Siren Sweet & Harpy Shrill

by Natasha-Von-Lecter

Clarice is set out as bait for Lecter, only to have her eyes opened by him.

Siren Sweet & Harpy Shrill by Natasha Von Lecter

Chapter One

There is a scream…No….Not a scream….Too long to be a scream…There is a…What? What?

My hand slams down on my alarm clock, silencing the incessant screech of its wake up call. Human beings were not meant to wake like this. We were meant to huddle together throughout the night, the sweet kiss of sunlight softly stroking our eyes open to greet another day. I contemplate hurling the clock across the room, but decline. No need to punish a poor defenseless clock, dutifully performing the function a pathological society constructed it for. No need to punish myself. I'm only performing the function I was trained for.

My eyes stray to the wall calander, another demarcation of a sick world. I should count my days in sunsets and dawnings, not a numbers on a grid. No kittens greet me, no mountains or classic cars, just days and numbers in rapid succession. I would not say that it suits my life, but rather reflects it back with all the impartial judgment of a mirror. My eyes are drawn to the only spec of color, a dim red circle looping around a two and nine. The twenty-ninth. Today. In my businesslike hand, a legend is scrawled: 1:30 Meeting Room 34A, Operation: Siren.

I walk down the hallway in my modest but well made suit, silently cursing the dilettante who decided to exercise his paltry wit in the naming of my current assignment. I reach the door and draw it open, casting a hush over the already occupied room. No doubt they snicker at it behind my back already, but will wait to snicker in front of my face until the outcome is known. That is of course, if I still HAVE a face. You see I am the Siren in question. And Hannibal Lecter is wayward traveler I must lure onto the rocks of my treachery. I choke back a wave of bile as I take my seat. Their eyes roam over my face and I can practically hear them thinking: "This? This is what he courts disaster for?"

To my left, a senior agent rises. His name has no consequence. I have seen so many like him come, stay a while, them move on to better things. I never move on with them. I am stuck here as surely as if I was changed to the leg of the table we congregate around. He is speaking, and so, out of habit, I listen.

"Alright, We've been over this before. In a few hours we'll be leaking to the press that Agent Starling has been discharged from duty. In another hour, after the gossip press has had a change to congregate we'll be escorting her out, and onto a plane. Under no circumstances is her destination to be even hinted at people. We don't want poachers shooting at rabbits to scare away the big game."

I try to keep the disgust I feel from registering on my face. If they were really looking at me, they might see it, but fortunately, no one as looked at me for a very long time. He turns to me, or rather in my direction.

"Once you reach your destination, all that's left for you to do is to wait and flush him out."

Why do they always use backwoods hunting metaphors when they speak of me? This man has never been hunting a day in his life. When I was 8, my father took me hunting in the woods by our home. He taught me how to track, and I had a prize buck in my sights in just under nine hours. I was shaking like a leaf, and squeezing hot burning tears from my eyes, knowing I couldn't shoot, torn between that truth and the devastating pain of disappointing my daddy. My father "accidentally" startled the buck when he kicked loose some stray rocks, and I loved him for it.

"You'll be heavily guarded, of course, but at enough of a distance to complete the illusion of your helplessness".

I almost snort with derision. I almost took him, jacked up on morphine armed only with a candlestick and handcuffs. Hannibal Lecter doesn't think I'm helpless you stupid Fuck.

"OK, People. If there aren't any questions, it's go time." He pauses for effect.

"Let's all give Agent Starling a round of applause for agreeing to help us out". The false applause echoes in my ears with the sickening roar of a mile-high wave towering above a lifeboat. You sick bastards. You'd clap for Judas as he counted out his thirty pieces of silver. I hate them almost as much as I hate myself.

Chapter Two

If it were possible to drown in a sea of people my water-logged corpse would have no doubt washed up on the distant shore of the Tattler's main office. They crush in on all sides of me, shouting a thousand insipid questions, sounding for all the world like a cadre of seagulls swarming a garbage barge. A microphone is thrust into my face and I knock it away with enough force to elicit a surprised squawk from the little man who put it there. Don't you know me, boy? Haven't you penned a hundred dirty missives, recounting all the kills notched squarely on my holster? Shove that thing back in my face and I'll see to it that your family line ends with you. After all the muck the tabloids have drug my name through, my rage does not surprise me. I point it's sleek nose towards the back of my cavernous mind, until it has slunk away, curled up and laid down. Wait till it counts.

Weather it's seconds or minutes till I reach the sanctuary of the waiting car, I don't know. The door is pulled open for me, and I'm hustled inside. Collapsing against the practical material seats of the federal vehicle, I lower my gaze from the tinted windows. The driver presses carefully through the huddled mass, and I can hear their palms squeak as they drag over the car's exterior. I close my eyes and lie back, letting the gentle rocking motion of the sea of humanity lull me into the murky depths of sleep.

In my dream, I'm trapped in the brig of a foundering ship. The water is licking at the backs of my knees, frigid and sharp as my fingers curl about the unbending bars of my plight. The sounds of the frantic crew create a terrible din, and I know with utter certainty that in my watery prison, I don't even cross their minds. The water's up to my waist now, and a rat swims determinedly by, pumping plump little legs in a effort to abandon ship. God's speed, furry pestilence. May your generations multiply and go forth, trailing new epidemics of disease so devastating that your ancestors could only dream of them. Cold Watery fingers circle my neck, stroking hypothermic caresses down the length of my spine. The shouts of the crew begin to die down as they cut loose the lifeboats and make for the uncertainty of the open sea. I prepare myself to meet death, a few select scenes flittering before my eyes until, there is a deafening "snick". I've heard that sound before. It signaled something fearfully meaningful in some other, far off context, but the water's so cold that I can't place it. I open my eyes underwater, trying to discern the sound here and now, in the dream time. The lock on my cell. It's open. I push the heavy bars back with the last of my cold-sapped strength and swim for the deck. He is standing in the doorway, holding out his hand to me. And as the last wave breaks over my head, I grasp it.

I shudder awake and wrap my arms around my waist, shivering with a chill that leaches deep into my bones. The car glides to a stop beside a small private air craft, and my door opens. The driver plucks my luggage from the trunk of the car. I shoulder my suitcase and make for the plane. I am the only passenger aboard, of course and there is no stewardess to offer me a Jack Daniel's to ease my nerves. As if a drink could possible quell the nausea swirling in my stomach. I am not afraid of flying. The anxiousness that constricts around me has its genesis in the cold dark corridors of a seductive dungeon. They want me to help catch him. They want me to bring him down. My shoulder itches, a not so subtle reminder of his touch gliding over my traitorous flesh. They want me to sing him to his doom. They want me to nod my acquiescence as they drive the bullet home. And they think I can do it. I don't who's the bigger fool, them for believing in me or me believing I have a chance to push the iron bars open before I drown.

Chapter 3

The plane touches down on the tarmac, with barely a squeak or bump. It is still enough to wake me. I take refuge in sleep so often now. Before, I shrugged away from the boredom. Now, I toss and turn in the clutches of something far more sinister. Daily, I am flooded with a mélange of cruel emotions; fear, longing, despair, allegiance, guilt, and blood red hatred are my constant companions. Alone? I haven't been alone since he took up residence inside my head. I only think I'm alone because I when I wake, my arms are always wrapped tightly around my body in a wan and pathetic imitation of a lover's embrace.

