The Dead of Winter

EIGHT



"Well, we wasn't expecting much, anyway."

Cora stood in the post office, a small box in her hands. The letter attached to it was from Father Davidson in Boston. Ben picked it up and read it aloud.



To Cora Oglesby,

Greetings in the name of our Holy Father and His Son Jesus Christ. I have enclosed with this letter twelve bullets blessed by the shaman of our local Indian tribe. I will send more if I am able. Until then, please take these weapons and use them to strike down the unholy abomination plaguing the town of Leadville. I will pray for your success.



Yours in Christ,

Father Abraham Davidson



"Only twelve?" Cora opened the box. A dozen points of light glimmered from their bed of crumpled newspaper. "That priest must want us to die."

"Maybe he just has a lot of faith in us," Ben said.

"A little too much, I reckon." She picked up one of the rounds and rolled it between her fingers. "Oh, hang it all. These are .45s."

"Are you sure?" Ben leaned over to look.

"Of course I'm sure," Cora said. "Shot them for years, didn't I?"

"You still got that old gun?"

"Sure, in a box in San Antonio. I left it back there when I got the new .38." She dropped the bullet back into the box. "You ain't got your .45 with you, do you?"

"Back in the room," Ben said.

Cora led the way back to the hotel room. Once inside, she knelt by the bed and pulled out their traveling trunk. After a few moments of rummaging, she finally found what she was searching for. A moan that was half disgust and half dismay rose from her lips as she picked up what the rust had left of Ben's revolver. Grimacing, she tried to pull the hammer back. It was locked in place. The cylinder refused to rotate.

She glared up at him. "Ain't you been oiling this regular?"

Ben looked sheepish. "Well, I thought I had been."

"You should go see the priest about this. Why, this is profane, treating a weapon of the Lord's work like this." She tossed the rusty Colt back in the trunk and stood up. "Well, now we're in a fix. We got a monster we can't kill unless we use bullets we can't shoot."

"Maybe the marshal could loan us one of his pistols," Ben said. "He's got plenty."

"If he doesn't, you're buying me a new gun," Cora said. "Let's go."

Cora stormed down the stairs and through the snowy streets. She burst through the door to the marshal's station, giving Deputy Victor Sanchez a fright. His pistol was nearly clear of his belt before he saw who it was and stopped himself.

"Ah, señora, you scared me," he said, sitting back down at the desk. A moment later, he jumped to his feet again when another bang echoed from down the hall.

"Sanchez, what the hell was that?" Mart Duggan stood in the doorway of his office.

"Just us, marshal," Cora said. "We got a favor to ask."

"What might that be?" Duggan asked.

"Well, we're in a bit of a fix. That priest from Boston sent us those special rounds like he said he would, but they're too big for my gun. Ben here don't keep his up, so we're looking to borrow a .45."

The marshal's eyes flicked over her shoulder. "Is that right? I thought you had a peacemaker same as me."

"Sure do, but it's a new one," she said, pulling her revolver from its holster. "This here's a .38. Easier to handle, though she don't pack as much of a punch."

Duggan walked over and took the gun from her. "Since when did Colt make lady guns?" he asked, turning it over in his hands.

"Since recently," Cora said. "I picked me up one to make my life easier. She don't kick like the .45, so aiming's easier. The size of the bullet ain't what kills what I shoot at, so I figured why not."

"Well, I'll be damned," the marshal said, handing the gun back to her.

"She's a lady, all right, but she can't handle what we need to shoot this time," Cora said.

The marshal placed a hand on the gun at his hip. "You sure your new bullets will whip this thing?"

"Ain't no guarantee, but they're better than what I got."

Duggan pulled the Colt from his holster and dumped the bullets out onto the deputy's desk. He snapped the cylinder back into place, twirled the gun in his fingers, and handed it to her, grip first. She took it from him and spun it once. "Funny how quick you forget their weight."

"I expect that gun back on my desk by tomorrow sunrise," the marshal said.

"With any luck, you'll have it, marshal," Cora said. "Even better, you'll have us on the next train out of here."

"All the better," Duggan said, turning back toward his office. Cora turned to leave as well when his voice stopped her. "Oh, by the way, that feller you mentioned the other day?"

"You mean Wash Jones?" she asked, turning back to him.

"That's the one." Duggan crossed his arms. "I stopped by the Pioneer this morning, and Boots told me Jones had already lit out of town."

