Author's note: This chapter took a while, longer than I intended. Work proved to be busier than I expected. But here we are. This is a first: it's not the first time I have based a character off a fellow Lecterphile, but it is the first time I kill one off. It shouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who either.

The Toronto places I picked out from showmetoronto.com. Any major goofs are my own. It's a great city, but it's been a while since I was last there.

Also special history-geek points to whomever can identify Susana's alias and why she would have picked it.

The Four Seasons Hotel in Toronto is a five-star hotel, offering some of the most luxurious accommodations that money can buy. Its pride and joy are the Yorkville Suites, large luxury suites ranging in size from 745 square feet to the largest at 2,150 square feet – the size of an average house. This largest suite is a sumptuous L-shaped suite on the 16th floor, with a breathtaking view of the city. A baby grand piano was available for those piano players who can afford the suite. It is signed by some of its most famous players – entertainers and celebrities.

And for the past two weeks, it had been the home of Susana Alvarez Lecter. Although Susana knew how to play the piano – her father had insisted on piano lessons during her girlhood – she did not autograph the piano herself, even though her playing was quite good and remarked on by those who heard it emanating from the closed suite. She could now fully understand why her father had once been willing to trade a woman's life for a view. After the tiny cell and its slit in the wall they called a window, she insisted on leaving all the curtains open, enjoying her view of Toronto with a new appreciation. She would occasionally walk up and down the suite, glorying in the sheer ability to move around.

Toronto proved to be a wonderfully cosmopolitan city, capable of fulfilling the tastes of a woman who had been raised wealthy in Buenos Aires, another wonderfully cosmopolitan city. The Four Seasons was excellently located for Susana: on Avenue Road, not far from Bloor Street, in Yorkville. Both culture and couture were available for Susana's consumption. After two months of forced deprivation in jail, her appetites were prodigious. She was able to indulge just about any taste she wished. Susana liked very much to shop. In that as in many other ways, she was her father's daughter. Chanel, Versace, and Hermes were all conveniently located on Bloor Street, and she went after them, along with others. For dining, there was Soto Soto Trattoria, Le Trou Normand, and Morton's of Chicago. Some of the time, Susana preferred to relax in her suite with a good book and a bubble bath. Steven Temple Books provided her with a taste of home she had not expected: South American literature. The staff was quite willing to assist her in making sure there was chocolate handy in the suite, when she wanted it: either Godiva's or LeFeuvre's, a local brand she quite liked.

There was also one other important fact about Toronto that made it an excellent place for Susana to recuperate from her incarceration and illness. Toronto was a Canadian city, not an American one. Under the terms of an extradition treaty signed around the time that her father had once eaten a prison nurse's tongue, the Dominion of Canada could refuse to extradite her back to the United States, since she faced the death penalty. One less thing to worry about while she recuperated her strength.

Her self-indulgence had come at a price. After fleeing Virginia, she had made her way slowly north to Toronto, stopping off in Buffalo to pick up some painkillers and antibiotics. Buffalo was also convenient for picking up other medical supplies that she wanted, but she didn't like the city: it was very bland and industrial. She only went there when she absolutely had to. It would have been much more convenient to do that shopping in Toronto, but Susana was not familiar with the Canadian medical system and did not want to draw attention. She was having too much fun as it was.

She hadn't stayed in Toronto the first night. Instead, she'd gotten on the last plane to Buenos Aires and slept as she passed over the country that had held her captive. She'd been vaguely nervous that the plane might have to land in the US. The travel agent she had used had already thought her crazy, demanding a flight from Toronto to Buenos Aires with no American connections. It wasn't until the first leg was over, when the big Boeing had finally landed in Mexico City, that she had finally relaxed.

Her mother's funeral had been hard, but Susana was determined to pay the last respects to her mother. She deserved no less. Now they were together, mother and father forever in the earth next to each other. A few of the socialites in Buenos Aires knew of Susana's arrest, but they believed her when she said she was free. Argentina was, after all, a country which had pardoned its former military rulers, whose crimes outpaced even Susana's. She'd spent three days in Buenos Aires, long enough to wrap up the legal details. There weren't many. Clarice Starling's will was exceedingly simple: except for a small bequest to the University of Virginia, the Lecter fortune was all Susana's.