The boarding ramp is down, and I'm down it in little more than a minute. The airport is desolated. No doubt the flight was scheduled to land when there would be the least amount of activity. The only reception that greets me is the bright salty sparkle of the sea air. I can see it from the airport, gleaming across winter-white wave caps, crashing gently on bleached sunlight sand. I breath it in, feel it cleanse my lungs of the last vestiges of stuffy recirculated air. The crisp breeze is invigorating, and I hate to leave it when I hurry inside to pick up my rental car.

The girl at the terminal speaks in a round New England accent that I'm sure tourists find charming. The car, waiting under the name Hannah Aaron, is compact and inconspicuous. I have not explained the significance of my assumed identity to my superiors, and it will, likewise, slip under the radar of the tabloids. But he'll know it a mile away. That is, if he bothers to look.

Tossing my suitcase on the passenger's seat, I get in my rented skiff and fish my directions out of my purse. I have not seen the rented cottage. In the unlikely event he can't detect that this little excursion is a trap, I hope the house is suitable. I'd hate to offend his sensibilities, or disappoint him with my tastes. I ruminate on the fact that his knowledge of their trap is most likely not enough to keep him away. He lives to rub their noses in their ineptitude. He exhibits a malevolent glee in decimating their carefully constructed ruses, like a beach bully toppling a child's sand castle. His arrogance is both frightening and breathtaking. I am afraid it will be his undoing, and I am in awe of his heroic attempts to evade capture. Heroics is not the right word, but it's the only one that comes to mind. I'm caught in a vice grip, torn between fear and anticipation. Not fear that he will come, not fear that he will butcher me and pose my remains in some exquisitely ironic tableau, but fear that this time he might not make it back out alive. I cannot be his executioner, and I cannot be their stalking horse. But although I tell myself this, I still make my way down the road to our destiny.

I pull up to the cottage and park in the drive way. It's perfect: remote and secluded. From the Bureau's point of view, if this turns into a blood bath, the fewer witnesses, the better. The public might even find some shred sympathy for me if, cut off from the bureau, my mutilated corpse (Identified by dental records, of course) was attributed to the list of Lecter's victims.

From my debriefing, I know the surveillance team should already be in place. The fact that I cannot pinpoint their locations is both reassuring and unsettling. Good, I am safe. Bad, he is not. Flicking my key into the lock, I enter my new lair. The sitting room is tastefully furnished with a couch, arm chair and coffee table. The light streams through the shade-bare windows, illuminating the several gilt-framed pastoral scenes that line the wall. My eyes are drawn to one painting, in particular a verdant field dotted with the cotton-white of a flock of sheep. On the hill above, a black and white border collie stands, her nose upturned, scenting the air. They never leave a sheep to guard the flock. He'd go along, thinking little sheep thoughts of green grass and cool water, and very likely end up dinner along with his compatriots. The dog, on the other had understands the threat of danger because her mind is able to grasp the thought process of the wolf. The very skill that makes her the ultimate protector, also makes her dangerous. She walks a the fine line between domestication and the instincts of her blood, forever torn between duty and desire. In the distance, silver fur flashes through the shadows, reflecting back her smoky silhouette in a different time and place. He stands, proud and unapologetic, daring her to look away. She has seen the carnage the wolf brings with him, and she knows the consequences of dropping her guard. But sometimes, when she looks at the sheep, the dog salivates too.

I unpack my suitcase, several interchangeable sweaters and slacks, and stow them neatly in an empty dresser drawer. A single dress, I hang in the closet. It's over too quickly, and I'm left with nothing to do. I return to the sitting room and plop down on the couch, avoiding the painting. It's far too appropriate. Almost painfully so. I let my thoughts drift to the surveillance men outside. Are they as bored as I am? Have they let their guard down yet, or are the diligently staring off into nothingness, waiting for a head to split. I think of him, and wonder if he's out there already. He can't be. It's too soon. He might like to court danger, but he's not so foolish as to rush in without first compressively assessing the situation. As my eyes drift unbidden, back to the painting, I think of my superiors at the bureau, and I'm struck by their unmitigated stupidity. When the dog has danced with the wolf, how can they ever trust her to guard the sheep again?

Chapter four

Days melt into days…Three? Four? I loose track without my calendar to keep me company. The boredom is oppressive, weighing on my chest like a succubus, stealing my breath, stealing my will, stealing my desire to do anything but wait for the inevitable. The surveillance men are bored too…This afternoon, walking along the perimeter of my rented home, I saw the flash of a rifle scope's mirrored lens and pinpointed his location to within a two meters. I don't know whether to be relived or disgusted. I decide to be both.

Mornings, I wake at my leisure, and enjoy a cup of coffee on the terrace. Sometimes Jack joins me, others I take my coffee black. The air here is incredible, and though I cannot see the sea from my terrace, I can pinpoint it's location by scent alone. After coffee, I change into exercise clothes and go for a run along the beach. Once, I thought I had been followed. I felt eyes moving over my flesh, but when I turned I found myself alone with the sea spray. I stretch my run out as long as possible. It's all down hill from here. I may go into town and rack up charges that will later be added to expense account. I may stop at a corner café, don a baseball cap, and munch on local delicacies as inconspicuously as possible. I may just go back to the cottage and slip into restless sleep. I wonder how closely my surveillance is watching me. I wonder how closely he is surveiling me. If he is survieling me. Perhaps he has grown bored and is seeking new hunting grounds. Perhaps I guarded the flock too well.

A week passes. Nothing. The banality of the days is matched only by the banality of the nights. Any new recruit, fresh out of grad school would stumble over themselves in anticipation of such an exciting, intoxicatingly dangerous assignment. And for the hundredth time this week I contemplate whether or not a person can actually die of ennui. I come to the conclusion that it doesn't kill…it only makes you wish you were dead.

At times, I think of the bureau, and their plan for my redemption. With the genius of a Salem witch hunt, they construct such petty, inconclusive torments. Toss her in a river…if she drowns, we have sent a good Christian woman to the welcoming arms of god. If she floats, we'll dry her off with a nice stake and pyre. Throw her to the mercy of a serial killer and see who ends up with blood on their hands. Either way, at least one of their problems is solved.

At night, my dreams are oddly empty. Even my lambs have left me. The silence I once craved so keenly now echoes back like a thunderclap in a vacuum. I would trade it for screams in a heartbeat, even if they have to be my own. I toss. I turn. I vacillate between believing he is waiting just outside my door, and fearing he is stalking through the streets of some European metropolis. It is no longer a surprise to find which scenario I favor. Finally, exhausted from all the nothingness, I sleep.

I Am Awake. I Am Not Alone. I hear a drop of blood hit the floor with a deafening roar. The wait is over. He has arrived.

Chapter 5

My first instinct is to throw back the covers and run for my life. Fast on it's heels, only a moment later, is the gut wrenching conclusion that to do so would be disaster. If I run, he will chase me. If he chases me, he will take me down. If he takes me down, I'm lost in more ways than one. The scenario plays out in my mind, and I marvel at the dark, ermine shiver it sends up the length of my spine. I squeeze my eyelids shut as I hear the coffin lid thump of footsteps in my bedroom. I can sense his movements, tense and controlled, as he breaches my threshold. He is inside. He's always been inside.