"Is that right?" Cora asked with a snort. "Boots say where that sniveling little weasel was headed?"

Duggan shook his head. "Not a word about it," he said, tugging at his beard as he thought. "Boots seemed a mite touched his own self, though."

"How's that?"

"Kind of cold and mean," the marshal said.

"I heard tell he was shook up from the other night when the wendigo paid you all a visit."

"Could be." Duggan didn't sound convinced.

"Well, after tonight, he can sleep easy," Cora said, rotating the Colt's cylinder and grinning at the tiny clicks it made.

"You'll be heading up the mountain, then?"

"Maybe." Opening the door, Cora stuck her head outside and sniffed the air. "Maybe not," she said, turning back to the marshal. "Smells like another storm's brewing. If the path up to the cabin ain't snowed in yet, it will be soon. I'd rather not get stuck up there with nothing but a dead wendigo and my fool of a husband for company."

"He'll be riding with you?"

"Well, I reckon he's welcome to tag along," Cora said, throwing Ben a look. He grinned back at her. "Like I said, though, I think we'll be staying in town tonight. Wait for the spook to come to us."

Duggan's brow drew downward. "If it comes back here, it will kill people."

"Could be," Cora said, "but there's also more fire and less frost here. Father Baez said this thing was a creature of the cold, so I figure riding out into a snowstorm at night to face it by ourselves ain't the best way to lick it."

"By yourselves," Duggan repeated. "So you'll be wanting our help in town, then?"

"Don't fret about it," Cora said. "I just figured you could tell the townsfolk to keep a bit of fire handy, just in case. Never hurts to be prepared."

"This town's scared enough as it is," Duggan said. "I don't want you bringing that thing back here."

"Well, we ain't riding out into the cold night to fight it," Cora replied. "We've only got the twelve bullets, and if we run out or it kills us, your townsfolk will be a sight worse off than just scared."

Duggan scowled at her, not wanting to give in to any more of her outrageous demands. His refusal was on the tip of his tongue when he reminded himself that she would be gone as soon as she killed the wendigo. Whatever helped her toward that end was worth it, he figured. After a moment, he nodded. "I trust you'll do your best to keep it from eating too many townsfolk."

"Well, of course," Cora said. "We're in the business of helping people, not getting them killed."

"Don't forget it," the marshal said.

Cora tossed her hands up and headed for the door with Ben at her heels. "Next time we help a town," Cora said as they walked back to the hotel, "let's find one where the local law ain't as ornery as the monsters we're killing."



Cora swayed atop Our Lady of Virginia as the mare plodded along the dark streets. Snowflakes drifted down from the black sky to settle in Our Lady's mane. The horse seemed indifferent to the nighttime excursion, but the hunter's eyes were alert, peering into every shadow as they rode. Her right hand clutched the marshal's big Colt, the hammer at rest for the moment. The revolver's cylinder held six of the blessed bullets from Father Davidson, and the other six were tucked into her ammo belt.

Ben rode beside her in silence. He'd wanted to bring a torch along, but she'd insisted that the flames would ruin her ability to see in the dark, so he'd settled for her Winchester. The rifle sat in the crook of his arm, the magazine filled with the Catholic-blessed silver rounds. Cora had thought to bring it along as a backup if she needed to reload her revolver during the fight.

Around them, the town of Leadville slept restlessly. From time to time, Cora saw a curtain draw back and a worried face peer out into the darkness. Mart Duggan had his deputies spread the word throughout the town that citizens should keep a torch or firebrand within easy reach. News of the wendigo's attack had already been whispered on every doorstep and in every room, making the people eager to follow the marshal's advice. If she and Ben failed to bring it down, at least it wouldn't find many easy meals tonight.

Of course, there was no promise that the creature would even make an appearance. It had been nearly a week since its last attack. She figured that would be enough time for it to work through the scare Duggan had given it and come out on a hunt, but she could have been wrong. If she was, they'd have no choice but to head back up to Bartlett's mine to root it out. Cora groaned inwardly at the thought.

As they passed the Purdy brothel, Cora noticed a figure seated on the hitching rail, his back against the wall. A torch mounted above him cast his face in shadow. Curious, she nudged Our Lady over toward him.

"Evening, Mrs Oglesby." It was Jack Evans.

"Evening, deputy," Cora said. "Enjoying the weather?"

