It was a good night for it, they’d said.
The cool January wind swept through England, the taste of bitter winter tinged on her current like spoiled wine upon the tongue. A whistle, haunting as a banshee’s cry, rustled the leaves upon the trees that lined the snow covered path.
He stepped from the shadows and lifted his gaze. Tipped his head heavenward so that his face was bathed in the silvery glow of the moon. He thought he heard his name, whispered by the stars in the heavens above. “Christian,” they murmured, but it was just a trick of the wind.
His chest expanded beneath his coat as he drew in the perfume of night. The faint arctic breath of lingering winter. The undercurrent of unspoiled earth, hidden beneath a thin blanket of snow. Tiny snowflakes fell upon his cheeks, warming and melting against his flushed skin. Yes, he supposed it was a good night for dark deeds to be done…