separate.”

“Is that so?”  Claire stepped closer.  “So is it true that you’re single, then?”

“I rather think the point of Chris’s display on the doorstep is about the fact that I don’t actually like coffee,” Tom said.

Claire stepped closer to seal the gap between them, and Tom stepped around her neatly.

“I should see what the headmistress wants.”

Claire huffed and followed him.

She knocked on the door of the headmistress’s office.

“Who is it?”

“I’ve brought Tom Phillips, ma’am.”

“Enter!” Mrs. Georgeson barked.

Claire opened the door and ushered Tom in.  He flinched away from the hand on his shoulder.  When he saw DCI Roland he steeled himself for more bad news.  He was professional, he was an actor, he was mature.  He had to be strong.

“Good afternoon Inspector, Headmistress,” he said.  The door clicked shut behind him.

“My men are working to infiltrate the gaming community.”  Roland slid a folder across the desk.  “Those gamer kids are resisting.  They protect each other; they’re hiding something.  Look inside this folder.  My forensics team identified the latest kill’s piece of art as the symbol of Clan Tremere.  The word ‘botch’ means a total failure, probably in reference to the previous two clues.  Tell me, Tom, where was Megumi Okita on Sunday afternoon?”

Tom glanced at Mrs. Georgeson.  She was watching him with the intensity of a hunting hawk.  He drew himself up to his full height.  “I don’t know where she was in the afternoon.  I didn’t see her until after evensong.”

“What did you two do together?” Roland asked.  His gaze bored into Tom.

He repressed a shiver.  “We talked.”

“What about?”

Tom fought to keep a neutral expression.  “Meg’s childhood.  How she got her scar.  Stress.  Dealing with having a serial killer after me.”

Roland’s eyebrows went up.  “She knows?”

“Chris recruited them to keep an eye on me, give me lifts and whatnot.  All of them.”

“I see.”  Roland frowned thoughtfully.  “And Miss Okita was with you the entire time?”

Tom nodded.

“Due the clues mean anything to you, Tom?”  Roland flipped open the folder.  “After all, the killer is after you in the end.”

Mrs. Georgeson drew in a breath sharply.  “What?”

Roland cast her a sidelong glance.  “This is confidential, madam, I’m sure you understand.”

Mrs. Georgeson stood up.  “One of my students is in danger!  A serial killer is stalking him, and no one thought to tell me?”

“Madam Headmistress, such an important case requires the utmost discretion,” Tom said calmly.  Remain calm, he told himself.  I must be calm and strong for the others.  “I’m sure the Detective Chief Inspector Roland and the proper authorities have everything under control.”

Mrs. Georgeson blinked, surprised.  She back down into her chair, looking dazed.  “Well, Mr. Phillips.”  She straightened some papers with shaking hands.  “You are a very mature young man indeed.”

Tom inclined his head politely.  “Is there anything else I can do?”

“No.  You are dismissed.”

Tom nodded to both of them and left the office.  Lunch wasn’t so far away now.

***

“Marianne says Angela says Claire fancies you as well,” Jono said.

Mike leered.  “Our Tom’s just a regular tomcat among the neighborhood pu--”

Tom smacked him upside the head.  “Manners, Hayleigh.”

The three boys huddled at the bus stop waiting for the cars that would collect them.  The weather had taken a sudden turn for the cold, and the students were glad for their blazers.

“Why do all the girls love you, Tom?” Mike asked.

Tom shrugged uncomfortably.  He drew his blazer closer.  “They don’t  They all love Jono.  He’s sharp and cool and stylish.  I’m just a swotty nancy boy of an actor, so I must be sensitive and easy to manipulate.”

“For an actor, you have a distinct lack of confidence.”  Jono glanced at Tom and frowned.

“I’m an actor.  I don’t have to be confident - I just have to seem confident,” Tom returned shortly.

The three boys huddled in silence and watched the other students milling about the school gates, trying to keep warm under the eyes of the prefects.  Claire Sutton glanced across the street at the three musketeers, and her gaze lingered on Jonothon Pryce for a moment too long.

The purr of an engine turned heads.  A sleek silver Jaguar rolled down the street.  Its windows were tinted dark, and heavy bass from loud music filled the air around it.