The shadow shook its head. "No, ma'am. I'm standing watch."

"On the marshal's orders?"

Jack shook his head again. "No, the marshal done told us to patrol on horseback with torches."

"So why ain't you on horseback with a torch?" she asked.

"He's got enough men doing that, but ain't nobody protecting the Purdy till I come," Jack said.

Cora grinned. "So you're holding the line for the whores."

"Yes, ma'am. Way I figure, they ain't set to look after themselves, so somebody's got to do for them."

"Maybe so," Cora said, leaning over the saddle horn.

"Or maybe you're sweet on a whore yourself and are looking to make an impression."

She couldn't see his face, but she knew he was blushing. "Well, what if I am?" he asked.

"Then you'll get your heart broke," Cora said, "but that ain't my business." She tapped her heels into Our Lady. The mare shook her head and plodded back into the street. Behind her, Cora could hear Jack Evans muttering to himself.

After a short distance, she turned a grin on Ben. "I reckon I upset him."

"The boy's a fool if he thinks he can win over a whore," Ben said.

They rode in silence for awhile. Occasionally, one of Duggan's deputies would ride by with a torch held high. Each would call out to them as they rode past, and Cora returned each greeting with a silent wave.

After over an hour, Cora pulled back on Our Lady's reins outside the Northern Hotel. The mare came to a halt as another deputy rode past, his torch throwing orange shadows along the street.

"If that thing don't show, it's the fault of them puddingheaded deputies," Cora said. "Ain't they ever laid a trap before?"

"Maybe Duggan is trying to drive it away, make us chase it down."

"It takes a fool to lead more fools, I guess," Cora said. She watched the snowflakes fall in silence for a minute. "Why don't you get back upstairs and sleep for a spell?"

Ben's brow furrowed. "Why?"

"To keep fresh," Cora said. "I'll stay out for another hour or so, then come fetch you so you can take a turn at it."

"What if it shows while I'm asleep?"

"Then I'll whip it." Cora pulled the Winchester from the crook of his arm and slid it into Our Lady's saddle scabbard. "Go on, now."

"I don't like leaving you out here by yourself," Ben said, setting his jaw.

"The longer you fret about it, the less sleep you'll get," Cora said. "No need for both of us to wear out at the same time. Now, if the wendigo shows, I'll run fetch Duggan's boys right quick and send one of them to rouse you."

Ben sighed through his nose. "You got the extra rounds from Father Davidson?" he asked.

"Right here," Cora said, patting her ammo belt with a gloved hand.

"All right, then," he said, swinging himself off his horse. He tied the reins loosely so he could ride again at a moment's notice. "You come fetch me if you're close by when it shows."

"You hear me start shooting, you come running," Cora said. She reached down inside her boot, produced a small silver knife, and tossed it to him. "Sleep with that on the stand. If it happens to come in through the window while I'm away, that ought to slow it down enough for you to light out."

He nodded, sliding the knife into his belt. "God be with you, then."

"And with you." She watched him go, then took a deep breath of cold air and blew it out over Our Lady's ears. She slapped the reins across the mare's neck, rode back into the street, and resumed her patrol.

Snow gathered on her gloves and the horse's mane as she circled through the streets. The torch-bearing deputies became fewer and fewer as the night wore on, and lights began to wink out in the windows. Soon, the town of Leadville slipped into a deeper sleep, leaving her alone with the cold and the night. Only Jack Evans remained at his post by the brothel's front door, his chin on his chest, snoring softly.

Finally, Cora judged a good hour had passed and turned Our Lady's head toward the Northern Hotel. Her fingers were stiff and cold inside her gloves. She holstered Duggan's gun and rubbed her hands together as Our Lady crunched along the street. Time for Ben to come back out into the cold for awhile. There were only a few hours before dawn, anyway, so he could patrol until then. If the damn thing still didn't show, they'd have no choice but to hunt it at the old Bartlett place. She muttered a curse as she rode through the snowflakes, promising the wendigo a few hours of suffering to make up for hers.

Light streamed through the windows at the marshal's station as she rode by. At least Duggan was still awake. She considered stopping by for an update, then decided against it. The marshal wouldn't be pleased to see her, and the feeling would be mutual enough. Better to wait until morning.

She was about to ride on when a small movement on the station's roof caught her eye. Squinting away the glow from the windows, she peered into the shadows above the building's false front. Something up there didn't look right. She drew the big Colt from its holster and nudged Our Lady's head around.

