Prologue

His eyes opened slowly as sleep gave way to consciousness. He registered that it was still dark, either night or early morning and that he had kicked off his sheets again. Gradually he heard the sound of a cello in another room. The sound was low and mournful but ultimately beautiful. Fauré, Elégie Op. 24 his mind recognized the piece even as he registered that he was sprawled out on the bed. He looked over to the bedside table and reached out to pickup his watch. He pressed the night light on the watch and saw the time glaring at him. Three in the morning. What is he doing up at three in the morning? He slid out of bed and shuffled across the room and down the hall in his plaid pajama bottoms, the cold, hard wood of the cabin floor unwelcoming on his feet. He pushed his shoulder length, black hair out of his face as he walked down the stairs, following the music in the dark. It was cold again, it registered on the skin of his upper body but dimly in the back of his mind, he knew that he had felt colder nights. The moon shone through the windows, giving just enough light that he didn't stumble. They were moving again, to New York this time. The cabin was bare, there was no sign of life there save for him and the insomniac playing the cello. He found him in the dining room and paused, wondering if this was one of the times that he should go back to bed and leave him be. He could imagine him, seated on one of the straight back chairs cello in hand. His eyes would be closed, his head bowed and his fingers moving by memory over the strings. He found the matches by memory and lit the candle. The music stopped and the eyes opened revealing jade green irises. He turned slightly in the chair, his eyes blinking slightly.

"Adam," He said, his voice rough from lack of use.

"Papa, what are you doing up?" Adam asked leaning against the door frame.

"Couldn't sleep." He replied before resuming his playing. He had aged well. The slightest of lines sprung from the corner of his eyes and his hair, though shorter had grey at the temples and peppered throughout. But his eyes were still that sharp green that could cut through any defense and see through any guise, and his body was still the lethal machine that it had been when he was in his prime. At 45 Michael Samuelle still moved with strength and grace and it was just as impossible to bait him. They looked alike, sharing long eyelashes, and the Gallic bone structure of a long face, high, sharp cheek bones, and an angular jaw. Their builds were similar; broad shoulders and chests that streamlined into hips and thighs, but Adam's longer torso set him at six foot one whereas his father hovered around six. He knew from pictures that he got his full mouth and eyes from his mother, even if the shape of them was that of his fathers. His hair tended to curl slightly when left to its own devices. Not as drastically like his fathers but just enough to form a slight wave. Other than that, its texture of straight, black, silk was his mothers.

"What is it?"

"It's nothing Adam, go back to sleep." Adam tilted his head to one side and stared at him. That just meant that it was worse than he'd thought. Michael paused and looked up at him, his face blank and his eyes leaving no room for discussion. "You have a long day tomorrow, you should get some rest." With that he went back to his cello, leaving Adam to either obey or stand there like a fool. It was the way he had always been. Him leaving him to either obey or disobey. But Adam knew that he would feel like a moron for going against something that he knew was for his own good. He hated feeling stupid, and his father knew that. Michael had always had a way of getting people to do exactly what he said and Adam had spent years trying to perfect the skill. He'd gotten close, but never as good as his father. His mouth curved into a slow, small smile and he crossed to him to kiss his head.

"Night Papa," He said and turned to go back to his room.