See? The writer's block didn't last long. I just needed the proper inspiration. Namely a chat with Karma, my Yo-Yo Ma CD on the stereo, and a half pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream. Gore will come soon, within the next few chapters, probably prompting a rating change. Do hope you enjoy. Tralala and off we go.

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

The house is quiet as he slips through, the dark clothes blending into the night that penetrates through the windows. He has never been here before, but it was easy to navigate past the large shapes of the furniture. Footsteps are muffled by the tennis shoes our intruder wears. One hand on the banister for balance, he ascends the stairs, pausing and listening at the slightest squeak. No movement in the hall above him and he continues. The first door leads to the bathroom, and it whines softly on the hinges. Only two more doors. One on the left, one on the right. He takes the one on the right, the one next to the bathroom, since it would seem to be the master bedroom. Correct. The door swings open easily at his touch, not fully latched. He steps inside.

The auburn hair is spread like a halo on the white pillow, giving her an ethereal quality as she sleeps. Her breathing is soft and deep as he approaches, not stirring as his dark form nears the bed. One arm lays outside the comforter, curled and the hand grasping the upper edge. He looks to the clear complexion of her face. Spring has begun to bring out the freckles that dot her face and the bridge of her nose. A few strands of the auburn hair lay across her cheek, the ends moving in her soft breath. A hand reaches out and brushes them back, and she turns towards the direction the hand came from. Her eyes do not open, as much as he would like to look upon them. If he closes his own eyes for a moment, he can see them, blue as the ocean and just as intense. One last look at her as he opens his eyes. He turns softly on his heel and heads back down the stairs. The front door closes quietly behind him, the only thing lacking is the sound of the deadbolt sliding home.

The streets are wet with a mist as he walks down them. The orange glow from the streetlamps catches glass in the gutter and makes it glitter. No one notices him as he walks alone. Just a neighbor out for a late night stroll because he can't sleep. Nothing more frightening than that.

*****

The man known as Dr. Fell emerges from the shower with a large bath sheet wrapped around him and steam rising from his body. The dark head is visible in the clouded mirror and we must be careful not to intrude on his quiet reflection. It is early, you see, nearly three am, but the good doctor is still running on Florence time. That, and the dreams that have accompanied his rest has made it quite difficult to sleep. Stay back in the shadows of the far corner of the room where he cannot see you. One does not want to discover what he does to unannounced visitors. He slips from the towel into the terry cloth robe that hangs on the bathroom door, sliding his feet into the matching slippers. His face is till flushed from the heat as he eases back into the bedroom area, his scarred left hand reaching out to the lamp that sits on the table.

He sighs deeply as he sits, leaning forward to rest his head in his hands, elbows on the table. He has not realized the depth of emotion he has for her. Probably more so from refusal to acknowledge it than from not really knowing. She has plagued his nights since his arrival here in Baltimore. Once more in the city that he was incarcerated in. Fortunately, Dr. Frederick Chilton will not be around to torment him this time. A smile flickers across his lips, he had resolved that conflict a few years ago. His mind does not remain on Chilton for long, but returns to the thoughts of her. He has a refusal to name her right now, since he is slightly afraid that it will only worsen the longing for her. Promises were promises, and he was a man of his word.

Dr. Fell slowly raises his head, and the light reflects in his maroon eyes. Even from the shadows we occupy, one can make out the sparks that fly to his center. The right hand now reaches out to the lamp, not turning it off, only manipulating the dimmer switch. He rises and trades the robe for a pair of royal blue pajamas. The color of the ink he used to write the letter to her. After that task is completed, the lamp is turned off and we can hear the bed shift as he settles into it. Come now, it would be wise to slip out as he drifts off to sleep. A name slips from the doctor's lips as sleep claims him, betraying his will.

"Clarice."

*****

Darryl Conrad sits in the living room of his home, his face upturned to the print that is illuminated by the desk lamp turned up to face it. The light is slightly eerie, as it reflects in his eyes and on his face. The silence of the house is broken by the sound of rustling on the back porch. he doesn't turn at the sound, accustomed to it. Within moments, he can hear them. The wild dogs with their faces upturned to the moon, eyes closed. Most of them crooned single vowel between O and U, but some just hummed along. Conrad hummed along too, since it was the order of things. The woman was placed in his mind, primed for the next sacrifice. She would do well, since she was the obstacle that wanted to cease his Becoming. Her pretty auburn hair flashed in the sunlight as he looked at her, watching her cross the parking lot. She had spoken to him so many times, oblivious to the reality. It would be wonderful to see the blue eyes light up with the knowledge that he, Darryl Conrad, the half-nephew of Francis Dolarhyde, was the Red Dragon.

*****