Susana knew, on one hand, that the most sensible thing to do would be to stay in Argentina. There, she would have the ability to hide in plain sight. She had a vast fortune and could well afford to drag out any legal attempts to return her to the US for the next thirty years. Alternatively, she could move to Europe or to any other South American country.

But Susana also knew that the FBI would continue to pursue her no matter what. Right now was the most dangerous point: they were enraged at her escape and would stop at nothing to see her back in that cell. In order to get herself some breathing space, she had to hobble them now, a swift decisive blow that would cripple their ability to pursue her and give her some breathing space. And Susana Alvarez was also angry. She had been incarcerated. Confined. Deprived of her rights. No one did that to her and got away with it. Her father would have disapproved of it, but her father was not here. Susana had never shared her mother's urge to save the lambs, but she had inherited her mother's competitive nature and drive. It irked her that the FBI had actually caught her. They would pay.

She was sitting on the couch in her suite, watching TV and munching on LeFeuvre's chocolate-covered cherries. She wore the terrycloth bathrobe that the hotel provided its guests. A bottle of wine stood on the table by her couch, a wineglass beside it. The Four Seasons was proud to offer its guests CNN, and she made it a rule to catch it every night or so. Problems in the Middle East; like that was anything new. The President was signing some bill or another. Argentina was in financial trouble again. All the same old, same old.

She was surprised to see her own face appear on the screen next to and above the announcer. His voice was blasé as he spoke.

"Sources in the federal government state that alleged killer Susana Alvarez was sighted in Buenos Aires. Federal officials stated that extradition requests would begin immediately. Miss Alvarez escaped from a federal facility two and a half weeks ago. She is the daughter of former FBI Special Agent Clarice Starling and madman Dr. Hannibal Lecter, who also escaped custody in Memphis many years ago. Miss Alvarez is considered armed and extremely dangerous."

Susana made a face at the TV. "Miss Alvarez," she scoffed to the empty air. "Lecter, if you please. Dr. Lecter."

For a moment she had to laugh. Correcting the TV. But there was even a bit of luck here. Susana had been arrested in Virginia, and she had taken to sunbathing while she lived there. She'd dyed her hair black as well. The result was that the woman in the mugshot looked noticeably Hispanic. The only things truly Hispanic about Susana Alvarez Lecter were the surname she had been born with and her country of origin. Ethnically, she was Scotch and Irish on her mother's side and Lithuanian and Italian on her father's. Two months locked away from the sun had restored her normally fair skin, and the hair dye – plus a refresher, courtesy of Andre Pierre Hair Salon—had kept her hair a dark burgundy shade. The woman in the bathrobe looked no more Hispanic than she did Chinese. Hopefully, with a bit of luck, cosmetics, and contact lenses, she would evade notice unless attention was called to her.

Despite herself, she found she missed Luke. He was a decent enough type, and he'd been useful. The obsession with religion was a little tiresome, but he'd served her well. It might have been nice to tour Toronto with him. But he had work to do. While she was here, safe in her hidey-hole, Luke would serve to inflict the first wound Susana planned to inflict on the FBI.

But first, she had to send him a sign. His obsession with martyrdom made that an easy choice. Susana meant to send him two, just to make sure the sign was received. He already knew to monitor the Toronto papers. First came a practice, then came the actual sign.

She checked her watch. Seven o'clock. Time for her practice. She knew exactly what she wanted to do. She dressed quickly and then checked her equipment. Her Harpy was clipped to her waistband, although she did not think she would use it. A leather sap went up her sleeve. She stuck a paperback book into the pocket of her suit jacket. Her last piece of equipment, this time, was an immense suitcase. It was the biggest one that she had been able to find at the Bay. Susana thought it would do.

