“I mean, he used cold as a way of torturing his victims. The ones that survived talked about how cold it was."

“Use of cold as a torture device is not uncommon."

Heda shook her head.

“Everything with this guy means something."

Edgar closed his eyes.

“The torture devices were things that he picked up from Professor Hill's class. Detrius blames the shifters for what happened, specifically Reichert. The murderer was one of Hill's best students, so he took away Reichert's in some bizarre form of balance."

"We'll add it to the criteria being used to profile this psycho, but he's smart. He's not going to just be hanging out in a fridge somewhere waiting for us."

"I know. Just let me pretend I'm brilliant for a little bit," Heda chuckled punching her brother in the shoulder.

"Heda, the one thing you can count on your family to do for you is to squash your ego whenever we can. It's kind of annoying that most of the time, you are as good as you claim to be. Though I doubt Madison complains about your mad skills."

Heda actually had the good graces to blush a bit.

"Well, she hasn't complained to me. Hey, we better be getting back. Despite the galactic unfairness of it, I still have class tomorrow."

"Hey, about what we were talking about earlier . . . don't tell Mom.

You're right. I shouldn't go worrying anyone unless I'm sure."

The two shifted in silence, then took flight in the last light of the sun towards home.

That night...

The Cold screamed and wailed against the surrounding walls like the wind and waves at a Scottish coastline. Over the weeks since It had met with disaster. It's lair violated, It's Messages lost, It's visage known to the enemy . . . unacceptable! But the Enemy had sent His little puppets away, out of even the Cold's long reach.

“ALL my plans," It hissed, "all my dreams. Gone!" But they could not be gone. How could the Cold truly be denied. It came for all things.

The Cold could lay mountains flat, and leave the greatest predators humble in their graves. And the Cold demanded It's due.

It would draw the Enemy out. It would use the Enemy's arrogance and pride as weapons against It.

"The story is not over," the Cold whispered.

"Not until I have had the final word."

Madison was actually doing pretty well. The last of the bandages had come off that afternoon, and she had immediately shifted and flown around the house. She had even clung to the bottom of Mr. Hannity's arm, chattering away happily before flitting off. Then in the evening, Morgan and some of her friends from high school, all of whom thought that Madison was the coolest chick ever, had descended on the convalescing bat-shifter. They had given her a home facial, then painted her nails, despite her protestations that she was blind and that the concept of “Sasha red" coloring was pretty much lost on her.

Morgan had told her that some things transcended sight. Madison told her little sister that she was, in point of fact, off her rocker.

Madison found herself relaxed and kicking back in her king-sized bed, sipping the most amazing raspberry lemonade and listening to T-Bone Walker wafting out from her I-Pod's docking station. She felt safe here. The only other place she had felt safe was in the arms of --