I school my breathing, emulating the shallow rasp of a sleeping maiden. I can feel the air chill as he moves closer to me, casting his shadow across my supine form. And then a drop of sweet metallic warmth falls from his hand and splatters on my cheek. I know that smell. I'd know it anywhere. And I wonder which surveillance man made the donation. I never bothered to learn their names, like so many carnival goldfish destined for a burial at sea. I struggle to keep my eyes shut but he draws them open by the force of his will. We're eye to eye and I've never seen him more alive. His hands are black in the shafts of moonlight. A twin-hued smudge dances like war paint on his right cheek. If I dared to look any closer, I'd see it was a fingerprint. In a gesture so maddeningly obscene that I have to quell my desire to vomit along with my own hand creeping between my legs, he lowers his tongue to my cheek and licks off his handiwork. I gasp as I remember to breathe, his voice rumbling low in my ear.

"Good Evening, Clarice"

"There are two surveillance men keeping a perimeter around this house."

"Not anymore."

The dead leaf echo casts me back across the years as my stomach performs the same mourning tango that I danced for Miggs. His raven-wing shadow is as paralyzing as a curare dart, but he sees my secret pain etched over the planes of my face.

"Survival of the fittest, Clarice. If their demise still pains you, perhaps you can take solace in the fact that while somewhat painful, their end at least came very very quickly."

If remorse has a place in his heart it is hidden even from himself. Like a wolf standing over a fresh kill; the lambs interest him only as long as they take to digest. And I never even bothered to learn their names. Because I knew.

My eyes dart to the top drawer of my dresser, but he cuts me off at the pass.

"Come now, Clarice. It's much too far to risk it, don't you think? Although…"

The grin that twists those thin cruel lips sends agonizing shivers up the length of my spine. He gingerly slips his fingers into his pocket, mindful of their still-sticky red coating, producing six gems of gleaming silver.

"I doubt it would be very helpful to you, without these."

The bullets hit the hard wood floor with a clatter, and roll away to dark corners and the under caves of furniture. My mind races back over the last few days, screeching to a halt three days earlier. I knew I hadn't left the door ajar to my room, but shrugged off my instincts. Fatal. His smile widens as he savors the realization forcing my shamed blush.

"I contemplated leaving Calla Lilies, but it just seemed too cliché."

The flush in my cheeks burns hot as he looks at me. Anger rears up, railing against that implacable smile that taunts me with it's smug superiority. "Why are you here, Dr. Lecter?"

"Your owners went through such elaborate preparations to welcome me, Clarice. It would have been unspeakably rude to eschew putting in an appearance, brief though it may be."

"It can't be long until they know you're here, Dr. Lecter. They may know already. It's not safe for you. Leave now, and I'll give you a head's start."

The words that fall from my lips are at once familiar and strange. He purses his lips and studies my night-gown clad form. Another blush, hotter, sweeter, lower, stains my flesh the color of fresh-shed blood.

"No."

One syllable. No argument. No explanation. Just one concrete syllable hammering in my ears.

"What do you want?"

"I want a lot of things, Clarice. But at this very moment, the one thing I want most in the world is to sit down with you and have a long, leisurely chat."

"Dr. Lecter, we don't have the time."

He cocks his head, and looks at me with an absence of emotion that makes me feel as transparent as glass.

"My time does not concern you, Clarice. And I'd say you have as much time as I care to extend to you."

I choke down the lump forming in my throat. He extends his hand to me, and I hesitate a moment before laying my own inside his grasp. Flakes of dark dried blood fall from his skin to dust my own. I shudder as he squeezes my fingers, pulling me up from the bed. For a moment I think he is going to pull me into his iron embrace, but the distance he maintains between us is stately enough for even the most rigid Victorian. I gaze into those knowing eyes, and think I can detect a subtle hint of amusement.

"I'm going to take a moment to freshen up, Clarice. I'd appreciate it if you'd put a pot on to boil."

Chapter 6

A click registers in my chest as he shuts the bathroom door. If I'm going to run, this is the time to do it. I hear the faucet turn, and then a steady stream of warm water frantically rushing down the drain and out to sea. The sound resonates in my ears as I tear myself away, stumbling numbly towards the kitchen. Grounding myself with the simple, homey tasks of childhood, I pull a bright copper kettle from the cupboard and proceed to fill it with frigid, oxygen rich water. I shove my wrists below the spigot, scrubbing away at the dusty crimson powder that stains my birch-white skin. The burner flame sparks to life, and I give the kettle over to it's ministrations. With no instructions left to carry out, I sink into the stiff-backed comfort of a wooden chair.

Hours pass, surely, before I hear the bathroom open down the hall, and see the ineffable black whisper of his shadow staining the carpet. He steps into the kitchen warily, and I can feel his eyes studying me with appraisal. He glances at the pot on the stove, sees the tension pooling between my shoulder blades, and glances back to my bedroom. Did I have enough time to retrieve my gun AND chase down a hidden bullet? Could I be secreting it upon my body like a shining pair of handcuffs? He rolls the notion over in his mouth, tastes it, and swallows. And then he turns his back on me and opens a kitchen cabinet. He is either very sure of me, or very sure of himself.

He pulls out a worn paper box of Lipton tea and I sense, more than see, the look of disdain that turns up the corner of his lip. He digs deeper into the cabinet, far to the back, and is rewarded by a little tin of earl grey. He sets it on the counter below, and turns his attention back to me. He looks at me for a long time, and his silence is maddening. I want to scream, and run at him, throwing curses and rocks at him, like I would a maddeningly devoted pet that brushes my ankles as the hunters close in. I'm convinced he'll stand there, looking at me forever, until time rots the flesh from his bones, leaving nothing but dust and tattered Armani. He looks deep into my eyes, and I wonder if he can hear the rising scream that's threatening to tear through my lungs. And then, there IS a scream…He turns away to quell the teapots incessant yell.

Tea leaves locked in a pierced silver ball plunge into the roiling water of the kettles design. They release their musk-citrus perfume in one heady breath, causing my lungs to suck deep, moist air into their lower register.

"Do you take milk, Clarice?"

"No."

He smiles, and lays his hand to the teapot's lid, a thin, amber stream circling the basin of a transparent china cup.

"No. Of course not."

He hands the cup and saucer to me, and I cradle it's delicate fragile beauty in my death-dealing grasp. He pours himself a cup, but doesn't join me at the table. Standing above me, he closes his eyes, savoring the fragrance as he takes his first sip.

"Dr. Lecter, I don't know what you're trying to accomplish, but very soon those surveillance men will miss their check in, and this house…"

"This house will become my gallows? Really, Clarice, you need to do this more often. Tea time can be a wonderfully relaxing ritual. Just look at the tension you're carrying in your shoulders."

At the suggestion, my shoulders tense even further, pinching erectors taut between blade and spine. I half expect him to set aside his cup and coax the tension from my muscles with his broad, strong hands, but he continues to sip his tea. He is fingering the rim of his cup, and my eyes trace the bone-hued circle with him.

"Dr. Lecter, really, why are you here?" "All business still, Special Ex-Special Agent Starling? I couldn't forgo the chance to watch you run again, Clarice."

And there it is. Caprice. Whimsy. Some men take walks in the rain, he murders two trained surveillance operators for the chance to sit and sip tea with the woman who nearly bashed in his skull with a candle stick.

"You have to leave, Dr. Lecter."

I can see the hair on the back of his neck bristle as my words hit their mark, and I am suddenly aware that I should have taken more care choosing my tone. His grip tightens around the off-white arch of the teacup's handle.

"Do you feel yourself in a position to be dictating my course of action, Clarice?"