The United States of America last went to war with Canada in 1812, fifty years before the Canadians were granted their home rule. Since then, peace has reigned between the two countries. But if there has been an American invasion of its northern neighbor, it has been a financial and commercial one. McDonald's and Pizza Huts dot the landscape of Ontario. Fords and Oldsmobiles cover the nation's highways. American merchandise and American stores are easy to find in Canada.

The latest salvo in this commercial invasion was a small one, all things considered. Shawn Irons, a romance novelist, was visiting Toronto on a book tour to promote her latest book. Her works consisted of the impossible romance, in which love conquered all. Half-jokingly, she was referred to by the New York Times as 'The Queen of Goo'. Her latest book featured a rogue FBI agent who was forced to choose between her career in the FBI and a dapper, handsome serial killer.

Susana knew exactly who this was based on, and she was vaguely displeased with it. There was no way she could go after everyone who had ever made a buck off her parents. But fate had decided this one. Shawn Irons's publisher had wanted to keep her happy, and so they had booked her into one of Toronto's nicest hotels. Specifically, the Four Seasons Toronto. Luke would have told her that the Hand of God meant for her to do this.

Besides, the cherries were very very good, but she needed some real food too. And eating in tonight suited her mood.

So she walked easily with her empty suitcase down the hall to the elevator. Convenienly, Shawn Irons's room was two floors below Susana's. That was for the best: there wasn't much traffic, which meant she would be less likely to be seen. There was only one other person on the elevator, and they paid Susana no heed.

Susana proceeded to Shawn's hotel room. She pushed the suitcase against the wall by the side of the door, so that her prey would not see it. She plucked the paperback from her pocket and knocked on the door.

Shawn Irons opened the door and looked out. She seemed tired. She was significantly taller than Susana: around six feet. She had brown hair and eyes and a muscular build. This might be a bit more of a challenge than Susana had thought.

Susana smiled sheepishly and held up the book. "Hi," she said calmly. "I'm really sorry to bother you, but I wanted to see you at the book-signing at Chapters and I wasn't able to get there in time."

Shawn smiled tiredly, realizing what it was about. "Sure," she said automatically, and turned around to get a pen. Just in case there was anyone nearby who might hear, Susana kept up a line of patter.

"Oh," she said, "I just love your books, especially the one about Rachel and the pirate," she chattered. "And I just begged my husband to bring us up here, but then there was just awful traffic on the bridge coming over and the car got a flat tire on the QEW." She sidled quietly in the door.

Ms. Irons seemed not to be listening. When she turned back to face Susana, she had a pen in her hand and a tired smile. She reached out for the book and took it. Automatically, she flipped to the first page of the book.

"Sounds like you've had a rough time," she sympathized, smiling tiredly. "Who should I sign this to?"

Susana smiled. "Susana Alvarez Lecter, if you please."

Shawn Irons looked vaguely confused, having heard the name on the news. That wasn't surprising, as just about anyone who had not been in a cave for the past few months had heard the name Susana Alvarez and knew she was the daughter of Dr. Lecter. Susana struck.

She pulled the sap out of her sleeve and stepped forward. She pivoted as she struck, landing the blow high on the temple. Shawn Irons fell to the ground, her eyes dimming. Susana jumped on her, pinning her down, and struck again with calculated force. It was enough. The woman fell back against the floor, unconscious.

Quickly, Susana opened the door and grabbed the empty suitcase. She opened it and laid it on the floor next to the unconscious author. Shawn Irons was a tall amazon of a woman and it was not easy for Susana to force her into the suitcase.

She took some pleasure in noting that she was able to easily lift the woman and get her legs arranged in the suitcase. Her strength was back. Good. By bending the limp woman in half, she was able to get her in the large suitcase and zip it shut. Susana lifted the suitcase and headed out into the hall. Fortunately, it had wheels and an extending handle, and it was not difficult at all to maneuver.

