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longer alone.
    Linda sleepily rubbed at her eyes as she leaned against the kitchen doorframe. “What are you guys doing?” she asked, stifling a yawn.
    Remy couldn’t help but stare at her. She was wearing the gray, extralarge Walking Dead T-shirt they had bought at Newbury Comics the week before and nothing else, her long, shapely legs looking even longer and shapelier than they usually did. Her hair was tousled, suggesting that she had been asleep for a bit. She ran her fingers through the long, dark locks, pushing them back from her face.
    Though half-asleep, Linda smiled at him, and he felt that sudden flush of humanity that he had learned to appreciate so much.
    “Want to fool around?” she asked, biting at her lower lip, her hair falling back over one half of her face.
    She couldn’t have been sexier if she’d tried.
    “What kind of a man do you take me for?” he asked, crossing his arms in mock indignation.
    She padded toward him. “The kind that stands around in a dark kitchen with his dog, stinking of booze,” she said. She kissed him hard upon the lips, then pulled away.
    “And tasting of booze, too,” she added, making a face.
    She turned, heading back for the doorway, walking in such a way that he had no choice but to watch her. “If you have any interest at all in my offer, you know where I’ll be,” she called over her shoulder as she passed through the door into the room beyond.
    “Huh.” Remy looked at Marlowe.
    “Bed?” Marlowe asked, his blocky head cocked to one side.
    “Eventually,” Remy said. “A little playtime first.”
    “Playtime?” Marlowe repeated eagerly. He looked about the darkened kitchen for one of his toys.
    “Sorry, pal. Not that kind of play.” He patted the dog’s head as he passed him. “People play.”
    He heard Marlowe sigh pathetically behind him, and turned to see his friend sitting dejectedly, head low, in the darkened kitchen.
    “I’ll tell you what. Once Linda and I are finished playing, I’ll take you out for a walk.” Remy told him.
    The Labrador’s thick tail thumped furiously on the kitchen floor.
    “Walk!” Marlowe barked, his sadness suddenly forgotten.
    Remy placed a finger to his lips, warning the dog to be quiet. “After playtime,” he assured the dog, starting toward the flight of stairs that would take him up to his bedroom. Once again, Marlowe rushed past to get there first.
    “Stay off the bed!” Remy warned as the dog bounded up the stairs. The sound of Linda’s surprised scream, followed by hysterical laughter and a dog’s playful growl proved that the one obedience class they’d attended had certainly done the trick.
    England
1301
    Since being touched by the Nazarene, Simeon could not die.
    It was not as if he hadn’t tried; it was just that death would not have him.
    Even the passage of time could not harm him, the man looking just as flush with life as he had before he’d died so very long ago.
    Plagued by the curse of immortality, he chose to wander, to experience everything that this world—now his prison—had to offer.
    The good as well as the bad.
    Simeon found himself drawn to the darker corners. Where the sane and rational mind might flee the terrors that hid in the shadows, the eternal man found himself moving toward them eagerly.
    He was desperate to know what secrets they might share, how they might help him someday to see Heaven fall from the sky. Simeon had gathered much in the way of knowledge over the centuries he had lived and wandered, but it was the ways of sorcery and black magick that had proven the most useful.
    The forever man had an aptitude for the black arts, and his hunger for this particular type of knowledge had become insatiable.
    During his travels, as he sought out those in special circles who could teach him, there was one name often spoken in both reverence and great fear.
    Some said he was only a legend, an amalgam of all the world’s greatest sorcerers and wizards, while others