I try again, allowing the sweetness of a siren to replace the harpy's edge in my voice.

"It's not safe for you here"

"It's not very safe for me anywhere, really, Clarice. At least here I have a view."

The way he looks at me makes me cast my eyes to the floor.

"Dr. Lecter, stop this."

"Stop? I haven't had such a lovely evening in months, Clarice."

I summon the last of my courage, and even before I parrot the words back to him, I can feel self-hatred wrapping it's cold, bony fingers around my throat.

"Stop. If you loved me….you'd stop"

I have never seen his expression change so quickly. One second he is jovially baiting me, but in the next the purest, unmitigated rage I have ever seen on a perp's face twists his features into a terrifying death-mask. Adrenaline dumps swift and nauseatingly into my system as I feel absolute terror running free and break-neck across the rocky outcroppings of my synapses. He flings the teacup away from him like a burning coal, sending shards of shattering china dangerously close to my face. Lightning fast, his hand hurtles towards me, clamping down unmercilessly at the back of my neck. Bright rivers of pain course down my neck as he twists my hair hard to the side, and I fear he might wrench my scalp free from my head.

My hands fly to the back of my head, clawing desperately at his iron grip, but he doesn't bunch a millimeter. I dig my nails into his hand, I smell blood, but he doesn't even flinch. Stumbling and kicking, he drags me from the kitchen. In the living room, I catch my leg on the couch and go down hard, but he hoists me roughly back to my feet. A moment later I hear the door clatter open and the salt air hits my lungs as he heaves me towards the ocean.

Chapter Seven It's rocky, at first, and my bare feet dance over the sharp stones, leaving weeping red ribbons in their wake. His hand is twisted inextricably in my hair, bending my forward, keeping me off balance as we plunge through the moonlit night. I try to pry his implacable hand from my neck, but my hands instinctively flee to cover my face as he careen through uncertain underbrush. And then, the ground gives way beneath the battered soles of my feet and I slide into the soft, impermanent mire of the sand. He doesn't slow as we reach the beach, a ethereal fog reaching out to grasp us in glowing, otherworldly tentacles. Still hurtling forward, he doesn't stop at the surf, but drags me across the border of sea and sand. The frigid black waves lick frantically at my bleeding feet, and he pulls me deeper into the water.

The cold is paralyzing, and I feel like I've been thrown against the unyielding black ice of a winter street. My eyes flash upwards through the darkness and I see his long black trench gliding sinuously below the waves, circling my bleeding feet like a shark. And the moment before he plunges my head beneath the waves, I think that It's a shame that such a wonderful garment will be ruined. My eyes snap shut as he thrusts my head under the freezing gray waters. The silence is deafening. I open my mouth to scream, and burning cold water rushes in to sear my throat. My lungs tense spasmodically, searching for air, as my numb limbs beat frantically at the liquid space that encompasses me. I make contact with his knee, hard, and I think I've got him off balance, but that iron grip on my neck doesn't give an inch. I open my eyes and look up at him from my watery tomb, vision dancing black around the edges of my eyes. And even through the murky filter of the sea, I can sense his eyes on me, his mind clicking placidly away as I thrash for my life. The grip at the back of my neck loosens just a fraction, and suddenly, a hand is thrust below the water and I grab it. He pulls me up through the surface, and My lungs burst with pain, sucking in a deep salty breath. Sputtering, hacking, coughing, tears streaming down my face, he pulls me to the shore, tossing me down onto the white expanse of sand.

I'm face down in the grainy whiteness, the particles of sand clinging like parasites to my face and hair. And then, I feel a wave of pressure, and I'm being pushed deeper into the sinking quicksand. He is on top of me, His expensive wet clothes molding themselves to me like some ancient embalmer's linen. He digs his weight deeper, and I shiver as I feel his hand reaching out to stroke the vulnerable hollow at the base of my throat. I'm shivering, frozen through with hypothermic kisses, locked between shore and madman, wondering, desperately, if this is finally the place I die. Not in a basement. Not in a fish market. Not among the pigs, of either porcine or human variety. Here. Now. Shivering on a beach. I feel another wave of chills wrack my body as his hand reaches up and presses something metallic against my throat. A thin eddy of red springs up under the Harpy's wake. I can smell the sea, and the metallic tang of blood, and wet leather, and I want to burst into racking sobs because through it all, I can also detect the heady scent of subtle and delicious aftershave. He shifts, bringing his weight higher on my body, and the voice that rasps in my ear is surprisingly warm.

"By your count, how many opportunities have I had to mete out your death tonight, Clarice?"

He expects an answer. I try to focus in and remember how words function.

"By a conservative estimate….dozens"

"Dozens. Doesn't that seem a trifle odd to you, Clarice?"

"You'll either kill me, doctor, or you won't"

He gives the Harpy a little tug and my skin cleaves just a fraction deeper.

"You're missing the point, my dear. How many times have your protector's come to your aid?

I feel like he's thrown me back into the ocean, a sack of bricks tied to my neck, pulling me downwards to the inescapable truth.

"None."

"And why do you think that IS, Clarice?"

I swallow hard, and start to cough again. He waits patiently, letting the racking pass, but I have no answer for him. Or at least no answer I can bear to speak out loud.

"How many times have they left you to my tender mercies, Clarice?"

"Dozens."

"I could disembowel you right now, with a flick of my wrist, and leave you nicely eviscerated on this lovely beach. The first to find you, no doubt would be a hapless morning jogger and his bounding pet Labrador. He'd be horrified, shocked, applauded, maybe even throw up in the ocean. Of course, he'd have a story to tell at every cocktail party for the rest of his life, about the day he found the mutilated body of ex-special agent Clarice Starling, killed it seemed after she had dishonored her badge and been expunged from the stainless F. B. I."

It stings. Oh, how it stings. And I curse the fact that he's never had the need to lie to me.

"They left you, Clarice, Ma petite Sirene, My Melusine, They left you with little more protection than a mob snitch they hoped would accidentally be disposed of for them. Clarice, they'd like me to be their cleaner."

I start to sob into the sand, and I feel his weight shift. He's off me, and sitting on the beach beside me, and then dragging my shivering, sobbing, leaking, huddled mass into his arms. The betrayal is cutting. But oh God. Oh God. He's right.

"I regret the theatrics this evening, Clarice, but… He pauses to look down at me, pushing a tangled went strand of hair from my eyes.

"People only see what they are prepared to see. Sometimes, we need to view things through a filter of possible horrors, to see the mundane horrors that lie beneath the surface."

I bury my head in his shoulder because looking at him is far too painful. He lets me stay like that for a moment, then I feel him shift and he's helping me to my feet.

"We need to get you warm soon, before you go into shock. I have a place just up the road. Can you walk?"

"I can try."

"Good Girl."

And slowly, tortuously, with bleeding feet, and weeping eyes, and a soul drenched through with salt water, I make the first few painful steps towards his rented home.

Chapter 8

It's an endless journey on bleeding feet, tiny grains of sand worming their way into my corrupted flesh. I recall the leather bound Hans Christian Anderson book of fairy tales my father gave me for my seventh birthday. The little mermaid who traded her voice for feet that were shredded by invisible glass with every step she took towards her love. His hand nestles at my elbow, guiding me, infinitely careful now, even as I shudder at the reminder of the puckered skin of his water-logged fingers. By the time we get to the door, I am shivering with the chill night air and the draft that sweeps across the dark corners of my soul. I scan my surroundings but find them free of would be rescuers. I think of the million ironic ways he could bring about my death and wonder at the indifference presented by my absent masters. It hurts, oh god how it hurts. And the worst part of the pain is the nagging voice that tells me I should have known.