Shawn was quiet on the ride up the elevator and back to Susana's suite. The nylon sides of the suitcase moved not at all. Back in the suite, Susana opened the suitcase and hauled the limp author over to a hand truck she had purchased at Canadian Tire earlier in the afternoon. With a roll of duct tape, it was a simple matter to secure her down.

Susana wheeled the truck over to the far end of the suite, away from the door. She had spread a plastic dropcloth out and covered it with a sheet in order to protect the fine carpeting. Carefully, she brought the truck over to the center of the dropcloth. The truck came with wheels on the back, so Susana was able to lower it to the ground. Her tools were already set up. She uncapped a hypodermic needle and stared at the gleaming silver tip thoughtfully for a moment before injecting its contents into Shawn Irons's arm. She would feel no pain from what was about to happen. Vivaldi played on the stereo, turned down low. It lent an odd calm to the suite.

Not far from where the hand truck sat was a table. On it stood a place for one with the best china she had been able to find. At the other end of the table was a portable burner of the type that used LP gas. Susana preferred cooking with gas: she believed that the food heated more evenly. On the burner was a steel pot whose contents were bubbling away. A strangely pleasant, hunger-inducing aroma emanated from the pot.

Shawn Irons began to stir as much as a woman virtually mummified in duct tape could. Susana walked over to the bound woman and looked down at her curiously.

"You're awake," she said calmly.

Shawn Irons stared at her with fear-filled eyes. She mumbled something. The strip of duct tape over her mouth prevented her from speaking clearly.

"I didn't catch that," Susana said. "I'll tell you what, though. I'll take that tape off your mouth if you agree not to scream."

Shawn stared at her for a moment or two more, then nodded.

"Now see that you don't," Susana said. "Because if you do, I'll have to perform a laryngectomy on the spot. Do you know what that means?" There was a small endtable next to the truck with her tools laid out on it. Susana selected a scalpel and waggled it at her. Shawn nodded fearfully.

"Good. It means I'll cut out your larynx," Susana explained tartly. "Which in turn means that the next time you go on tour to promote your mooshy books, you'll need one of those cancer kazoos. The medical term is e-lec-tro-larynx."

Shawn tensed against her bonds, but did not otherwise react to the threat.

"Are you going to be good?" Susana inquired.

After several moments, Shawn nodded. Susana leaned down and pulled the tape away from her mouth.

"What are you going to do to me?" Shawn asked in a frantic whisper.

Susana chuckled and shrugged. "Who can say," she said easily. "I wanted to ask you a few questions, that's all." She brandished the book.

"Your latest book," Susana continued. "About…," she turned it over and looked at the back cover. "Let's see. 'The Cries of the Sheep, by Shawn Irons.' 'Her duty made her bring him to justice. Her love made her bring him into her heart.'" She brandished the book in front of the bound woman. "We know who this is about, don't we?"

"It's…not about anyone," Shawn said quickly. "It's a work of fiction."

"That's my mother and papa," Susana said archly. "You've seen me on the news, I imagine." She bent over and introduced herself to her victim, something she had not done in a long time. "I'm Susana Alvarez Lecter," she said. "Just as I said downstairs."

Shawn Irons was silent for several moments. Susana watched her try to think of something, anything. It was always so amusing to watch her victims in these last few stages. They would tell her anything she wanted, anything at all, and their minds scrambled to avoid the penalty they knew was coming.

"It was a tribute," she said finally. "A tribute to them."

Susana flipped open the book and paged through it. "They didn't kiss in Memphis," she said pedantically. "They touched. Just fingers. I should know, I had to hear about it growing up whenever Mother started getting all misty-eyed at dinner. And here. Papa didn't just break the necks of his guards. It was much gorier than that. He beat one of them to death with a baton. Like this one," she said, holding up the one that she had taken from Lt. McNeely. It seemed out of place, a tool of brute force in the elegant suite. Shawn flinched.

"He also put blood and skin and an eye from them on his own face in order to get away," Susana said sharply. She made a pulling gesture at her own eye as if to demonstrate. Shawn appeared nervous.

"I'm not into all that gore stuff," she said desperately. "It's supposed to be mooshy. That's what I do. That's what my readers want."

