<strong>Edwin and Roger</strong><br/><br/><em>Cynthia can't remember the last time she was this drunk.<br/><br/>No, she isn't being responsible or sensible or anything that she usually prides herself on being.  But this is her vacation, dammit.  A chance to get away from the pressure and responsibility of academia, a chance to relax, a chance to. . .to what?  No skiing here, thank you very much.  And with Vivian being such a prude, she hadn't had a chance to indulge in other activities, either.  No one worth talking to, either.<br/><br/>A chance to drink, then.<br/><br/>Cyntia untwists the cap of the hotel minibar's cheap gin, and toasts herself in the mirror.  "Let's drink," she tells herself, "to drinking," - and tosses back the plastic bottle.<br/><br/>Someone is tapping at her window.<br/><br/>It takes several seconds for this information to seep into Cynthia's gin-soaked consciousness.  Someone.  Is.  Tapping.  At her window.  She looks at the heavy velvet curtains that drape from ceiling to floor, shut tight against the howling wind.<br/><br/>But the tapping is irregular there is no pattern to it.  It's probably the wind or. . .something.   There.  Now it's gone.  Just the wind.  A loose shutter, maybe.<br/><br/>"Or maybe it's Vivian."  Cynthia smiles to herself.  She knows she's being silly.  If her lover wants to come in, she'll come in through the door, but she really is too drunk to care.  Besides, she reasons.  We're on vacation.  And she's so sweet, and coming at the window is such a romantic gesture.<br/><br/>She stands a little too quickly, and totters for a moment on bare feet.  She giggles and takes a step towards the window to take a look.  Just in case.<br/><br/>Tap.  Tap.<br/><br/>Cynthia takes three steps backwards, almost loosing her balance.  So much for the loose shutter theory.  The tapping grows louder, then changes to scratching and she can hear the defined crunch of snow just below the window, just below the curtain.  <br/><br/>"Vivian, is that you?"<br/><br/>The light.  She can't see out the window with the light on.  Concentrating on the effort, Cynthia walks to the light switch.  Her finger on the switch, she glances at the hotel room door.  She could leave right now.  She could put a two-inch wooden door between herself and whoever is scratching at the window.<br/><br/>She'd thrown the deadbolt and engaged the security chain.  It took her a moment or two of fumbling to unfasten them before she thought more on the idea.  She would be locking herself out of her room at four in the morning wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt. <br/><br/>"Yeah, right."<br/><br/>Cynthia takes a deep breath and sets her mouth in a tight line.  "I'm not that drunk," she tells the mirror, then turns out the light and walks towards the window in darkness.<br/><br/>"I hope you're ready for me, Vivian, because I'm ready for you."<br/><br/>And then the windows break and the curtains explode inward, driven by the wind and snow and something that isn't Vivian - isn't even human - something with hot breath that smells of fresh blood against her skin.  It's something heavy and furry and sharp and Cynthia knows that it will kill her.<br/><br/>"Vivian," she whispers.  "Is that you?"</em>