First, I must bow to Kurt and shower him with praise. You, dear sir, are one of the best writers I have yet to see. Marvelous, marvelous work. I could only hope to do as well. I do so hope you are enjoying this tale, dear ones. I don't know when it will end, so I hope you will be patient with me, and hopefully resist any urges to eat me or hang me or the such. Nothing more, I will stop prattling and get on with the story. Ta.

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Neat block printing fills the lined pages of the small journal that is kept inside the locked drawer. Here, in the eight inch by five inch black notebook, are kept the thoughts and passages from Darryl Conrad's transformation, his Becoming. Peer over his shoulder as he writes, he does not mind as long as we do not disturb his perfect order. His life is built on order, the only thing that keeps him sane. Routine, day in and day out, never altering it, not for a moment. He senses that he will rise to the order soon, and this inspires him. The micro tipped Uni-Ball Deluxe pen skips down a line before he dates the page, and enters the next line. His vision of the Order that will consume him, that will Become him.

Ecce deua foritor me, qui veniens dominabitur michi.

Another line is skipped and he begins to scribe the Latin into English. Kind of him, isn't it?

Here is a God stronger than I who comes to rule over me.

He smiles as he recaps the pen, reaching to lovingly stroke the Sphinx that sits next to him. Her skin is smooth and a pale shade between peach and pink. In winter she wears a fleece sweater to keep her warm, since she does not possess a worthy coat of fur herself. She purrs, the tremor rumbling against his fingertips. He rereads the line he has written over and over again, imbedding it into his consciousness. It is the definition of order for him. And although the order he seeks currently rules him, the time is nigh when he will rule the order. He closes the book and returns it to the drawer, locking it safely away. The last flare from the sunset illuminates the old house, and his face, giving added brilliance to his yellow eyes.

*****

She stands alone just outside customs, thick raven hair plaited straight down her back, black shoulder bag clutched to her side and the large heavy Samsonite rolling case beside her. From this distance, she looks to be a child of twelve, with fear in her eyes from having to navigate Dulles airport on her own. Many people have made this mistake already, and have paused by her offering a "Are you lost honey? Do you need help finding your mommy?" All are brushed aside with a look, and she declines their questions and offers politely. All move off rapidly, embarrassed at their mistake. Petra Morricone does not like to be treated as a child, especially since she is not one.

Her mother is late. Not slightly late, very late, as Petra has been standing here for just under an hour. She is not surprised by this, the last time her mother was on time for something was for the divorce proceedings when Petra was fifteen. Her father joked that Jane Morricone was late for her own wedding, and would probably be late for her own funeral. But when she did arrive, it was always with a flair for the dramatic. Meeting her daughter at the airport was to be no exception.

The automatic sliding doors open and Jane Morricone breezes in, escorted by a herd of media hounds. Petra struggles to quell the urge to run and hide in the bathrooms or fight her way back onto the Boeing 747 that carried her here. The woman approaching is a spitting image of Petra, albeit almost a head taller. Mother and daughter share the same raven hair, pale complexion, and stunning emerald green eyes. Petra glares at the ceiling as the flashbulbs go off around them, her mother embracing her and whispering in her ear.

"Just ignore them. They've been following me everywhere." Jane smiles as she releases her daughter and walks back to the sliding doors. The Samsonite is tugged along behind Petra as she trudges through the doors. Her mother is moving quickly through the parking garage as Petra feels someone bump into her. She raises her head to glare at the person and stops, midmotion. A red smile from underneath a black fedora greets her, and she feels the breath die in her throat.

"Pardon me." and he is gone. She looks back over her shoulder to follow him, but he seems to have been nothing more than an illusion. As she reaches her mother's Sable she wishes fervently that one of them had stayed in Florence, and she would prefer that it had been her.

*****

Clarice scrubs at the already clean counter, hands sheathed in yellow dishwashing gloves. She was trying to work off the irritation she felt at the case. They were getting no where, and it wasn't any consolation that the murders had momentarily ceased. Nothing since he had broken into Jane Morricone's home. An idle thought trickled through her brain like the sweat that was trailing down her forehead, disgusting her. Sure, Morricone was a pain, but she really didn't want her dead, did she? She prayed that it wouldn't turn out like the original Dragon case, during which Dolarhyde had murdered Freddy Lounds.

She heard the screech of brakes outside the duplex and identified the grumbling idle of the mail truck. She stripped off the gloves and brushed the strand that had worked their way loose from the ponytail out of her face. She dropped her foot from the chair she had been kneeling one, having cleaned the cabinets before she began on the counter. It came down on a fork, the worn tines pressing hard into the ball of her foot. She muttered a sharp curse as she grabbed it, sitting back down on the chair. No blood, but it hurt like the dickens. She hobbled her way out to the front door throwing it open and being greeted by the warm afternoon sun.

The limp is evident as she walks back up the driveway with the mail. She glances at the Escort as she flips past a notice from the dealership saying she needed an oil change. And that's not all it needs, her mind grumbled. Bills, bills, a pizza coupon, a subscription renewal for Ardelia. The last envelope caused her to freeze, weight coming down on the injured foot, but she ignores the pain that shot up her leg. Her first instinct was to look around, as if the sender would be dumb enough to be standing there, in the open, waiting for her to see him. Clarice compelled her legs to move as she opened the screen door and let it slam behind her, eyes never leaving the letter. She returns to the kitchen, dropping the rest of the mail onto the counter and carrying the letter over to the chair she had been using in her cleaning spree.

A knife is pulled from the drawer and the blade inserted under the flap, breaking the wax seal. The chills start even before the fine linen paper tucked inside is removed. Oh god. Her eyes track to her name in the greeting, then to the signature at the bottom. The lab should have this immediately, but Clarice knows that she cannot do that. She settles back slightly in the chair, laying the knife on the counter, and begins to read.

*****

A lone man in khaki slacks and a polo shirt strolls down the cul-de-sac's sidewalk, politely nodding to the neighbors out enjoying the sunshine. His eyes are shaded by a pair of sunglasses and he moves at a steady pace. He glances briefly at the Escort in the driveway, noting the parking pass displayed on the dash, tucked in the driver's side of the windshield. His gaze travels up to the doorway, and he makes note of the address that is posted next to it. He continues on, not letting his observations alter his pace. He turns left and continues down the path that winds through the subdivision. Nothing more than a neighbor out for an afternoon stroll.

*****