Not for long, Susana Alvarez Lecter thought. Dismissing the woman's pleas, she put on a pair of latex gloves. Carefully, she laid down a scalpel and three hemostats on Shawn's stomach. Shawn began to pant when she saw them and drew in a long, hissing breath.

"No screaming," Susana said, waggling her finger. She drew her finger across her throat. Shawn exhaled in a long breath.

"I've given you an anesthetic," Susana continued, "so this won't hurt…well, physically, at least."

She made a slow, deliberate incision in Shawn Irons's stomach then. Blood welled up around the incision, but did not spill over onto the hand truck. Carefully, Susana retracted the flaps of her incision and stared down thoughtfully into Shawn Iron's exposed abdominal cavity.

"I'm famished," Susana said thoughtfully. Any doubt that Shawn Irons might not have known what she meant was erased by the look of horror that came over the bound woman's face. Susana peered down thoughtfully and moved her intestines aside with a finger.

She found what she was looking for and carefully inserted the hemostats. The wet sounds of moving around Shawn's internal organs contrasted oddly with the metallic click as Susana clamped off her pancreas. With two quick cuts of the scalpel, it was free. Susana lifted the dripping organ out and placed it on a dish. She returned to Shawn's side and took the thymus next. Together, these organs were known to meat processors as the sweetbreads. A tasty dish indeed when prepared properly.

"No, no, don't get up. I'll cook this myself," Susana said graciously to her captive.

She washed her hands quickly, then soaked the organs in fresh milk and rolled them in breadcrumbs. A wire basket was attached to the side of the pot, and Susana put them into the basket. The pleasant aroma from the pot wafted out. Susana put the basket in to cook and then turned back to her captive.

"Doesn't that smell good?" she asked.

Shaking, Shawn shrugged. Not an easy task for a woman whose arms were bound to a hand truck with duct tape.

"Do you know what this is?" Susana asked, her eyes gleaming.

Shawn Irons shook her head and tried to look down at her stomach, as if gaze alone might restore the organs currently cooking in the pot.

"Rendered chicken fat," Susana explained breezily. "Kosher, you know. Are you Jewish?"

"No," Shawn Irons said breathlessly.

"Nor am I. Some of my father's colleagues in Argentina were, though. Rendered chicken fat is kosher. Do you know what they call it?" Susana smiled obligingly, elegant hostess to her captive guest.

"Does it matter?" Shawn said, more animatedly than Susana would have expected. She smiled coldly, displaying even white teeth to her captive.

"Schmaltz, Ms. Irons," Susana said calmly. "Rendered chicken fat is schmaltz. Do you find that appropriate?"

Shawn Irons did not answer at first. Her face was beginning to twist in discomfort. The anesthetic was beginning to fade, and the pain beginning to shoot up her nerves. Susana's head tilted as she observed the changes coming over her captive's face. She seemed interested. After letting Shawn feel it for a moment or so, Susana smiled calmly.

"From your face, I take it you're in some pain," Susana said sweetly.

"Yes," Shawn husked. "It hurts."

"Of course it does," Susana riposted. "I just removed your sweetbreads, it ought to. Don't worry, though. I can make the pain go away, too."

A shadow play crossed Shawn Irons's face: pain, suffering, and the obstinacy of the dying. She was hurting, but did not want to give the monster the pleasure of having to ask. But finally the pain won out, and she nodded.

"Yes," she said in a dry voice. Susana nodded. Shawn could have survived longer, at least until the clamps were undone. Or until her body finally called upon the organs no longer present. But Susana could show mercy, after a fact, and she did. Besides, she still had to eat and she had other things to do tonight.

From the table she took a shoulder-length veterinary glove and slid her right arm into it. It clipped to her jacket to hold it on. Susana Alvarez Lecter did not want to get blood on her new suit. Once protected, she squatted down next to her helpless victim.