At the threshold he pauses, gracefully kneeling before me and pulling a silk kerchief from his pocket. His hand wraps around my ankle, and I wince as he lifts my foot. The pain subsides, replaced by an uneasy erotic tingle as he brushes the clinging grains of sand from my feet with the whisper of silk. Shaking of the offenders, he folds the bloody kerchief neatly, rising as he stows it close to his heart. I have expect to hear the clink of armour as he rises. He offers me his hand and I pause a moment before willingly crossing the threshold of his rented house. In the darkness I see a faint smile turning the corners of his lip, and I know the symbolism is not lost on him. He flicks a dimmer switch, bringing the light up several degrees. I would expect the welcoming light to warm me, but my shivering becomes more violent. His grip on my forearm tightens as he leads me down the dark wood-paneled hallway.

"You're teetering on the edge of shock. We need to raise your temperature."

On the lips of another man, I would have searched for a sinister meeting and intonation. Instead, I obediently follow where the twisted Shepard leads. He presses open a door, and we enter a sumptuously attired bathroom. The cool marble tiles bite at the savaged soles of my feet, and an Egyptian cotton robe hangs from a brass wall hook. The centerpiece of the room is a magnificent claw foot tub, a porcelain and brass monument to his luxurious tastes. Relinquishing his grasp on my arm, I watch him turn the handles, the spigot releasing a pure stream of gently steaming water. He rolls back his wet sleeve, turning up his wrist to the tap to test the water. Satisfied, he leaves the tub to fill, and returns his attention to me. I try to steady myself, but shivers rack my body as the last vestiges of my body heat flees. He reaches into his coat. I here a click, and see a flash of silver lightning. He folds his harpy and tucks it away as my slashed nightgown flutters to the green marble floor. I expect him to look at me, to leer or stare or slaver, but his eyes don't drift below my collarbone. I raise my eyes to his, and I'm swept away, drowning again in a boiling crimson ocean. He takes my hand and leads me to the tub.

Stepping inside, I know the water is luke- warm, but it sears my skin like acid. I sway and he lays his hand to my waist, steadying me. It's mate caresses my shoulder and gently eases me into the bath. I gasp at the pain of the imagined heat, and he croons softly in my ear.

"Slip into it, Clarice. Your body's in shock from such a loss of heat. As your temperature regulates, the pain will cease. You need it."

I lay down against the silk-smooth porcelain, my extremities screaming their objections to the heat they've forgotten so quickly. Like the gentle stroke of a finger through bars, there one moment, a fleeting dream the next. As he promised, the pain begins to retreat, and I sigh heavily as the shivers loose their hold on me. The blue tinge is chased away by a healthy pink glow, and I feel the blood moving once again in my veins. He pulls a small wooden stool aside the tub and perches on it's edge. His eyes take in the planes of my neck and face, but travel no further. I have never been more naked, at yet my nudity does not seem to concern him. He smiles as he watches me think.

"A naked mind can be far more intriguing than it's physical counterpart, Clarice…"

For the first time, his eyes drift through the glass-clear water and over the curves of my submerged flesh. Even though my chilled flesh has lowered the water temperature, it seems screaming hot again.

"Though I must admit your figure is almost as exquisite as the dark corridors of your mind."

If I wasn't just returning from the brink of hypothermic shock, My capillaries would be coloring me with a livid blush. Instead I lower my eyes from his, and I feel his low, guttural chuckle rippling the water of my bath. He stands, and draws open the mirrored cabinet above the sink. He removes a slender-necked glass bottle from the cabinet, and returns to my side. He uncaps the bottle and the heady fragrance of lavender and lanolin perfumes the steamy air. Sitting behind the bath, he deprives me of the chance to watch him. I can hear him rolling up his other sleeve, and then I feel his hands easing their way into the water at my shoulders. He grasps me there, softly by firmly, and runs his fingertips over my goose-pimpled skin A wave of shame courses through me as my peaked coral nipples tighten and perk, unbidden. He exerts a gentle pressure on my shoulders, sliding me forward. I placidly follow his lead, and my hair slips into the inviting warmth.

I rise slightly and I nearly cry out in a mixture of surprise and delight as his fingers stroke my scalp. The fragrance of the shampoo saturates my nostrils as he washes my hair with aching reserve.

"I've always wanted to feel your hair slippery and wet"

His words kick in deep in the pit of my stomach, and I can feel my pulse thumping in my abdomen. My heart flutters, and I feel, for the first time tonight, faint. And then he leans in so close behind me that I can smell his delicious cologne. In a gesture so maddeningly erotic I'm almost overcome, he inhales at the back of my neck. The hairs there rise, and his tongue flicks out to tease them. My fingertips dig in to the porcelain tub as I resolve to keep them as far away from my inner thighs as possible. He gently pushes my head under the water, rinsing me clean of the fragrant shampoo. And then, he's up, leaving a cool breeze in his wake. I turn my head to see, and catch a glimpse of him taking the plush robe from it's hook.

"Can you stand?"

"I think so."

He stands at the side of the tub, watching me as I tuck my feet below me and rise. As I step out onto the cool marble tiles, his arms encircle me, wrapping my tight in the warmth of his cotton-lined arms. I fight the urge to surrender to it, to go limp in his arms and let him hold me. He ties the belt around my waist, giving me a little squeeze before pulling away. I want to grab at his hands, or his arms, or throw myself at his feet and cry onto his expensive, ruined shoes. Instead, I smooth my hand over my immaculately clean hair.

"You'll find warm clothes laid out on the bed in the next room. Join me in the dining room when you've made yourself presentable."

And just like that, he's gone, leaving me to drip tears of bathwater on the cold marble tiles.

Chapter 9

The room is immaculate, richly appointed, and I know instinctively that it is his bedroom. I enter it cautiously, seeing it through the eyes of predator that has entered another creatures territory. Lush burgundy curtains pool around the windows in velvety shadows. The wine-hue of the curtains is echoed in the coverlet that adorns the carved, dark wood four-poster bed. His night table is sparse, embellished only by a small reading lamp and a lead crystal carafe. I am possessed by the desire to open the drawers of his night table, to sniff out any literary pleasure he has secreted away, any dark, hidden enigma that might bring me deeper insight into his fascinating mind. I curb the impulse. I might as well dig through his garbage; such rudeness would not be tolerated.

My hand brushes the coverlet, and I savor the slight crinkle of the blood rich velvet. Laid out on the bed are a variety of items, all of which are much more luxurious than I am used to. My breath hitches in my throat as I catch a glimpse of the dress. It's the same one he sheathed me in during our escapade on the Chesapeake. Of course it's not the SAME one. It's ill fated sister suffocates, bagged in an evidence locker as dark as a midnight alley. As I run my fingers over the jet black silk, a wave of conflicting emotions crashes over me with all the force of tonight's unforgiving sea. On the floor at the foot of the bed, the black heels that I keep hidden in the back of my closet wink up at me. I dress quickly, my pulse racing as the plunging v settles over my heart. I sweep my hair back into a sleek tail, and slip on his chosen foot ware. I steel myself for whatever lies ahead, and walk to the door, but something out of place catches my eye. On his dresser, rests a black brocade bag far to feminine to be his. I open it, and am greeted by a few carefully selected cosmetics. I smudge muted copper shadow in the crease of my eyes, and a soft gloss over my lips. A light sweep of bronze over my cheekbones, and I'm through the door.