“Cor,” Mike breathed.  “That’s a classic, that is.”

One of the fourth form boys let out a wolf whistle.  The girls began whispering and giggling about what sort of sexy, wealthy bloke owned the car.

Tom blushed.  “That’s my lift.  Gotta go.”  He peeled away from his two best friends and climbed into the passenger seat of the car.

The door opened and revealed a tan leather interior.  Mike grinned wickedly.  A slim, female hand was curled around the gear shift.  The car pulled away from the pavement, and gossip began to fly.

Jono narrowed his eyes when he caught snatches of conversation commenting on Tom’s secret celebrity girlfriend.  He turned on Mike.  “This morning Tom told you about a girl.  Who is she?”

“Tom didn’t say much,” Mike said, “but I do think that was her.”

***

“Does your car have to be so conspicuous?” Tom asked.  He glanced at Meg.  She sat in the driver’s seat, eyes on the road ahead.  She wore a neat dark blue kimono, and her hair was tied up in a ponytail.  She only wore her hair differently when she wore her gothic dresses.  A glance in the rearview mirror told him that she was carrying her two swords again.

“My car is reliable,” Meg said simply.

Tom wasn’t sure he could explain his embarrassment or frustration at the celebrity publicity that lingered around him at school without offending her or making her angry.  He wasn’t sure whether he or not he wanted to make her angry, either.

He settled on saying something else.

“Do you wear anything besides samurai gear and black anachronistic gothic dresses?”

“I am comfortable in traditional Japanese clothes.”  Meg shrugged one delicate shoulder.  “The gothic dresses are easy to hide weapons in.  Once upon a time, of course, I wore school uniforms.”

Tom tried to picture her in one of the grey and navy uniforms the girls at his school wore.  He failed miserably.  Another thought struck him.  “I thought Americans didn’t wear uniforms at school.”

“I was born and raised in Japan.”

Tom tried to picture her in a Sailor Moon outfit and failed again.  “You sound American.”

“Only after much practice, I assure you.”  Meg parked her car out in front of his house and cut the engine.  “Now come on.  You can do your homework and then earn your keep.”

Tom followed her into the house.  He noted that she left her sandals on the doorstep and amazed that anyone was brave enough to walk barefoot in a house barely kept up by a working woman and her teenaged son.  Elaine only made it home from work in time to make supper, and after Tom’s elder brothers had left Tom was left with the housekeeping.  While all three Riddle boys were very neat in comparison to other members of their gender, none of the cleaned to a woman’s standards.  Tom had noticed, however, that the house seemed cleaner with the presence of the American girls.

The kitchen door was propped open, and Tom saw his brother and the rest of the gamers around the table with textbooks and papers spread across it.

“Ready to earn your keep?” Genevieve asked.

Elizabetta rolled her eyes.  “Don’t listen to her.  You know we’ll protect you even if you don’t help us.”

“Just don’t expect us not to exact some form of payment.”  Lawrence bared his teeth in a feral grin.

Tom hadn’t actually been sure what to think of these strangers’ willingness to help him.  He shrugged.  “I don’t mind at all.  I’d rather not feel useless.”

“If you have too much homework, just tell me,” Meg said.

Tom nodded.  “I will.”

“No, really.  Your studies come first.”  Meg’s voice as solemn.

For the first time, Tom looked into her eyes without flinching at their darkness or her scar.  No; he was wrong.  The first time he’d looked at her and just seen her was after that first kiss.  “I understand.”

“We all got our other homework out of the way, and we have things covered here,” Genevieve said to Meg.  “All you really have to do is the primary sources translation.”

Meg nodded.  “I’ll just sit in the den and study till you’re done with your other homework.  Is that all right, Tom?”

“Sure.  Erm, would you mind if I sat with you?  I reckon you’ve already learnt all I’m learning now.”  He ignored Chris’s frown and spoke directly to her.

She shrugged.  “Sure.  I don’t mind.  I have to get my books out of my car.”

“Yeah,” Tom said.  “I have to change out of my uniform.”

Tom emerged from his room in ordinary jeans and a t-shirt of ind Meg sitting on the love seat, her books spread across the cushions around her.  Tom sat down on the sofa and sorted out his books.  Meg was studying intently and seemed oblivious to his present.  He decided not to be offended and merely started his homework.

