Twinkle and Die--

The usual disclaimers apply.

And thank you to my beta. No one else has ever been such a source of inspiration, and I will be forever grateful.


Part I:
The stars will always hang, in summer's bleeding face...

Clarice and I are in Arbol De Limón , one of the more competent restaurants in Buenos Aires. Delicious aromas fill the air. Many comely mistresses are escorted in on the arms of men of high society, but no woman compares to Clarice. Candlelight trembles on her ivory skin, illuminating the mark of courage high on her cheekbone. It is only faintly visible under the cover of light cosmetic, but it is a constant reminder of her unsurpassable inner strength. The passionate spark in her eye provides me with a glimpse of her independent spirit, which has yet to be broken by the many trials she has endured. It has been a long time since her eyes were dull and faded, an unfortunate side-effect of the powerful drugs which I used to facilitate her transition.

Clarice envelopes me with something beyond comprehension, something that I now need to survive. If I were a man given to hypothesis, I might muse awhile on how this unsettling awareness could eventually affect our relationship. But of course, I am not. Time will tell.

On this evening I drink her in over the dim glow of the candles, feeling even more alive than I do when I shed the blood of others...especially those deserving, like the late Paul Krendler.

In a sense, Clarice is mine. She will always be mine. But no one will ever be able to fully possess her.

Thoughtfully, Clarice glances at a waiter, as though she might want something. I signal for him to approach. He does so, and his eyes roam appreciatively over Clarice, provoking a lustful flush apparent even beneath his dark complexion. He suddenly becomes fascinated with Clarice's fingers, searching for something. I realize that he is checking for a wedding band. He then briefly studies me, and seems to come to the misplaced conclusion that Clarice could not possibly be dining with me as my lover. My eyes flicker to Clarice so that I can register her response. She does not appear bothered by his attentions, until she notes that he is trying to look down her delicately cut evening gown. Irritation creeps up my spine, and my muscles tense noticeably. Clarice catches my change in posture and gives the waiter a cold stare. His face displays dejection and anger glints in his eyes, only to quickly disappear. He must be used to attracting women with his youthful, dusky face and easy flirtatiousness.

"I am at your service Señorita, what can I do for you?"

His eyes never leave her body, and his ignorance of my presence presses hard on my patience.



Clarice politely replies, but there is no trace of warmth in her voice.

"A bottle of Château d'Yquem. 1966."

My skin tingles gently at the reference, and voluptuous images flash through my mind. Clarice sends me a private smile, and we both revel in pleasant memories.

"Will there be anything else, for the moment?"

Leaning in close to clear away a plate, he directs a winning smile at her and pauses to inhale her fresh scent. My veins turn to ice. With a flick of my wrist that is not visible to anyone present, I press the cold metal of my Harpy blade into the palm of my hand. I can feel the edge of it pierce skin, and the pain gives me something to focus on other than my rage.

"Yes, thank you. That will be all," Clarice replies. She does not so much as look at him again.

The appalling young waiter gives Clarice one last appraising look before finally walking away. But though his face burned, it did not burn with lust. There was something different in this heat, something infinitely more dangerous. It is obvious to me that he has issues with members of the female gender, he feels a compelling need to attract them and is furious when he cannot. I feel that in some way he has threatened Clarice.

I have killed many people for much, much less than this.

Clarice's calm voice soothes my aggravation.

"Hannibal, please don't get angry. Let's just enjoy the rest of our dinner. I would rather this were a pleasant night out."

It takes a moment before I am able to slip the Harpy back into its hiding place. Clarice takes my hand from across the table, and gently squeezes it. When she withdraws, she is surprised to see a drop of blood on her finger. A tiny amount of crimson has escaped from my palm, where the Harpy cut my skin. She places her finger in her mouth, and savors it as she would a fine wine. It's as though she tastes and understands my anger.

"He's just a pathetic, lecherous waiter, he's beneath our concern."

I nod reluctantly.

"Beneath our concern," I repeat, and quietly marvel at the way Clarice is able to diffuse my temper.

Our wine is delivered, this time by a different waiter. We enjoy the rest of our dinner in a companionable silence. Words are not always necessary for us to communicate. Once or twice I notice the waiter staring in our direction, but Clarice's company diverts me to the extent that I am able to remain satisfactorily distracted.

The theatre is only a short distance from the restaurant, so we decide to walk. The summer night is warm and atmospheric, the perfect context for Clarice's present mood . She exerts a vibrant energy that seems to provide a direct conduit into ... life itself.

We stop for a minute to look at the sky, which is hard to see in the city but, nevertheless, beautiful. To me, the stars seem to hang too far away.

A whisper from the past in the light breeze-

Some of our stars are the same...

Like summer, the stars will fade and die, and time is limited for everything precious.

Suddenly I feel oddly empty.