The hallway seems like an eternity, but eventually I find my way to the dining room. Candles of varying heights bathe the room in an inviting glow. A rich mahogany table is set for two. And standing at the head of the table, in what I recognize to be the identical suit he wore on the Chesapeake, is the most intriguing man I have ever met. He holds a glass of deep red wine in one hand; the other rests on the back of his chair. His eyes drink me in, and I can see the appreciation that lights them from behind.

"You're breathtaking."

I have no reply and so I stand mutely in the doorframe.

"Come. Sit, Please.

He sets his glass down and pulls back the chair for me. He's pushing in my chair when I first notice the nasty scratches gouged into the back of his weathered hand. I shiver, and am grateful he hasn't chosen to take it personally. He turns back from the table, and pulls a small serving cart with chafing dish into the room. A slight wave of uneasiness washes over me as he ladles something into a shallow bowl and places it before me. I am immediately relived to be greeted by a innocuous clear brown liquid.

"Veal Consume' . I know you're not likely very hungry now, but your body can use the nourishment."

I take up my spoon and obediently sip the fragrant broth. It's delicious, tangy and mellow at the same time, with a hint of some strange liquor. I resolve to purge all my cupboards of bullion, forever and ever, amen. He joins me at the table, but does not partake in the consume'. I cast my eyes down as I blush under his appraisals. After what seems like hours, I set my spoon aside, and he rises, removing the dish from the counter top. He leaves me a moment to whisk the cart away, then once again seats himself at the table.

"Feeling better?"

"Yes, Thank you."

"It will hit you again in about eight hours. A delayed reaction to physical stress and emotional upheaval. Don't let it concern you. It will pass."

I nod and focus in on the flickering candle flame to my right. The silence, though not awkward, is heavy. Thoughts roll around my water-logged mind, darting back and forth like a school of silver-blue fish. Do I attempt to apprehend him? The notion is laughable, as well as more dangerous than I care to contemplate. Do I politely ask to take my leave? Would he allow me to walk out the door and back to my former life? Or would he drag me back to the frigid gray ocean with blankets of sea foam and pillows of seaweed? Is there any other option? The only thing clear to me is the fact that my former Master's have jumped shipped with all the loyalty of a bilge rat. If I sink or if I swim, I at least know for certain, it will be by my own efforts. I am back in the holding cell below deck, and even in the warmth of the dining room, I can feel the death cold water licking at my naked ankles. The ship I have lived my life on for years is sinking The rigging has been slashed. The sails are in tatters. There's a sucking hole on the port bow. Captains go down with their ships. Will I have to as well? Or is there another way?

Across the table, he cocks his head at me, scrutinizing. There is a fascination in his eyes that is both flattering and confusing. I wonder what it is about myself that could be of such interest.

"Do I detect a crumbling in an archaic moral matrix?"

The words sound smug, but his eyes look sincere.

"Archaic?"

"Archaic: Outmoded. Burdensome. Useless. Yes, Clarice. Archaic."

My words come out harsher than I intend. How can he blame me? I'm a condemned woman, looking over the side at a harsh ten inch cedar plank.

"What do you want me to say, Doctor? Thank you for proving to me just how disposable my superiors think I am? Thank you for opening my eyes to the grand folly of my wasted life? Truth can be a cold comfort, Doctor."

"And would you rather live in a den of lies, Clarice? What is more appealing to you Clarice, honest brutality or hidden treachery?"

I'm shivering again, but this time it's not from the frigid ice of an ill tempered sea. It's rage. No offense to my trusty gun, but right now I'd like to get up close and personal and stab him in the gut.

"A little girl is walking down the road, and she meets a talking snake."

"Fairy tales now, Doctor?

The interruption colors his tone brassy with annoyance.

"A little girl is walking down the road, and she meets a talking snake. The snake says to her 'I am freezing and if you leave me here I will surely die. Please warm me inside your coat' But the little girl is wary and replies "No, no! you are a snake and surely if I put you in my coat, you will bite me.' But the snake assures her that he will not bite her, and the little girl tucks him into her coat and sets off to school. The snake begins to thaw, and a few moments later the little girl feels two sharp pricks over her heart. And as the venom soaks the wound, and she falls the ground in her death tremors she manages to gasp out one final word. 'why?' And before he slithers off, the snake replies…I'm a snake. Snakes bite."

"I don't have time for stories Doctor. Is the bureau the snake, Doctor? Are you?

"We both are, Clarice. There's just one difference."

With the speed of his allegorical viper he's bridged the gap between us and kicked my chair out from under me. I hit the ground hard, and my teeth click shut. He rolls me from the chair and in a heart beat his full weight in on me, pinning me to the ground. I fight for air as his crushing strength anchors me into the plush carpeting, his lips grazing the lobe of my ear. He half whispers, half hisses into my ear.

"The difference is, Clarice, I never promised not to bite you."

And with that he sinks his teeth into the side of my neck.

Chapter 10

Tears sear my eyes as his mouth clamps down on my neck. His teeth, pearly, angry, feral, hold tight to my captive jugular, a thin layer of skin the only barrier between him and my death. I look up at him through the eyes of a dozen color crime scene photos. Was this the last thing they saw? Did they beg, or plead, or cry for their mother? Offer their bodies in exchange for their life? Promise to mend their ways, improve their vocabulary, tip better, anything if only…There is a blur of motion and his teeth tear up from my neck. I scream, my hand instinctively flying to my neck in a futile attempt to staunch the blood spurting from the wound. My hand makes contact, slick, warm, wet, and my stomach drops sickeningly low. Above me, his glance is calmer now, the wildness retreated back from his eyes. Realization dawns on me slowly; the skin at my neck is smooth. No mangled muscle fibers. No weeping, rubbery arterial tubing. No cricoid cartilage crushed beyond recognition. Just the slight indentation of his teeth. I slowly pull my hand away, and breath a sigh of relief as my fingers are painted with only the slightest hint of blood.

He shifts slightly, redistributing some of his weights to his knees which have slipped around the outside of my thighs. He squeezes them in on me and I'm aware of a tightening in his groin. Pressed just below my stomach, a knot of flesh camouflaged in black wool slacks. I should be terrified, I am terrified, but underneath the terror, another emotion is welling up in the pit of my stomach. I stare into his red-flecked eyes, and he can see it. The look on his face is a strange mixture of desire, and contemplation. The rage has subsided, slunk off into another vector of his cavernous mind, and in its' place, another primal hunter emerges. He reaches out and gently grasps my wrists, sliding them up and over my head, resting them on the floor. Lowering his head to my still damp neck, he buries his nose in my flesh and inhales deeply. For the first time this evening, I don't feel like another hunter. I don't feel like helpless prey. It's far more disturbing than that. I feel like a mate.

With a maddening tenderness, his lips brush my neck, kissing the hurt he just moments before inflicted upon me. He continues to trail a line of kisses up my neck, from collar bone to the base of my skull. He stops at the ridge of my ear, whispering kisses around it's edge. And then his warm honeyed baritone is echoing in my skull.

"When a female tiger in enters a male's territory, Clarice, she'll start to behave erratically. She'll stray farther and farther away from her den. She'll leave her scent in a thousand different hollows and caves. In other words, she'll draw attention to herself."