They worked quietly.  The group at the table was strangely quiet, murmuring and shuffling papers.  Tom poked half-heartedly at his German, then glanced over at Meg.  She was still working intently, and Tom wondered how she could stay focused for so long.  That’s when he noticed the black wire trailing down her torso.  He traced the line with his eyes and realized that she was wearing earphones.  She was listening to music?  Tom liked listening to music, and he usually had a CD playing while he did his homework.

As if she’d read his mind, Genevieve stood up.  “Anyone mind some music?”

“What sort d’you listen to?” Tom asked.

Genevieve shrugged.  “I thought I’d just turn on the radio.  Have a favorite station?”

“I like hip-hop,” Chris offered.

Lawrence rolled his eyes.  “That’s not music.  Freestyle’s the only real rap, and they only do that on the streets.”  He tossed a pencil in Chris’s direction.

“None of Elizabetta’s death metal,” Chris said.

Death metal?  Tom eyed Elizatbeth’s black leather dice bag, her Clan Brujah pin, spiked wrist cuffs, and decided he wasn’t surprised.

“Hey!” Genevieve yelled.  She flicked a rubber band at Meg and missed.  “Oy, Okita!  What music have you got?”

Meg lifted her head and frowned.  She slid off one of her earphones.

“The only person who calls me Okita followed it up with ‘taichou’,” Meg drawled.

Genevieve laughed.  “You wish.  What music have you got on your mp3 player?”

“What?  Oh.  Some Flogging Molly.  X-Japan.  Bad Luck.  The Seeker.  Iceman.  Why?”

“It’s too quiet,” Genevieve said.  “We want some music.”

“I vote Flogging Molly,” Elizabetta said.

Lawrence shrugged listlessly.  “I don’t care as long as it’s not hip-hop.”

“No country!” Chris warned.

Genevieve huffed, frustrated.  “Tom, what do you want?”

He lifted his head, surprised.  “Me?  Oh, I’ll listen to anything.”

“Just flip on the radio,” Elizabetta said.

“It’s almost four thirty anyway,” Lawrence said.

Tom glanced down at his watch, surprised.  It was that late already?

“Work break!”  Elizabetta set down her pen and stood up.

“D’you need any help?” Meg asked.

Tom frowned.  “Help with what?”  Then he realized she wasn’t talking to him.

“We’re making dinner for your mum,” Genevieve said.

Chris kissed her on the cheek and murmured, “You mean supper, dear.”

Tom was surprised.  He hadn’t lied when he’d told Roland that Chris’s friends were decent people, but this was especially nice of them.

Meg switched off her mp3 player and rose t her feet, but Genevieve waved her back down.

“Don’t worry, we’ve got it covered.  Besides, you know you’re a terrible cook.”

Meg seemed completely unfazed at the blunt insult.  “Perhaps.”

“Japanese food doesn’t count,” Genevieve added.  “You were just brainwashed into thinking it was good at a young age.”

“You won’t find someone more skilled with a knife, however.”  Meg headed for the kitchen.  As she tied on an apron, Genevieve scoffed lightly.

“Dicing carrots and dicing people are hardly the same thing.”

Meg, Elizabetta, and Lawrence said, “Au contraire.”

The tense silence lasted for long a few moments before Meg said,

“Lawrence, you speak German.  Somehow I think you’ll be of more assistance to Tom than I was.”

Tom glanced down and realized he’d been staring at the same page in his German book for the last half hour.  He’d wanted to use the time to talk to Meg, but it wouldn’t have worked.

Lawrence sat down opposite him and began speaking in rapid German.  Tom tore his eyes away from Meg and scrambled to keep up with the conversation.

The image of Meg, delicate hand curled around the handle of a kitchen knife, its blade flashing as she brought it down, stayed in his mind.

Elaine was moved almost to tears when she saw the meal laid out for her.  Shane stepped into the house after her, and the Phillips brothers exchanged meaningful looks.  In all the years they had been raised by their mother alone, they had seen her cry but once when her father died.  The frequency of her crying bouts now was terrible proof of the stress she was under.

