The murmur of the night called in the language known only by predators of the highest distinction. As always, Hannibal Lecter heeded the call.
At his side was a still, sleeping form, a woman sleeping in utter peace. He watched her, as he did every sleepless night, the mystical sheen cast by the full moon causing her platinum crown to glow, as if surrounded by a blue halo. He pulled back the satin sheet draped across her, and the smooth touch of the light caressed her exquisite form in one long stroke from the backs of her calves, across her delectable derriere, to her gleaming back. Her arms were buried beneath the soft, down pillow, and the curves of her breasts were clearly visible where they pressed against the sheets.
She was no longer haunted by the demons of the dream realm. But what of his peace? Where was his solace? He'd long waited for his absolution, but the gods were silent. Or perhaps they spoke in a language he did not know? Was he doomed, then, forever to await that which would be denied him even as it was bestowed upon one so close to him, so that he would spend the remainder of his years taunted by the knowledge that the blessing existed, simply not for him?
Cruel fates! Gods that give and take for amusement alone. How could he not appreciate that? He would take their power, once again, to appease his torment.
"Sleep then, Starling!" His guttural growl accompanied his brutal self-sacrifice as he plunged his Harpy deep into her beautiful back and deboned her like a fish.