Prologue
The door to the study creaked softly on its hinges. The decrepit hinges had long since been oiled, though they were supposed to be regularly. But president Snow was old, and many things passed him
"Jonathan…is that you?"
Snow was sitting back in his burgundy velvet armchair, eyes closed, hands on his lap. President snow coughed and looked up. "Did you bring my dinner?"
Jonathan approached his father's armchair. "I'm here dad," he responded placidly, his breath heavy and short. Something glinted in his hand.
"Did you bring my food?"
"No," Jonathan said calmly. "You won't be needing it."
"Nonsense! I'm hungry, tired and cranky. I want my dinner!"
Old age and a crippled body had done nothing to quell Snow's internal fire. He stared at Jonathan, cold fury in his snakelike eyes.
"Don't worry dad. I brought you some fresh roses. They're coming up beautifully this spring."
"Yes, " mumbled Snow in his armchair. "They certainly are."
Jonathan set the vase brimming with roses on the black table opposite of his Snow's chair.
"Smell them dad." Jonathan urged his father. "I know you love roses, and these have a wonderful scent."
President Snow, having quite forgotten about his lost dinner, bent over and sniffed them. The fresh, fragrant smell filled his nose, and President Snow smiled in pleasure.
Then there was something cold and sharp on his neck.
"Son?" Snow said, puzzled.
"Shhhh…" Jonathan whispered. "Everything's going to be all right. I'm here."
"Jonathan, what are you-"
There was a long, sharp pain across his neck, and President Snow fell back into his velvet armchair.
He died with the smell of blood and roses in his nostrils.