"This will just take a minute," she said soothingly, and plunged her arm into the incision up to the elbow. A horribly wet, gristly sound came from the sound of jostled organs. Shawn Irons clamped her eyes shut and panted. Susana's questing hand reached up, up through the ribcage. Her eyes were far away, concentrating on her task. Fortunately, Shawn's ribcage was roomy enough that she was able to reach what she sought.

There it was. Susana could feel the walls of Shawn Irons's heart beating in her hand like a small, terrified animal. From the pale, shocked look on her victim's face, Susana knew that Shawn knew what she was doing too. Experimentally, Susana squeezed the heart, just a bit. Shawn let out a faint sob. Susana hesitated, fascinated by the feeling of power that holding a living heart in her hand gave her. Helplessly, Shawn Irons's heart beat in Susana's grasp for another thirty seconds. Then Susana firmed up her grip, let out the breath she'd been holding, and ripped the heart free.

She breaded the heart as she had the sweetbreads and then put it in to cook. She had a busy night ahead of her. She glanced at the laptop she had bought two days ago and was grateful for the hotel's LAN. Once dinner was over, she had to get moving. They were meeting soon.

The wine she had chosen for her meal went well with the meat. Susana allowed herself five minutes stretched out catlike on the couch. She felt content again. Complete. Better than she had felt ever since her arrest. She felt renewed.

But she still had a schedule to keep. Susana carefully wrapped the corpse of Shawn Irons in the sheet, piled her shopping bags around it to keep the maids away from it, and picked up the phone. She dialed a quick number.

"Valet parking," a voice said calmly.

"Yes, hello," Susana said graciously. "This is Mary Surratt up in the Yorkville Suite. I'd like my car brought around to the front, please."

"It'll be there in ten minutes, ma'am," the voice said equally graciously.

"Thank you so much."

Susana headed out of the suite and downstairs to her next appointment.

…

He was tense. Tense and nervous. The house seemed so empty, so devoid of color. It had been two and a half weeks since Susana had left. How much time could she possibly need? Had she abandoned him? Had she traded him to the police for her own freedom? Was she ever coming back?

For the first week or so he had been all right. His days followed the same routine before she had come into his life. He got up, went to work, put in his eight hours, and then went home. He got occasional calls from the ministry, where he had volunteered ever since he had gotten out of the Army. He usually went. It kept him busy.

On the second week, he was called to the jail ministry on the weekend. That was more stressful. He expected they might recognize him. But no, same as always, first a few of the male cellblocks, then the female. That lieutenant had simply looked at him and waved him in. He had gathered in the dayroom with the others, singing about the glory and praise of the Lord. Only once had he looked down the block at the tiny cell she had once occupied. Part of him had wanted to go down there and stand where he once had stood, quietly telling her of his Plan and hearing of her plan in return.

He had always wondered if the jail might turn him up an accomplice. Some of the people there were being held for violent crimes. Surely someone there had to understand his Plan. But most of the violent ones were men, and they were not allowed to attend the ministry sessions. The one person in his life who did understand him had come from the jail, but now she was gone. He was stuck where he was before, going through the motions of his life. He had a foreboding sense that she had left him for good, and that gave rise to dark, unpleasant thunderclouds roaming through his mind.

Eventually, as he became more and more irritable, he knew what had to be done. A martyring. He was always calmer and more at ease after bringing someone to Glory. He had wanted to wait for her, but the need was too great. It was a shame. She would have appreciated this one, and he was quite proud of the way he had set it up.

It is said that anything a person might want to buy can be found on the Internet. Luke Taylor had turned to the Internet in order to get what he needed to accomplish this means of martyrdom. There were many companies on the Web that were able to supply him with what he needed. He'd bought these things several months before and hidden them away in his basement until it was time.

Finding someone to bring to glory had been as simple as it always was. He'd gone out clubbing to find himself a suitable victim. He didn't really like the clubs: the beat of the music was too loud and there were way too many people for his liking. It reminded him of how many sinners there were in the world. People who needed him to be exalted. It was smoky and smelly. A den of sinners.

