There were worse jobs, she knew. It had been a surprise when the girls had pointed her to such a handsome young man, but they never lied to her, so here she was. He was beautiful.
And experienced—she had seen that right away. It hadn't been unpleasant at all to look up at that pale, well-sculpted face, flushing at the exertion, framed by long midnight curls. It was a pity.
Ah, but he had brought it upon himself, and the deceptive path had led to Madame Sylvie. Retribution.
The girl who had first reported this man had called her Madame Alphonse, and the next had come to Madame Roxanne. The police knew none of these names, simply dubbing her "The Murderess" and using the description given by neighbors of the departed amorous young men. None could pinpoint the age, but all remembered the well-fitting white dress. The less experienced had thought her a bride.
Perpetual youth and her own depraved childhood had led Madame Sylvie to take on the position as a guardian for the girls of the streets. It was significant that each girl who had reported this young man had called her by a different name—each came from a different part of Paris. Sylvie, Alphonse, Roxanne, Geneviève ... her true name was anyone's guess. The Murderess herself sometimes forgot.
She waited for him to finish, but not without some pleasure. He was good at this. He was good, that was his downfall. Any girl he allowed to return to her job would remember a man with enough skill to please a prostitute. A wise man would have been clumsy to blend in with the rest. But word had spread, the girls told Madame Sylvie, that he was a good one, and then they started to noticed when the flustered girls he chose never returned. A distinct pattern, they said. Madame Sylvie had understood right away.
Too many young men did not see these poor prostitutes as the frightened girls they were. Expendable, they would think, miserable targets that really deserve to die anyway, so why not treat them as brutally as possible? Madame Sylvie herself had experienced such viciousness as a girl; finally she had discovered that she had the power to combat it, and to save herself and every other poor thing in the same place. All she had to do was go with them obediently.
The Murderess never failed.
She had done it many times, and now she was at it again. It had become routine somehow—find him, flaunt, and… well. Finish. She had followed the handsome young man back to his flat and waited for him to finish with her so that she could finish him. She only suffered a little this time. Perhaps her luck was changing.
At last he had moved aside, collapsed, and was silent.
Ah, so he was one of those. The kind of man who lets girls think he is asleep; the sad child must simply wait for payment until he wakes, so she too dozes off. And she is unprepared for his black eyes to open in the darkness, and a long, slender hand to creep over to her throat…
Madame Sylvie was equally surprised and relieved that he had taken this method. He seemed a violent young man, and she had expected nothing less between the two of them. Certainly he wanted tears and screams before the blood. But either she had been wrong, or he had been in the mood for a change.
Sylvie turned her head in the darkness and studied him. Yes, he was feigning sleep, and doing a poor job of it. It was important to breathe naturally, and he was clearly holding his breath. His lips were clenched too tightly. Anyone would know he was awake.
He had such a handsome face, high cheekbones, almost sallow in the night, but she saw pain traced faintly over his brow and in the corners of his mouth.
What was life like for this beautiful young man that drove him to kill her girls? Was it a grudge against women or a bloodlust? She imagined him as a little child, pride of his mother's heart, and wondered how this slim murderer had evolved from a fleshy, giggling infant. Some children grow to be kings; others become monsters.
Thinking so deeply about her victims always sent a stab of pain through Madame Sylvie's insides, but she forced herself to do it every time. She did not want to become a killer at heart. Her sins had become necessity. She was a protector. The Murderess never failed.
She wondered who had given this man his first kiss; who had been the first woman to take him to bed. Who had he first killed, and why? Had he always lived in Paris?
She felt tears gathering in her eyes; she closed them lightly and slowly regulated her breathing. It was time.
The room was silent except for Sylvie's rhythmic breaths. After a long stretch of time, she heard the vague rustling of movement from the young man's direction. She steeled herself.
His ivory fingers came from nowhere, clenching about her throat, but Sylvie was ready for it. One hand flew up automatically to his wrist; she dug her nails into his white flesh, persisting until she felt damp spots of blood under her fingertips. His grip finally slackened and he pulled away.
This was the part where Sylvie got to her feet, kicked him several times in the ribs, and—
Cold flashed across her body, and she opened her eyes.
His face was inches from hers, pretty red lips curled back in a sneer. Sylvie recoiled from the hatred boiling in his hollow eyes.
"So you're the Murderess," he spat, loathing in each syllable. "Yes, I've heard of you. I buried a friend after you. You would have beaten me next, wouldn't you?"
Sylvie was beginning to feel an unusual prodding in her stomach, and she tried to lift her head. Why was the room spinning?
The young man thrust her head back down, cracking it nastily against the floor. "Scratches at the wrist, broken ribs… I dispatched a few of your little friends, so you come for me. That's how it works in the world of the whores, eh?"
Pain was coursing through Sylvie's consciousness, but it was not from her head. Her stomach… something was hurting her…
The young man's fury suddenly broke into a leer. "But I've beaten you," he said poisonously. "I shall leave your body where all the little whores can see it. You may be the Murderess, my dear, but I am the murderer, and I have prevailed. You'll die like the rest of them."
He drew back at last, and Sylvie lifted her throbbing, pounding head, intending to escape before he killed her… killed her…
Discomfort, still. She looked down.
The hilt of a knife emerged from her stomach, blood pouring black over her fair flesh. So she had finally met a victim capable of retaliation. Letting herself fall back to the floor, Sylvie smiled weakly.
She did not mind death. She had been prepared since the day she had learned she was marked for it. It had started with a few lesions and evolved into constant suffering. Her body ached when she was with men. She was always exhausted. Doctors had been mystified. The virus was running its course, but this young man had killed her first.
At first glance, perhaps, it would appear that the murderer had won, had escaped her, but it would not be long…
Sylvie closed her eyes, letting consciousness drain from her body.
It was his turn now.
The Murderess never failed.