There, just behind the upward curve of the shiplap wall. She thought she could make out a head peering down toward the station's upper windows. Her eyes stole to the base of the station. The building butted up right next to its neighbor, a general store, leaving no alley where she might take cover. Cursing silently, she remained where she was, praying that Our Lady wouldn't snort or do anything to make their presence known.

The shadow remained where it was, the dark knob of the creature's head twisting slightly. After a few minutes, a long, sinewy arm flowed into the dim light of the street. Cora could see the black tips on the fingers as they probed the front of the station, finding purchase on the outer sill of an upper window. The second arm followed, its fingers coming to rest on the porch roof. Gray skin glimmered in the pale light as the wendigo lowered itself toward the window like a giant, misshapen spider.

The monster paused in front of the window. Cora could make out the thin locks of hair still clinging to its scalp as she leveled her revolver. Scarcely daring to breathe, she pulled the hammer back. The wendigo's attention remained on the window, searching the interior of the station, oblivious to her presence, and she allowed herself a small smile. All kills should be this easy.

At that moment, the door to the station burst open. The noise made her jump, and her finger squeezed the trigger. The shot went wide, slamming into the wall near the creature's torso as the Colt's thunder rolled through the silent streets. The wendigo's head snapped up, and its yellow eyes gleamed at her. A wailing moan escaped its black lips.

"Goddammit, Sanchez!" Cora yelled. The deputy stood in the doorway, torch in hand, looking startled by the gunshot and her curse. Cora punched her heels into Our Lady's sides, spurring her into a sudden gallop as the dark shape leapt toward her. It crashed into the snow where she had been a moment ago. Looking over her shoulder, she could see the frostbitten fingers clawing at the snow as the wendigo righted itself and gave chase. She couldn't hope to hit it firing backward from the back of a galloping horse. Turning back around, she gave Our Lady another punch with her heels. The terrified mare pounded down the street, snow flying in chunks from beneath her hooves.

A row of buildings loomed ahead of them, marking a street corner. Cora cursed, knowing they would have to slow down to make the turn. Stealing another glance over her shoulder, she realized they wouldn't make it that far. The wendigo was closing the distance. Keeping her eyes on the approaching monster, Cora clenched the Colt in her hand and thumbed the hammer back. It would be on them in a matter of seconds, and she might only get one shot. She prayed she would be fast enough. Her hands and feet throbbed from the cold.

A shout echoed ahead of her. Turning her face into the stinging wind, she could see another rider charging toward them, a torch blazing in his hand. One of the marshal's deputies. Her heart lifted at the sight, and she glanced backward again. She could see the wendigo's teeth clacking together in savage hunger beneath those demonic eyes. Holding her breath, she bent down, bringing her face close to Our Lady's lathered neck. The oncoming rider swept past them, the torch passing just above her head as he swung it toward the monster's face. The wendigo let out a hiss and veered away from the flames. Cora turned her head as she sat upright in the saddle. The dark, spindly shadow was circling back toward the deputy. She pulled on the reins, slowing Our Lady as quickly as she dared. The mare kept her footing on the snow-packed road, rearing her head as Cora turned her back toward the monster.

The wendigo circled the rider, lashing out at the torch with long arms. The deputy kept his saddle, fighting both monster and mount as his horse stamped in terror beneath him. A smaller flame flashed from the pistol in his other hand, the gunshots echoing down the street.

Laying a hand on Our Lady's neck, Cora urged her into a trot. It wouldn't be long before the creature managed to knock the torch from the lawman's grip, but she was too far away to have a clean pistol shot. Our Lady fought against her reins, trying to turn away from the scene before them, but Cora guided her forward with a firm hand. The gunshots from the deputy fell silent.

Then, just as the hunter and her mount rode into range, black fingers struck the deputy's upheld hand, and the torch flew out of his grasp. It sailed end-overend through the falling snow before landing in a nearby drift. The wendigo wailed in anger and lunged at the lawman, knocking him to the ground. Cora heard a terrified shout from beneath the sinewy body as man and monster wrestled. She brought Our Lady to a halt and raised the revolver. The man's cries rang in her ears, but she pushed them away. If she missed, those cries would be his last.