He pauses in his narrative to lick a droplet of blood from my neck.

"The male, on the other hand, hangs back in the shadows. He'll follow her for days. Stalk her, observe her, scent her, bide his time."

Now a kiss in my hair line. There a kiss on my collar bone.

"And as he stalks her, Clarice, he notices the changes in her, the way she moves, the way she sounds, the way she carries herself. And still he waits…She calls to him, cries to him, she has a vocalization that even sounds like begging… " Here he pauses to lick my neck, his tongue rougher this time.

"And when he smells her heat upon her, the male approaches the female. There's much hissing, snapping, they quarrel, they fight back and forth. But slowly, over time, they move closer. They almost touch. And then they do touch, gently, hesitantly at first, until…"

His hand caresses the side of my face.

"He bites her neck, and mounts her from behind."

I stifle a startled scream as he thrusts his hand between my legs, warm, satin wetness coating his fingers. I blush hot in embarrassment, and struggle to get away but he's got a hold of my hair and I'm pinned to the floor. I can feel his deep throated chuckle rumbling over me, as he slips his hand away from my startled shame. The hand encircling my wrists slackens, and my hands are free. I'd move them if I had any idea what to with them. I don't know weather to slap him or to pull him to me. Gouge out his eyes or plant sweet kisses on their lids. Go for the throat, or, go for his lips. He makes the decision for me. With a startling speed, he's shifted his weight again, caught me of guard, and roughly flipped me to my stomach. The sandy-hued carpet abrades my cheek as he presses me down into the floor. I have to struggle to fill my aching lungs with something other than Berber fibers. I can feel his excitement growing as my struggles caress him from below. His fingers snake up through my hair, Drawing it up, covering my face, exposing the sun-shaded skin on the back of my neck. A growl rumbles through his chest captures the scruff of my neck in his teeth.

His weight is overwhelming, his desire painfully apparent against my tailbone. I've had guns leveled at my head by crackwhores and gang bangers, skin tailors and unwashed Sardinians, but up until this moment I've never truly tasted panic. It hits me, hard, mercilessly, and my body starts to shake. And then, as quickly as it came, the weight on top of me is gone. I'm down on the carpet, face to the floor, and I can't move. But the weight is gone. He is gone. No. Not gone. I sense a shift in him. A second earlier, he was about to devour me in an orgiastic frenzy of blood and lust. Now, with gentleman's manners he helps me to my feet. I can't pinpoint the trigger for his sudden change in demeanor, and my lack of insight unnerves me. For the thousandth time this night, I wonder just what is going on. For the first time this night, I wonder if he knows.

Chapter 11

In the flickering glow of a candlelit room, I find myself face to face with the most startling and intriguing enigma of my life. I can feel a thin stream of blood drying on my neck, my flesh beginning to mottle where his teeth have marked me. He gazes at his handiwork, and for just a moment I think I can detect a troubled look fleeting across his features. And then, so quickly that I doubt my perception, his expression has congealed once again into detached observation. He retrieves his already bloodied handkerchief from his jacket and delicately cleans my neck. I stare down at the bit of silk, brown lines of my dried blood forming a disturbing hounds tooth pattern on ruined finery.

"I seem to have broken the skin. Please forgive me."

As nonchalant as if he was apologizing for coming late to dinner. Please forgive me, I almost tore out your throat. I'll be sure to keep better track of the time.

He tucks his kerchief back again, and I wonder why he hasn't disposed of it. The answer lingers disturbingly in the back of my mind. It's a memento. A memento suggests absence. My absence. Will he let me leave, or is he planning a different route for my departure. And if he will let me leave…will I? But there's still a nagging voice in the back of my head. He had me pinned to the ground. I was painfully aware of his arousal, and much to my shame, I know he was aware of mine. And then, startlingly abrupt, over. On his feet. Civilized. Why? I try to find the words to ask him, but my mouth is suddenly dry.

He cocks his head at me, and a silver ripple of fear slithers through my heart. I see fire and ice in his eyes, and mutely lower my head. His fingers snake out and cup my chin, drawing my eyes back up to his with gentle insistence. His index finger trails across my lower lip, and he takes a step closer to me. The rightness of the situation is completely at odds with my inner Lutheran screaming out against my sin from the pulpit in my mind. He's an inch away from my lips, and the prospect of kissing him fills me with a stab of fatalistic longing so keen that I actually feel my heart contract with pain. Don't kiss me. Please don't kiss me. Not there. Not my lips. I can't. I can't and leave. I just can't.

"Dr. Lecter…"

He doesn't withdraw from me, merely murmurs in his low register, warm moist air from his lungs caressing my naked lips.

"Hmmm?"

"Dr. Lecter…Why…?"

And now he pulls back from me slightly, soaking up the emotions threatening to tear me asunder.

"Why did I stop?"

Words are so costly. I manage a mute nod.

"Clarice, I've been dreadfully forward with you this evening. And while I trust my own control, I would hate to press my advantage."

I've been half drowned then bathed in fragrant waters, frightened and fed, cut and soothed. I've had my world turned upside down, only to realize, like a diver in murky water, that the surface wasn't in the direction I thought it was after all.

"I think I've been able to open your eyes a bit tonight, Clarice, even if the truth stings like salt water. But I can't keep your eyes open for you. I'm afraid it's time for you to make a decision."

"What are my options?" "Your options are the same as they've always been, Clarice. You can close your eyes and drown in your former life, or you can wrench your eyes open and swim for the shore with all you've got left. But whatever you decide, I won't coerce you. In fact…"

And his warmth leaves me, as he backs away. There is now a gulf of several steps between us. The moment hangs in the grasp of eternity.

"I won't even touch you."

I clench my jaw.

"You'll let me leave. Now."

"Absolutely."

"No consequences."

"Only one."

"And what is that?"

"If you turn around and walk out that door, I'll disappear from you life permanently. Weather you think that's a blessing or a curse, I assure you Clarice, it is a fact."

Do I feel frigid water swimming around my ankles again. Is it possible to drown in a man's words?

"And what would you have me do?"

"Oh no. You'll take responsibility for your decision, Clarice, whatever the outcome. But I will say that over the course of the evening I've seen a tremendous and admirable expansion of your consciousness. You have a beautiful mind Clarice, and I can only begin to imagine what it would be like to savor your intimate thoughts. I would never tire of licking your tears, and drinking in your joy."

"Pretty words, Doctor. "

"Are they?"

"Are you telling me that you…

"That I love you? What a lonely little word, Clarice. It's been used to justify and exonerate every crime from murder to incest, asked to shoulder a thousand different meanings, presented as an excuse for every conceivable human folly and weakness. Do you honestly want me to profess my LOVE to you, Clarice? Or would you prefer the truth."

"What is the truth, Doctor?

"That I am captivated by you, Clarice. Fascinated, enthralled, challenged, revitalized, enraptured, enamored, excited, inspired, surprised, intrigued, enflamed, engulfed, exhilarated…My Dear Clarice. A single word could never encompass the spectrum of my feelings for you."

And then there is water on the floor. But not a flood. Not the sea. Just a single tear that falls unbidden from the eyes I shield from his. I can feel his eyes on me, but I can't look up. How can he ask this of me? Why can't he just take? Does it have to be like this? And in my waterlogged heart, I know, it has to be. Hours must pass in our silent vigil. The door is ten feet from me; He is only five, but it seems like we're separated by miles of shattered glass. And slowly, painstakingly slow, I take a step forward. Every step towards my love is a walk through broken glass, and my heart bleeds for what I leave behind. But I know that every step back only drags me down to the depths. I'd drown before I got to the door.