Supper was a fairly grand affair.  The girls and Chris had prepared roast chicken, vegetables, fresh green salad, and American Jell-o for dessert.  Tom had felt a touch childish and foolish, shaking his dish to make the red stuff wobble, but he enjoyed it just the same.

After supper and the dishes were done, Tom and Meg set up a work station at the other end of the table from the others.

Meg handed him a notebook and pen.  The notebook was filled with her neat, curled script where she’d worked on translations on her own.

“Ready to go?” she asked.

Tom nodded, pen poised.

She grinned.  “Let’s go.”

Tonight’s translations were meandering political tracts discussing tradition, change, revolution and evolution.  The writers were as passionate as they were artful with their words.  At the end of the evening, Tom wasn’t sure what he believed.  For the longest time the British had been obsessed with progress, always pressing to advance in economy, technology, and politics, but now it was a nation of tradition, still in possession of a monarchy and aristocracy even though neither held any true power.  If Japan’s recent history was any indication, they too had abandoned tradition in favor of progress.  The Japanese always seemed to be at the forefront of technology, if nothing else.  Tom watched Meg read and took in her kimono, the way she knelt, delicately barefoot on the kitchen chair, and wondered what she thought of tradition and progress.  He glanced at her two swords and decided she was for tradition.

After a particularly moving speech about the soul of the samurai, Meg flipped her folder shut.

“That’s enough political ranting for one night.”  She yawned delicately behind one hand.  I” can’t keep my languages separate anymore.  Besides, your hand is probably sore.”

Tom nodded and set down his pen.  He flexed his fingers.  They were stiff indeed.  “It was interesting.”

“I’ve heard most of it before.”  Meg accepted the notebook from him.  “Loads of thanks.  Well done.”

“Glad to help.”

Shane hailed from the en where he and Elaine were watching the telly.

“News is on!”

Everyone in the kitchen went to gather around the sofa and watch the news.  An update on the serial killer, whom the press had dubbed The Carver due to his mutilation of corpses, came near the end of the broadcast.  Everyone heaved sighs of relief when no further killings were reported.

Chris flashed Genevieve a smile and she squeezed his hand.

“Good work tonight, everyone,” Elizabetta said.

Tom and Chris saw the exchange students to the door.

“Thanks again for cooking tonight,” Elaine said.

Genevieve beamed.  “Thank you for inviting us into your lovely home.”

“See you tomorrow,” Lawrence said.

The four of them headed to their cars.  Elizabetta and Lawrence drove away first.  Chris followed Genevieve out to her car, no doubt to kiss her good night.

Tom lingered in the doorway and watched Meg depart.  She picked up her swords, shuffled into her sandals, and went to her car.

For a moment, against the moonlight, she was just a silhouette of an anonymous samurai.  Tom felt her eyes on him in return, and then she was gone.

Was it Tom’s imagination, or did she look sad?

* * *

Together they studied the chart.  It was a clearly recognizable pattern, and the police ought to catch on easily, but they wouldn’t.  The police were too proud.

They exchanged glances; they would be patient.

“We must keep an eye on him,” he said.

She nodded and glanced at the picture.  “We will.  Should he do something stupid, we’ll let it slide, but he is being watched.”

He smiled to himself.  The boy was a teenager, foolhardy, and thought he was immortal.

Teenagers always thought foolish things.

* * *

Check left, check right.  All were asleep.  The alarm clock was off, so it wouldn’t wake anyone in the morning.  The overnight bag hit the ground below the window with a soft thump.  He hit the ground beside it and checked his surroundings again.  The street was deserted.  The window slid shut silently, and he headed for the car.  he backed it out of the driveway in neutral with the lights off.  The sleek black BMW purred to life halfway down the hill.

He’d be home in time for breakfast.

* * *

She watched the smooth laptop screen, absorbing Toshi’s voice as he sang.  Mitsumoto Hideto’s funeral, and his four best friends were heartbroken.  The random clips from his performing days showed him at his best, at his liveliest, the way he would have wanted people to remember him.

She smiled to herself and tasted sad saltiness in the corners of her mouth.  Yukari would have wanted to be remembered the same way.

The song ended, and the screen cut back to live feed.

“Okita-sama?” a stoic-faced woman asked.  She peered at Megumi from the screen as if she could see the girl through the webcam on the Japanese side.

