“Christian…?”

Before he could react, his brother was upon him, pulling him tightly in an embrace that was both intimate and frightening. Fingers dug into his shoulders, his elbow, hard enough to find bone.

Arthur gasped, tried to pull away, but it was like trying to unbend iron. Pain weakened him further, forcing him to drop his bag.

Lips moved to ear. “Come with me.”

The breath was icy, smelling of sour meat and rot. The tone was not one of invitation but of demand. Arthur was lifted off his feet and dragged away, as easily as a mother with an errant child.

In a moment, they were through the doorway and up a flight of rickety stairs to an upper room. Refuse littered the floor. Old ratty blankets bunched along the walls, abandoned by their former dwellers. The only place of order was a thick oak table in the center, its surface polished to a high sheen, so out of place here.

As was the smell.

Past the reek of sweat, waste, and urine came the wafting sweetness of honeysuckle and gardenia. The scent rose from a spray of white orchids, all Brassocattleya.

If Arthur had any doubts as to the role Christian played in the recent murders, they were dispelled at this sight. The table looked like a shrine or an altar to some dark god.

Arthur tried to struggle out of that iron grip, but he could not escape the hand clamped to this forearm. For his efforts, he was slammed against a wall, hard enough to bruise his shoulder, and pinned there. Fearing for his life, he searched for his only weapon, the same weapon that once drove the two brothers apart in the past.

His words.

But what could he say?

Arthur looked at his attacker, dismayed by what he found there. Christian looked exactly the same — yet completely changed. His face and bearing were as they always had been, but now he moved with a speed and strength that defied reason. Worst of all, his gentle expression had turned hard and angry. Malice shone in eyes that were once bright and full of joy.

Arthur knew this dreadful condition must be secondary to some kind of drug. He remembered the madman in the church, recalled the horror stories he had read of addicts on a new pharmaceutical called PCP. The drug had arrived in the Haight-Ashbury district just last year.

Was that the explanation here?

“You can stop this,” Arthur tried. “I can get you help. Get you clean.”

“Clean?” Christian pushed his lips up into a ghastly grimace and laughed, a mocking rendition of his usual playful mirth.

Changing tactics, Arthur tried reaching him through their shared past, to draw him out, to make him remember who he once was. “Brassocattleya,” he said, nodding to the table. “Like Mother grew and loved.”

“They were for you,” Christian said.

“The orchids?”

“The murders.” Christian faced him, showing too many teeth. “The orchids were merely to lure you here. I knew you were at the Times and hoped word of the orchids would draw you here. That’s why I took that singer first, the one from London.”

Arthur went cold, picturing Jackie Jake’s face. He had contributed to the poor man’s death.

“You came sooner than I expected,” his brother said. “I had hoped to leave a longer trail of invitation before entertaining you here.”

“I’m here now.” Arthur’s shoulder throbbed, aching even his teeth. “Whatever is wrong between us, we can fix it together.”

Christian exposed his arm, turning it to reveal the pale scar on his wrist. Arthur had a matching scar.

“That’s right,” Arthur said. “We’re blood brothers.”

“Forever…” Christian sounded momentarily lost.

Arthur hoped this was a sign of him finally coming out of his dark, drug-fueled fugue. “We can be brothers again.”

“But only in blood.” Christian faced him, his eyes hard and cold. “Isn’t that right?”

Before Arthur could answer, Christian threw him to the floor, riding his body down and straddling atop him. His brother’s white face hovered inches above his, those eyes reading his features like a book.

Arthur tried to throw him off, but his brother was too strong.

Christian leaned closer, as if to kiss him. Cold breath brushed against Arthur’s cheeks. His brother used a thumb to turn Arthur’s chin, to expose his neck.

Arthur pictured the morgue photos of Christian’s victims, their throats ripped out.

No…

He struggled anew, bucking under Christian, but there was no escaping his brother. Impossibly sharp teeth tore into the soft skin of his throat.

Blood drowned Arthur’s scream.

He wrestled against his death, struggled, cried, but in a matter of moments, the fight bled out of him. He lay there now as waves of pain and impossible bliss throbbed through his wounded body, borne aloft by each fading heartbeat. His arms and legs grew heavy, and his eyes drifted closed. He was weakening, maybe dying, but he didn’t care.

In this bloody moment, he discovered the connection people sought through love, drugs, religion. He had it now.

With Christian…

It was right.

Suddenly, that moment was severed, coldly interrupted.

Arthur opened his eyes to find Christian staring down at him, blood dripping from his brother’s chin.

In Christian’s eyes, Arthur read horror — and sorrow — as if the blood had succeeded where Arthur’s words had failed. Christian put an ice-cold hand against the wound on Arthur’s throat, as if he could stop the warm blood flowing out of it.

“Too late…” Arthur said hoarsely.

Christian pressed harder, tears welling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

His brother stared down, clearly struggling to hold in check the evil inside him, to hold on to himself. Arthur saw his nostrils flare, likely scenting the spilled blood. Christian moaned with the need of it, but Arthur heard an undertone of defiance.

Arthur wished he could help, to take away that pain, that struggle.

He let that desire show in his face, that love of brother for brother.

A tear rolled down Christian’s cheek. “I can’t… not you…”

With both arms, he picked up Arthur, crossed to a window, and threw his body out into the sunlight. As he flew amid a cascade of broken glass, he stared back, seeing Christian withdraw from the sun, back into shadows, forever lost.

Then Arthur crashed to the street.

Still, darkness found him in that sunlight, swallowing him away. But not before he saw an orchid land on the pavement near his head, floating in a pool of his blood. The sweet scent of it filled his nostrils. He knew it would be the last thing he ever smelled.

His mother would have been happy about that.

An unknown number of days later, Arthur woke to pain. He lay in a bed — a hospital bed. It took him several breaths to work out that his legs were suspended in front of him, encased in plaster. Turning his head took all his effort. Through his window, he saw weak afternoon sunlight.

“I see that you’re awake,” said a familiar voice.

Officer Miller was seated on his other side. The police officer reached to a table, retrieved a water glass with a straw, and offered it. Arthur allowed the man to slip the straw between his lips. He drank the lukewarm water until it was all gone.

Once done, Arthur leaned back. Even the short drink had left him exhausted. Still, he noted the purplish bruises ringing Miller’s eyes, courtesy of Arthur’s earlier sucker punch.

Miller fingered the same. “Sorry we didn’t take you more seriously, Mr. Crane.”

“Me, too,” he croaked out.

“I have to ask… did you recognize the man who attacked you?”

Arthur closed his eyes. In truth, he didn’t recognize the creature who had attacked him, but he did recognize the man who had flung him into the sunlight, away from the monster trying to claw back into control. In the end, Arthur knew Christian had saved his life. Could he condemn him now?