The Colt leapt in her hands. A piercing shriek filled the air as emaciated limbs recoiled in pain. The monster wheeled around to face her, eyes blazing. Cora pulled back the hammer and fired again. The sacred bullet missed its mark as the wendigo leapt at her in a blind fury, mouth open, fingers grasping. Her third shot caught it in the shoulder, but the impact wasn't enough to stop it from crashing into her. Our Lady of Virginia screamed in terror as they fell beneath the monster's weight.

Cora managed to get her boots clear of the stirrups before the mare went down. Our Lady let out another whinnying cry, righted herself, and bolted into the night. Coming to rest with her boots beneath her, Cora realized her hands were empty. The wound in the wendigo's shoulder belched a thick grey smoke into the winter air. It struggled to get the wounded arm beneath it, to put weight on it and attack her again, but the limb seemed useless. Air hissed between its teeth as it floundered in the snow.

Taking advantage of the monster's pain and confusion, Cora searched frantically for her fallen revolver. Snow flew in her face from the wendigo's flailing limbs. She ducked under the sweep of a twisted arm, then jumped over a kicking leg. As she landed on her hands and knees, her fingers felt the butt of her Winchester. It must have fallen out of the saddle scabbard before Our Lady of Virginia ran off. Cora picked up the rifle and turned toward the wounded monster. The gunshots drowned out the eerie wailing pouring from the blackened lips. She pumped round after round into the living corpse, emptying her magazine. Once the rifle started clicking, she flipped it around, gripping the barrel in her gloved hands. She waited until the wendigo's yellow eyes turned toward her again, then swung with all her might.

She heard the crunching of bone as the stock buried itself in the blackness where Jules Bartlett's nose had been. The wendigo jerked its head backward, wrenching the Winchester's barrel from her hands. Rising to its full height, the creature gripped the rifle with its good hand and pulled. After a few seconds, the wooden stock slid out of its face with the sound of grating bone. It tossed the rifle aside with a hiss of hatred, then dropped down onto its good arm. The wicked head lowered as it swept its yellow gaze across the snowy street, searching for the troublesome woman.

The demon eyes came face-to-face with the big Colt.

Cora squeezed the trigger. The revolver bucked in her hands as the consecrated bullet struck the wendigo just above the left eye and burrowed deep into the undead skull. Its wail sent gooseflesh rolling up her arms as it pitched backward, grotesque limbs flailing. Cora pulled the Colt's hammer back and circled around the fallen monster until she could see its face again. The evil eyes were pale, fading to the color of ash, but they still saw her. A faint hiss bubbled from between its teeth. The wound in its forehead trailed smoke like a dying fire.

Cora raised the pistol and fired again. When the smoke cleared, the great beast was silent.

Holstering the revolver, Cora took a deep breath. The wendigo lay dead at her feet, snowflakes gathering in the gray wisps of its hair and beard. Her saber rang faintly in the stillness. Gripping the hilt in both hands, she brought the blade down on its neck. There was no splashing of blood as the sword cut through the mottled flesh and frozen bones.

Firelight flickered over the pale corpse. Looking up, Cora saw Marshal Duggan and Deputy Sanchez approaching on foot. Sanchez still had his torch, and the marshal held a rifle at the ready. She waved them over. Together, the three of them looked down at the lifeless head, its face still locked in a black-lipped snarl.

"So it's dead?" Duggan asked.

"I do believe," Cora said, poking at its cheek with the toe of her boot. Smoke still seeped from the holes in its forehead. "If it ain't, you'll need these." Cora pulled the remaining six rounds from her belt and held them out.

Duggan passed his rifle to Sanchez and cupped his hand as she poured the silver bullets into it. He rolled them around on his palm, watching them shimmer in the torchlight. "That's it, then?"

"Well, aside from the matter of our payment, yes," Cora said. She swung the Colt's cylinder open and dumped out the spent shells. They bounced off the wendigo's ribs in a series of clinks. She gave the revolver one more spin and handed it to the marshal.

"I reckon my riding the torch into this thing's face warrants us a discount," Duggan said.

"That was you, was it?" Cora asked. "Wish I'd known. I wouldn't have been so careful with my aim."

The marshal ignored the comment. "You looking to settle right this minute?"

"No, I reckon I've earned a little shut-eye," she said, stretching her arms toward the sky. "You could probably do with some yourself. How does tomorrow afternoon strike you?"

