Lady Killer/Secret Admirer

London: Tuesday, June 19, 1590 She lies in the field of tall grass, her arms and legs stretched out as far as they will go, breathing in the smell of summer dirt and heat and Mr. Eliot's trimming in the garden. The dragonflies loop over her, their blue-green wings gleaming like the lids of Chinese boxes. She thinks of that time when she was younger and she climbed the yew tree and the branch fell off and made a crack like a lightning bolt in the garden wall that cost thirty-one pounds to fix. She had lost her allowance as a result, but she can't remember if it had been repaired. It is so pleasant here, with the sun and the dragonflies and the grass tickling and The ground beneath her vibrates with the angry pound-ing of his boots as he comes toward her, for her. He is nearly on top of her before she realizes it, bearing down, fast. She lies there, completely still, her fingers digging into the dirt, paralyzed with fear. Thinking, not again, please not again. Thinking, don't let him see me, don't let him find me, oh god "You can't hide from me you stupid bitch! Show yourself now." She gets up and runs for her life. The Lion examined his reflection in the mirror scrupulously, running a hand through his hair. Who is the most dangerous man? The brave man? The wise man? The rich man? None of these, sir. It is the mediocre man. Why? Because he is invisible. No one would remember anything special about him, the Lion decided. Nothing he didn't want them to, anyway. Done up like this, he would look just how he was supposed to look for where he was going. When he was not on a job, the Lion was a snappy dresser. He spent a lot of money on his clothes, but he felt it was worth it. He didn't talk much so he let clothes show what kind of a man he was. They drew attention to him, made people remember him, hid his other identity. And he liked to look good, liked the way women eyed him, then blushed. He liked it a lot; it gave him satisfaction. Not like this, though. Not like the satisfaction of being the Lion. The Lion was, in his own opinion, the best killer in England. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Sunlight slants at crazy angles between the boughs of the trees, making a corridor of irregular golden beams. They dance over her arms and hands like fairies as she flees through them, running as hard as she can, biting her lip to keep from screaming. Crunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunch. "I see you!" he calls from behind her, not sounding winded. Heavy footsteps follow hers, filling the air with crunching and the smell of decaying leaves. "When I get my hands on you I'll flay you alive." She can hear him thrashing through the branches behind her. She has the advantage, being smaller, but not for long. He is gaining on her. She can feel his fingertips inching closer to her, smell his sweat now, oh god he's She trips on a rock hidden beneath the leaves and falls, headlong. She scrambles to her feet, gets caught up in the hem of her gown for a moment, then keeps running. She wills herself not to look behind her. "You idiot," he says, and she can feel his fingers first graze, then grab her shoulders. He drags her, her feet leaving long brown lines in the dirt as he says, "There is no escaping from me. Don't you know that by now?" The Lion had read everything he could get his hands on about every other killer and he knew that none of them even came close to him. Only one man had ever even approached his numbers, and he'd been caught three years earlier. Besides, he wasn't impressed. That man had only killed girls. The Lion killed men. Lots of menJaffe, Michele is the author of 'Lady Killer/Secret Admirer' with ISBN 9780345455628 and ISBN 0345455622.