Rabid \rab-ed\ also 'rä-bed\ adj. 1. a : extremely violent : FURIOUS b : going to extreme lengths in expressing or pursuing a feeling, interest, or opinion 2. affected with rabies "Bruder?" Gilbert didn't respond. He was staggering drunkenly, holding onto the walls just so he could move. With every word, foamy spit sprayed from his open mouth. "Bruder?" I said again. "It's me, it's Ludwig. Remember?" Gilbert stopped. For a moment, he stayed there, motionless. Then, he looked up at me, and I could clearly see that the person behind those red eyes wasn't Gilbert at all. His eyes were raving mad with something I'd never experienced before. Feliciano shrank behind me, not making a sound. His little hands had an iron grip on my shoulders. "Gilbert," I said warily, adjusting my grip. "Look at me. Focus on me." His wild eyes were unfocused, until they locked onto something just behind me. I felt Feliciano let go of my shoulders as he turned to run. Suddenly, Gilbert howled with fury and charged past me. His strength was terrifying, forcing me to the ground as he barrelled towards the younger man. By the time I got to my feet, Gilbert had pinned Feliciano to the ground. The younger man was screaming at the top of his lungs, trying to break free from his assailant. There was only one thing I could do then. Picking up my rifle, I cocked it, put my finger on the trigger, and aimed right for Gilbert's head. "I'm sorry, mein Bruder."

Before 1936, I was alone. Russia was in a state of chaos after the Bolshevik takeover at Petrograd. Vladimir Lenin was gaining power at a frightening rate. Outside of Russia, the world was at war with itself. After Archduke Ferdinand's assassination, Europe was plunged into turmoil. Everything was going insane. I wasn't alone in the familial sense. Although my mother died giving birth to my younger sister, Natalia, and my father was one of the ones killed in Petrograd, I still had my sisters. Katyushka was my older sister. She treated me with a maternal gentleness; in fact, it was she who made my scarf, which I still wear to this day. Natalia was my younger sister. She was very attached to me, and some might've called it obsessive, but I didn't blame her. When she was three, I had fallen very ill, and I almost didn't make it. Katyushka soon got over my near death, but since Natalia was so young, her mind never fully recovered. But even with my sisters, I was still alone. I was always trying to find some way for us to scrape by, which led me to spend most of my waking hours away from home. I had very few friends, and the friendships I had were shaky, at best. Whenever I tried to talk to anyone, they would ignore me or push me out of their ways, thinking I was just another street boy. Before 1936, I was alone. ... Under the Same Stars: Book One

Arthur Kirkland is a journalist by day, investigating murder stories throughout his home city of London. By night, however, his true passion for the supernatural shines through. He's a paranormal investigator, renowned throughout England for his skill and fearlessness in dealing with ghosts and monsters. One day, he gets a request from a man named Francis Bonnefoy to investigate an ancient château in France. Arthur accepts the offer, but he soon realizes that if there will be any trouble in this case, it won't be with the ghosts, but with the flirtatious Frenchman who hired him. As Arthur looks deeper and deeper into the Château de Bonnefoy, he understands that in order to bring the Bonnefoy spirits out of hiding, he'll have to learn to tolerate Francis and trust him with the investigation - a decision which could change his life for better or for worse...

"Why doesn't he remember me?" My voice was hardly more than a murmur, but the question seemed louder than gunfire. At least with gunfire, the bullet that followed might have hit someone else. "Is it me? Is it something I'm doing wrong?" I paced restlessly by my bed, trying to control my frustration and guilt. My dogs watched me, whimpering and tilting their heads with bewilderment. "I don't get it. He's still the same, but-" I stopped pacing. Something had clicked in my head. It wasn't him at all. It was that I'd tried to tell him who I was. I swerved off my pacing path and made towards my old wardrobe. Shoving aside uniforms and suits, I forced my way into the back of the wardrobe and tugged open an old box, dusty and smelling of age and nostalgia. I reached into the box, praying to God that it was still there. My hand closed around its handle, and I let out a shaky sigh of relief. Telling Italy didn't work. I decided that I had to show him.