But he had patiently honed his hunting skills, and it wasn't terribly difficult to convince one of them to come back to his house with him. A small young thing, curly brown hair, just pretty enough to be unremarkable. He had already forgotten her name by the time he got her in the house. Already fairly drunk from the club, she was easy prey. One solid whack and he was able to drag her unconscious form into the basement. Here, he prepared her for martyrdom.

The iron chair was not quite the same as the one he had seen in the woodcut. But it was metal and heavy and he believed it would do. He'd fixed a leather strap at the top to hold the neck, which would hopefully hold the head. Unlike martyrs of old, she did not know what her fate would be.

He'd also found an old wood-burning stove in the basement. It had been disconnected and unused when he found it. But he was handy, and it wasn't hard to hook it up and attach a pipe to his chimney. He found coal for it and had lit it before he left. The coal was bright orange now, heat banking from the stove in a shimmery haze.

And in the stove was the third part of his plan. A morion helmet. He'd found it on a website that sold reproduction helmets. Clearly, he thought, this had to be a sign that there were other heretics hard at work in the world, bringing more martyrs to Glory. He'd been obliged to tear out the leather lining. But the helmet was busy heating in the stove. It should be red-hot shortly.

She was tied in the chair, whimpering and crying. This did not please Luke. In the woodcuts, the martyrs were all calm and peaceful, accepting their fate with equanimity. But he knew from experience that modern martyrs did not always act so bravely.

"Please," she said, trying to twist her head to where she could see him. He sighed. It was easier if they didn't look. He had been considerate and faced the iron chair away from the stove, so that they did not have to watch. Tears streaked her face and smeared her eye makeup. Her jaw trembled. "Please don't hurt me. I'm only nineteen. I don't want to die."

He didn't answer. Instead, he opened the heavy iron door of the stove and checked the helmet. It was glowing red-hot. He looked around for his tongs. There they were.

"Plee-heez," she wept. "Just let me go, I swear I won't tell anyone. My parents will pay you. Anything you want. I swear to God, mister."

He said nothing. His eyes slitted against the heat as he reached into the stove with the tongs. They grabbed onto the morion with a metallic clink.

"Why won't you even talk to me?" she said in a voice reaching high in the registers with panic. "Come on. PLEASE." She sobbed for a few minutes. "Just don't hurt me…please..anything you want…I don't want to die, I don't want to die."

He hauled out the helmet. It glowed red, an angry red eye in the dankness of the basement. He took a moment or two to admire its savage beauty. Martyrdom. Glory. He opened his mouth and felt dried spit break as he wet his tongue. For the first time since he had tied her to the iron chair, he spoke.

"Do you believe in God?" he asked, his voice raspy with disuse.

She tensed against the ropes then. "I guess so," she said in a teary voice. Then he crossed around her. He held up the helmet, glowing red like the eye of a malevolent god. When she saw it , she started to scream, great wordless shrieks that rattled off the wooden doors and ancient windows of the basement. She threw herself forward and back in the chair as much as the bonds would allow. He took a step forward.

"Go in peace," he said, and lowered the red-hot helmet to her head. The scream rose to an ear-splitting pitch. He could barely recognize it as human. The basement was filled with the stench of burning hair and flesh. He trembled a bit. The screaming hurt his ears. But the effect was marvelous. The helmet did not touch her mouth, and so she was free to continue screaming. Even as the red-hot metal charred and burned her flesh, cooking it down to the bone, she screamed. She screamed long past the point he would have expected her to finally give in.

But give in she did, and Luke Taylor spread his arms wide in the basement. He inhaled deeply of the smell of blood and iron and burnt flesh and hair. He could almost sense her soul rising to glory. He glanced down at the sad, ruined body. But that did not matter. She had died for her faith. Exalted. He could feel the energy of her passing thrumming through him.

The wave of energy faded from him, and he looked down at her again. In the morning, he would have to clean up. But that was OK. Luke smiled, feeling an inner peace he had not felt since Susana had left. He bounded up the stairs of the basement, taking them two at a time. He felt better already.