He makes no move towards me, though I teeter and creep molasses slow. No out-stretched hand, no encouraging word, no smile to urge me on. Then time reclaims me and I'm standing closer to him than I've ever been of my own volition. With tentative tenderness I press my fingers to his lapel. The spell that divides us is broken, and he takes my hand in his own. Brining it to his lips, he kisses the top of my hand, a smile dancing in his crimson eyes. With a squeeze of my fingers, he leads me over the phantom glass, and to his bedroom.

Chapter 12

His bedroom is warm and dark, sleek and stylish, much like the man himself. Setting foot inside seems oddly familiar, like returning to one's childhood home long after leaving childhood behind. He stands across from me, his crimson eyes refracting the low light back like two dying embers caught in a crackling flame. And then he's down on one knee before me, and for just a moment I'm struck with the strangeness of the situation. I wonder just what he's doing down there on the ground, but he utters a single word to counter the confused expression on my face.

"Shoes."

Silently, I step out of one shoe, then the other, my ravaged feet sinking into the soft plush of the exquisite carpeting. He rises, setting aside the Gucci heels, and returns his attention to me. In the back of my head, in the far reaches of my mind, there is a niggling voice coughing and sputtering in righteous indignation. I had a chance to leave, and yet, barefoot and dressed in silk finery, I stand before the man who both terrifies and soothes me. I'd love to be able to rationalize it, but know that ultimately, I have to trust my instincts. I've been surrounded by death of one kind or another, closing in around me on all sides, since I joined the bureau. The people I've killed, the people who've killed, the people who have been trying to kill me. Has he caught up with my total, after adding the two surveillance men his evening? I've racked up more in the last ten years than he has. It's an odd twist of fate that I'd be allowed to walk free, while he'd be thrown in a cage, or worse. How fortunate that I've been labeled an avenging angel while he'd been labeled a serial killer. Like those two words could some him up just as well as "Special Agent" defined my world. But not anymore.

He takes my hand again, and I'm cut to the quick by the tenderness present in his exquisitely expressive eyes. I can sense conflict in him, but resignation too. Like a man who's decided to do the right thing, even though it might cost him everything. For a moment, a wave of anxious dread sweeps through me as I wonder if he's changed his mind. If he's decided that, like a pup who just won't heel, that I'm not worth the trouble.

"Clarice…I'd like nothing more than the time to break you in slowly, over the course of days, and weeks, and months. I'd relish the time to ease you in, to painstakingly gently expose you, fragment by fragment, to the person I am. But to do so, Clarice would be to do you a disservice."

I can't say that I was aware of him moving, but he's closer now, just a few inches of super-charged air, hovering between us. I can feel the tingling moisture of his breath on my face.

"After tonight, Clarice, you can never go back. They'll find those two bodies, and they'll find you gone. You can't change your mind six months down the road and decide to go back. They'll hang you for it, Clarice. They'll tear you limb from limb. On the other hand, I can leave you tied on the beach, with several superficial injuries, and make my way quickly out of the country. You'll be able to step right back into the undertow of your former life."

I almost cry out as he gently smoothes the back of his knuckles across my cheek bone. I close my eyes, and let everything he is telling me sink in.

"I will be brutally honest with you tonight, Clarice. I promise you a full measure of both tenderness and pain, affection and affliction. I can't say if you'll enjoy it, or if you'll choose to stay, but at least you won't be laboring under any illusions."

He looks to me to acknowledge his words, and I slowly nod as they register. And I'm suddenly aware of the tremendous gift he has laid at my feet. Total disclosure. The kind of honesty that's painful to both give and receive. He's presenting me with the whole of himself, with the full awareness that it may lead to rejection. It's almost too much, too overwhelming, to be confronted with such a window into his soul. What happens if I stare into the abyss and find even more disturbing terrors hidden below? My mind wheels, my hands shake, and then, grabbing caution by the neck and shoving it's ugly head below the waves, I lean forward and press my lips to his.

The feeling is intoxicating. His lips are soft and smooth, and I can feel him shaking ever so slightly. It's an interesting feeling, one I can't quite place. And then I can. It's the same shiver I get right before I squeeze the trigger. It's just a split second before I snap. He sinks his teeth, hard into my lip, and I taste blood. He pulls back and the look on his face is positively feral. His lip is painted with a trickle of my blood. And then the look in his eyes retreats a bit, replaced by one slightly saner, quieter. He looks at me, and waits, with eerie stillness for my reaction. Slowly, hesitantly, I reach out, and lay my hands aside his face. And then, the hesitancy leaves me. I take the snake to my breast and he sinks in his fangs. And when the venom hits, I can feel my former life locked in it's death throes, thrashing about, drowning in a cold sea of agony, while my new life swims for the surface.

************************************************************************

We thrash on the bed for what seems like decades. My body is a mottled battlefield. Bruises of purple, and scarlet, an blue bloom on my skin in gardens of scratches and nicks. The sheets, fine Egyptian cotton, are stained with the remnants of our union, blood and cum, sweat and tears, agony and ecstasy. The corner of my lip is cracked, and I've ripped the nail of my left index finger down to the nail bed. My hair, like the sheet, is in tangles. I have a nagging suspicion that one of my toes is broken. There is pain when I move my right arm. My eyes are red rimmed and sore. Inside and out I've been used and enjoyed, kissed and scratched, held and held down.

Nearly spent, covered in a sheen of well earned sweat, he hovers over me. There is blood on his elegant skin, under his nails, and on his face. He is shaking with exertion, and the gleam in his eyes is almost like a glare. He seems steeled. Hardened. Like he's waiting for a blow. Like he's waiting for an axe to fall. Like he fears it could go either way. I'm flat on my back, and It hurts to raises my head. He creeps closer, closer, until his face hovers inches above mine. When he speaks, his voice is cruel, the same mocking tone leaching back from Baltimore and Memphis. He spit's the words out like poison, and droplets of angry spittle spray my cheek.

"Can you possibly stay, now that you truly know who I am?"

An eternity passes in the span of a heartbeat. I can hear his thundering away in his chest, feel the sweat dripping off him, the salt seeping in and stinging my wounds.

"Yes."

The cold light in his eyes warms, and I can see the anger retreating from his features. It will never truly leave him, that cold, slithering presence. But it does retreat. Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, he lowers his forehead to mine. With infinite care, he wraps his arms around my wilted frame, and holds me close, rocking me gently back and forth like a nurse maid. I feel something crumble in him, a twisting and breaking of the hinges of some hidden door. I cannot, just now, fully understand the significance, but one thing is clear. He too has come home. His lips whispers softly in my ear.

"Clarice…Clarice…"

We stay like that, for eons, and he rocks me to sleep.

************************************************************************ It's just like he said. I wake hours later, shivering, locked in the ice cold grip of panic. Sensing it, he stirs, and turns to me, looking down at me and appraising.

"Second Thoughts?"

My wounds have been cleaned and dressed. The sheets have been stripped and replaced. I can feel his heartbeat next to mine.

"No."

What I am coming to recognize as his smile plays across his lips in relief. He strokes my hair with his fingers.

"Shhh…It will pass."

He wraps the blankets tighter about me, and lays my head across the valley of his chest. And he's right. As the warmth of his arms chases away the chills of the ocean, it does pass.

FIN