Brice dreamed as she never had before, her weird, nightmare visions playing out before a sewn-together backdrop of strange emotions, memories, and wild imaginings, where frightening thing both real and unreal happened over and over again. The only difference in each performance of the nightmare was that the stage grew progressively dimmer and the mood more ominous.

She came awake in a rush, alarmed.

"What's wrong?" she whispered, her voice raspy. She wasn't her usual bushytailed self after only a couple hours of sleep and the lingering terror of her dreams made things worse.

"The power's out", Byron answered, his voice also hushed.

Brice glanced at the clock on her nightstand. It was dark. But the room wasn't completely so. She looked quickly toward her door. Out in the hall, there was a small red light up near the ceiling. It blinked periodically.

"The smoke detectors have battery backup," Byron said, guessing her next question. "Just sit still and listen for a moment. There should be light soon -- if this is just an accident. The security man at the desk knows how to turn on the back-up generators."

They waited for what seemed an eternity, staring at the small red dot -- danger, warning, spilled blood it said -- then Byron threw back the covers.

As though hearing this thought, Byron went to her window and pried it open. The wind rushed inside hurling snow at them. The bitter confetti latched onto the drapes and carpet and clung with icy claws.

Brice thought of the story Damien had told her about the unnatural storm that brought him to Frankenstein's castle. She shuddered, pushing the memory away.

"It's dark over the entire bock. But only this block. Damn," Byron said. "Get dressed, Brice. I have a bad feeling."

Brice scrambled after her lover, her skin crawling with more than cold. She had a bad feeling too. She rushed to the window and looked down before he could close it, half expecting to see something evil waiting there in the fierce night.

The streetlights were out as well, but she could see that there were tracks in the snow leading up to the building's main entrance. It was difficult to tell, since more than one person could have walked the same path, but she counted at least three distinct trails.

"Who would cut the power? Could it be gangs?" she asked, allowing Damien to pull her back and slam the window shut. The question should have surprised her because it came out of her subconscious, bypassing reason. It didn't though. She felt very in tune with Byron and knew what he was thinking.

Brice shivered. The magic bubble of new love -- or at least new lust -- that had surrounded them had burst. The dark that had been romantic only hours before was now sinister. And she was standing naked with a man who was, if not a virtual stranger, then at least still very strange to her. However, the death of romance did not mean her mental connection with Damien had ended. If anything, it was stronger than before.

"Trust me, it's no one you want to know," Byron said grimly, dusting her off with his crumpled clothing and then pulling on his dampened shirt. "You recall when I said that there was one other thing I needed to tell you? One other danger connected with my prolonged life?"

"Vaguely." She remembered more clearly his passionate description of her body by moonlight.

"Well, there are actually three things you need to know," Damien said. "One, Frankenstein probably isn't dead. For the longest time I thought he was, since the peasants in his village did a real torch and pitchfork number on the castle and supposedly killed everyone in it. But I have recently begun to suspect that it is otherwise. Two, I know of two other of his former patients who have come to a bad end."

"And three?" she asked, keeping her voice level. It required an extreme effort because she was beginning to shake violently. The snow was off of her body, but not the chill.

"I hired a firm of private investigators to find the man I suspect is Frankenstein, and determine if he had anything to do with the deaths of those patients."

"And?" She pulled on a sweater, hoping she had it the right way around.

"There was no proof one way or another. But the man who sounds a lot like Frankenstein has vanished from his bunker in Nevada -- which also conveniently burned-- and one of the investigators turned up dead, again burned in a car crash when his vehicle ran off the road."

"Was it an accident?"

"The police report says so." Damien moved toward the door. "But I don't believe it. Not now."

Brice grabbed her coat and moved up behind him. As always, he didn't seem to feel the cold.

"You know, I think I'm frightened," she confided.

"You probably should be."