Duggan nodded and slid the empty revolver into his belt. Still holding the silver bullets in his hand, he took the rifle back from Sanchez. Together, they turned toward the station. Cora watched them go for a moment, then crouched down and looked into the wendigo's lifeless eyes. Now empty of the demon animating it, the face looked like any other frozen corpse. Were it not for the grotesque limbs, anyone would have mistaken it for the body of an old miner who froze to death on a mountainside. And they wouldn't be wrong.

Cora stood up and looked back at the two lawmen. "Hey!" she called out. They paused at the station door and turned back to her. "You should probably burn this thing before folks start waking up." Without waiting for a reply, she recovered her Winchester from the drift where the wendigo had thrown it and set off for the Northern Hotel.

After a short walk, she rounded a corner and came into view of the hotel. Ben's horse still stood tied to the hitching rail, snow covering its mane. The sight of the nameless creature made her realize that she was on foot. Cursing, she stopped in her tracks. Snow layered the brim of her hat as she debated with herself. She could almost feel the warmth of the big fire in the hotel's lobby and the bed in their room. Her bones ached from the cold, and she longed to warm them in a hot bath, but her horse was wandering through the cold streets somewhere, just waiting to be stolen.

Her sigh filled the air in front of her in a swirling cloud. She turned on her heel and started back the way she had come. A few lights gleamed in windows above her head, illuminating the shadows of worried citizens as they peered out into the night. They could all rest easy now. Tomorrow afternoon, she and Ben would board an eastbound train, stop by to thank Father Baez in Denver, and go wherever the mood took them. She clenched her aching hands into fists. After this, she figured the mood would call for someplace warm.

Lost in her thoughts, she rounded the corner and ran into something. Startled, she looked up. There stood Our Lady of Virginia, blowing steam from her nose. The mare seemed as startled as her owner. Cora grinned and took the reins in her gloved hand.

"Glad to see you came around," she said, leading her back toward the hotel. Our Lady tossed her head in reply. "Yeah, I know it's cold out. But, since you was such a good girl coming back, I reckon I'll bed you down myself tonight."

The mare didn't reply. They walked in silence through the falling snow until they reached the hotel. Cora untied Ben's horse from the hitching rail. The animal looked at her with sad eyes, cold and dejected.

"I know, boy," she said, patting his neck. "We wasn't expecting you to stand all by your lonesome for so long."

Keeping his reins in one hand, Cora climbed into Our Lady's saddle. Gently slapping the rawhide strips over the mare's neck, she started for the stable. Ben's horse, used to following Our Lady's lead, came without a fuss, his head down.

"You know, we ought to give you a name," she said, looking back at the gelding. "Ben's too damn finicky about it. Been almost six months since we bought you, and he ain't settled on nothing yet. Course, you know that already." The horse didn't interrupt, so she went on. "You know, I think I'll call you Book. Maybe then he'll pay you more attention. And, if he don't like it, maybe he'll pick one he does fancy." She nodded to herself, and the matter was settled.

After bedding the horses down, she pulled the stable door closed and made her way back to the main building. As she walked, fatigue began settling on her shoulders like the falling snow. Her joints ached, making each step painful. Were it not for the cold, the ache would have been pleasant, a fitting reward for the end of a hunt. Tradition dictated that she and Ben share a bottle of whiskey and talk about the kill. Things they did right, things they did wrong, what they should remember for the future. It was their way of settling the matter in their minds.

Tonight, however, she didn't figure it was worth it. Ben was probably sound asleep, and the nearest saloon felt half a world away. There would be plenty of time for drinking and talking on the train.

Warm air smothered her cold limbs as she pulled the hotel door open and thumped up the stairs. She softened her step in the hallway, then eased open the door to their room. The hinges creaked as she slipped through into the darkness. She shrugged off her coat and tossed it into the shadows, followed by her hat. Her groping hand found a bedpost, and the cornshuck mattress rustled as she sat down.

Breathing a sigh of contentment, she began wrestling with her boots. Her cold feet burned in protest as she pulled them out. The smell hit her like a wall, and she covered her nose with one arm as she set the boots on the floor. She rolled onto the mattress, shoving her feet under the sheets. As soon as her head landed on the pillow, the bed seemed to grip her with invisible hands. She could feel her muscles twitching with each heartbeat, her blood carrying away the cold and the tension. Her fatigue was even great enough to forgo the need for a nightcap from the bottle she kept under the pillow. Instead, she let Ben's even breathing guide her into a deep, dreamless sleep.