The Serpent's Kiss

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The Serpent was coiled to strike. That was how he thought of it; how he thought of himself.

He stood on West Grand Boulevard in Detroit, leaning against the bus stop shelter in front of Henry Ford Hospital. Behind him the hospital towered seventeen floors of red brick, Henry Ford Hospital written in giant white script across the top of the building. It was a complex, actually, with at least half a dozen buildings and a couple parking garages, right there on the corner of the John Lodge and the Boulevard dominating an entire city block plus more if you counted the parking lots. It was a brisk autumn day, a hint of fall in the air, gray clouds scudding across the lid of the sky as if they had someplace important to go.

The Serpent wondered about the wind. He wondered if the wind would cause problems. It was a technical problem and he was pleased with technical problems. The whole idea had started out as a technical problem. The wind, though, was a part of the technical problem that he hadn’t given much thought to.

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