“Harada-dono.”  Megumi touched her forehead to the edge of the mat as a sign of respect.  She straightened up and adjusted the webcam on her laptop.  Earlier in the evening Megumi had crafted a haiku scroll for the poem Yukari had requested.  Megumi unrolled it and held it up for the people on the other end of the line to see.

“Domo arigatou gozaimashita,” Harada-dono said, and bowed.  She moved away from the camera, and Megumi saw eleven other girls dressed in white hakama, daisho at their sides.  A small girl moved to stand with them, and Megumi felt her heart wrench.  She kept her face blank, like a Noh mask, and rolled up the scroll.  She owed again, a silent promise to send the final poem to Yukari’s mother.  The connection cut off then, and Meg was left in the dark.  It was 12:38 in the morning.  After a silence and stillness she rose to her feet and pushed the screen of laptop down, shutting it.  She placed the haiku scroll atop the smooth silver plastic.  Her hesitation lasted only a moment before she reached out and yanked the curtain back, letting wan moonlight slice across the forlorn scene of her barren room and her empty futon.  With a vicious yank she pulled the window open.  The winter air was sharp and painful even through the heavy cotton of the white kimono.

Meg turned her back on the dead scene of the parking lot and shrugged off the kimono.  She folded it neatly and placed it back in the black lacquer box atop her calligraphy gear and stash of saké.  She closed the box and stowed it in the unseen recesses of her closet.  Elizabetta and Genevieve would go mad if they knew she had that box.

Meg pulled on an off-white yukata and tied the obi absently.  She loosed her hair and began combing it in preparation for sleep when a soft noise met her ear’s.

Another human was breathing.

She kept coming with one hand, the other seeking her wakizashi.  Out of the corner of her eye she could see the mirror and in that mirror she saw a silhouette climbing through her open window.

The intruder was silent, perhaps a professional thief who’d been waiting in the parking lot, hoping to see one who was foolish enough to open a window despite the frosty air.

The intruder landed softly.  From the broad shoulders and slender, straight hips the intruder was male.  A moment later he was tugging a backpack in through the window.

Meg tensed, ready to spring.

* * *

He watched from the parking lot as the boy climbed in through her window.  The boy was a fool indeed, venturing so easily into the python’s pit.

* * *

Half a second later Meg had him by the throat, blade pressed to smooth skin.

“Tell me why I should let you live,” she hissed in his ear.

Grey eyes met black eyes in the mirror, and the intruder said,

“You’re wearing white.”

Tom had just spat out the answer, unthinking in his terror.

Her hand was cold through the fabric of his t-shirt.  Her scarred eye glinted, feral, in the mirror.

Then the viciousness faded and she stepped away.  Tom watched her as she crossed the room and sheathed the knife.  Her movements were clipped and tense, and Tom suddenly realized how mad his plan was.  He hadn’t really thought it through while lying awake in bed with the voices of his family and friends running through his head.  He pretended all day, smiling and saying everything was all right when it was really all so wrong, and so hard.  He wanted to scream, cry - he wanted someone to tell him it was al right to be terrified.  Of course, if the victim wasn’t terrified then no one else should be either.  

He had reckoned he could climb in her window and curl up on the floor beside her and be gone before she was awake; he’d thought she’d be asleep by now.

Meg turned to him, and he blushed when he realized that her kimono only came halfway down her thighs.  Had he made her angry?  

I probably ought to leave, Tom thought miserably.

“I’m not wearing white,” she said.  “This is off-white.  White is the color of death.”

Tom blinked.  “Oh.”  Death - that was exactly what he’d wanted to escape in coming here.

Meg knelt on her futon.  “Why are you here?”  She didn’t look at him as she spoke, focused on fixing her duvet.

“To escape the death that is filling my life, but it seems I’ve failed.”  Tom headed for the window with his overnight bag.

“It seems I have as well,” Meg said, and her voice was rough with misery.

Tom turned to her to apologize and he saw her set down another pillow.

“My want made this comforter.”  Meg met his gaze, and her black eyes were his own abyss looking back into him.  “It’s warm.”

Tom set down his bag and toed off his shoes.  Then he was in her arms.  She rested against him, warm and soft, with her head tucked under his chin.

Tom buried his face in her hair and inhaled the scent of jasmine.