Prologue

Shara bowed her head, but it did not occur to her to pray. God would not listen. Shara lifted her eyes to face the innocent soul who suffered the consequences of her chosen sin.

The baby stirred in his sleep. His small head rose from the mattress of the crib and dropped back onto the padding. His tiny fists clenched and slowly uncurled – but not all the way. The little fingers remained partially bent, clawing at the capering figures of Bambi and Thumper printed on the crib sheet. Sunlight filtered through the cheery curtains of the windows; the bars over the apertures cast long, dark shadows on the pale carpet. Over the crib, a wooden plaque inscribed with ancient Nordic runes attempted to hold evil at bay. The room smelled of talcum powder and ointments, with the odor of dirty diapers underlying all.

"Little Joey, I'm so sorry," Shara whispered as she looked over the rail of the crib. "Why did I ever bring you into this world? I knew how it would be for you. I'm sorry." She pulled her rocking chair closer to the crib and sat where she could see through the bars. She watched her infant son and rolled the syringe between her palms. It wouldn't be long before the fit overcame him. It wouldn't be long before ...

Shara's husband put his hands on her shoulders and gently squeezed. Shara twisted her neck to look into his face as he stood behind her chair. His hair, nearly as dark as her own, was mussed from his nervous habit of running his hands through it. His brow wrinkled and his eyes squinted a little, his glasses forgotten in some other room.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked.

"You know I'm not, Chris. You were there. You saw the research. You know as well as I do what could happen. You know I could, I might –" She couldn't say the words.

"I know." He nodded.

Shara followed his eyes to the changing table at the foot of the crib. Another syringe lay ready. Beside it were several grams of the dried root used in the serum. The plastic box of diaper wipes was open. Shara reached over and closed the lid.

"Joey first. Then me," she said. "You shouldn't. If, if ..." She paused, sighed, and tried again. "If it doesn't go right, you shouldn't follow us."

"We've been over this, babe." He smiled down at her. "Do you really think I could live without you two?"

Shara tried to return the smile but failed. She looked back at the scattered particles of root. "There are more pleasant methods. I told you what to expect if you take that."

"You told me. If it's good enough for my wife and son, it's good enough for me." He reached up to adjust his glasses, realized he hadn't put them on and looked puzzled for a moment before dropping his hand to his side. The wrinkles in his forehead increased and Shara knew he was trying again to think of an alternative plan. "Is he too young? Could he grow out of it?"

"I told you about Ulrik." Shara did not look at her husband as she answered. "He was about this age when ... when he was first infected. We'll treat Joey at the same age. He'll never grow out of it on his own."

The baby whimpered. He opened his eyes for a moment. Shara saw that the madness was claiming him. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks.

"It's starting." Shara nearly choked on the words. "Damn it, it's starting. Damn it. Damn me. I'm – I'm –" She hunched over in the chair and shook as the sobs overcame her. Chris knelt beside her, tried to hold her.

"Honey, are you okay?"

"No. I may be on the verge of killing my son and then committing suicide. If he dies, or if I die, you say you will kill yourself. No, Chris, I'm not okay."

"I'm sorry, Shara. I – "

"It's not your fault. It's never been your fault. I'm the one who was weak. I've always been weak."

"You're not – "

"I am. I always have been." Shara pounded a fist on her knee. "I remember everything. I've always been weak."

"No."

Shara silenced him with a dark, pleading look. "I think it's time you left us," she said.

"No."

"I won't argue this one with you again. You have to leave us and promise not to come in for at least two hours."

"I've already promised," he said, his voice sulky.

"Promise again."

"I promise."

"Promise what?"

He took a deep breath, looked her in the eye then averted his face. He clenched his jaw as he always did when he was frustrated. "I promise to leave you and Joey alone for two hours. No matter what I hear or think."

"Thank you, Chris," Shara whispered. She left the chair and took her husband in her arms. "I love you."

"God, I love you," he said. He was near tears.

"Now go. Leave us alone, and lock the door on us. Don't let us out, and don't you come in."

Shara watched the man she loved leave the room. I might never see my husband again, she thought. Within a couple of hours I might be dead; the corpse of a woman clutching the body of a murdered baby. The door closed and Joey let out a long, pain-filled cry. Chris opened the door and poked his head through.

"No!" Shara looked over her shoulder at the door as she hurried back to the crib. "Out. And lock that door!" The door closed and she heard the bolts being thrown; one, two, three, and the key turned in the knob.

"Mama's here, Joey, Mama's here." She took the baby from the crib, threw the single bolt on the inside of the door, and sat in the rocking chair. Joey was awake now, his eyes wild and round as he stared up at her. His tiny body was stiff, rigid, as he struggled against the disease that fought to possess him.

"My little Joey," Shara murmured over and over again. Chris was standing in the hallway, pressed to the door. Shara could smell his scent, feel his fear, hear the short, quick gasps of his breath. "My little Joey. Mama's sorry, so sorry." The baby began crying in earnest. Shara cried with him.

"Why did I do it?" she asked herself again. "Why?"

She knew why. She remembered every significant event of her life. Every incident that had any meaning led to this moment. Every decision she had ever made had helped to bring her to this rocking chair, in this room, holding this beautiful, terrible baby in her arms.

Every movement was but one step in a long, savage dance ...