Disclaimer: I own no characters that are immediately recognizable as belonging to the Desperate Housewives fandom.

New-York City, 1796

There had been nothing about the start of the evening that could've led Katherine Fitzgerald to predict that her entire world would be turned upside down by the end of it. Her four-year-old son had been tucked into bed and left in the charge of his nanny as she prepared to go out to the theatre with her husband. It had been the first evening where Gregory hadn't had to work late in some time and the couple was going to take advantage of it as best they could.

The show was enjoyable, the company, as they had joined a few friends, as pleasant as always, leaving them in good spirits. Upon departing, however, they would find no hansom cabs available, leaving walking as their only way to get home. Luckily the theatre wasn't that far from their home and Gregory was aware of a few shortcuts through some back alleys-or at least it seemed to be lucky at the time. She would come to associate it years later with an entirely different word.

The couple had just turned down the alley that would lead directly out onto the street that their house was situated on when two men stepped out of the shadows. Both were tall and impeccably dressed, but the one on the right was a visibly younger, slightly heavier, with a vaguely subservient air about him. The one on the left, however, was well-built, his hair and beard, both trimmed neatly, a variant of salt-and-pepper. His very presence seemed to exude absolute authority and the slow smile he flashed in the couple's direction was slightly eerie.

"Good evening, Mr. Fitzgerald," the older gentleman greeted Gregory, his gaze then flickering to Katherine, whom he then acknowledged with a polite nod. "And Mrs. Fitzgerald, I assume. What a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

Her hazel eyes flickered questioningly up towards her husband, who seemed to have gone faintly pale in the face of these unexpected visitors. "M-Mr. Pressley," he stammered a little before managing to clear his throat. "Good evening. I wasn't expecting to run into you."

The supposed Mr. Pressley gave a low chuckle in response to that, the sound of which sent a chill down Katherine's spine for reasons she couldn't quite pinpoint. "No, I'm certain you weren't," he responded evenly. "But I believe we have some unfinished business to take care of and Mr. Samuels here," he gestured to his companion, "agreed that sooner was better than later."

"Gregory, what is he talking about?" Katherine demanded of her husband in an urgent whisper, starting to feel more uneasy than ever. He didn't answer her, though, and only looked at the men with a nervous expression on his face that did nothing to abate her own discomfort about the situation they had now found themselves in.

"You'll get your money, gentlemen," Gregory finally managed to say, trying to keep his voice steady, but failing miserably, his fear almost palpable. "Just give me a little more time." As he had spoken, he had tightened his grip on his wife's waist protectively.

Mr. Pressley only shook his head slowly, something fearsome flashing in his eyes for a moment before fading away again. "No, Mr. Fitzgerald," he said, his voice low. "I'm afraid your time is up. You haven't fulfilled your monetary obligations, so we'll just have to work out a different kind of agreement." He snapped his fingers then and, far too quickly for either husband or wife to register that it was happening, Mr. Samuels had lunged forward, slamming Gregory roughly into the brick wall behind them.

Katherine was forced to watch in horror as the man-no, he wasn't a man-bare his teeth, brilliantly white and sharp, and tear savagely into the flesh of her husband's neck. A terrorized scream escaped her, all the louder because Gregory, strangely enough, wasn't making any noise himself; wasn't even fighting. She rushed forward, grabbing onto the creature's arms and trying, in vain, to pull him off of her husband, but she was no match for him.

He turned around halfway for a moment, blood, Gregory's blood, dripping from his mouth and harshly flung her off of him as easily as if she was nothing more than a pesky fly. She went flying across the alley, slamming into the wall and hitting her head, hard. The world seemed to be spinning in rapid, endless circles around her as she slid to the cold ground. Her head was reeling from the impact and when she lifted a hand to it, her fingers came away glazed with her own blood. She looked back up slowly, trying to focus her hazy vision on what had become of her husband, and was just able to make out what appeared to be his lifeless corpse falling to the ground as the monster released him.

She could feel tears trailing numbly down her face, but she was far too dazed, her head pounding far too much, now to react in any other fashion. She was barely aware of a gruff voice, obviously that of Mr. Samuel's, inquire, "What about the wife, Darien?" This was followed by the sound of a deep intake of breath and then a longing sigh. "Damn, she smells delicious. But, fair is fair, she's all yours."

There was a long moment of silence before footsteps slowly approached her and the man called Darien, previously Mr. Pressley, knelt down in front of Katherine, surveying her thoughtfully. "Mmm, yes, she does," he agreed, wiping a bit of blood from her head wound with one finger, making her flinch reflexively, and sucking on it with obvious relish. After a moment, though, he retracted his finger and gave her that thoughtful look again. "But I think I may have other plans for her."

Her vision cleared just enough for her to be able to look at him fearfully, but was still left without the aid of any form of verbal defense or plea. The slow, eerie smile, spread across his face again, but this time she was close enough to see his bright, inhumanly strong, teeth. She felt a hand come to rest on the back of her head, tilting it back a little, and then hot breath on her throat followed by a sharp, piercing sensation before the scene faded away into the darkness of blissful unconsciousness.