A café, main street. Outdoor tables. Only one occupied.
There was blood on the table. The scent perfumed the air...salt, rust and sugar. Not much, but a tiny droplet quivering on clear, smooth glass. A long, pale finger disturbed its liquid poise, drawing it out into a lazy spiral of bored indifference. The subject at the table was different from all the others. His stark appearance was enhanced by the dark featureless suit he wore. All long lines and devoid of colour. Designed to add an imposing air to his already menacing disposition. And oh, those eyes. Hypnotic, clear blue. Short cropped hair, neither contemporary nor radical which made it all the more unusual.
Other eyes passed over this subject. But not his.
He noticed everyone. People were his speciality.
"Lovely night, isn't it," he commented idly as he paused by the table. The subject smiled insincerely up at him, lifting his index finger and licking the blood off it, uncaring of his audience.
"Quite so. Tell me, is it my imagination, or have you been observing me?" the subject inquired, voice holding traces of an accent that was not immediately placeable. So rare to find. Normally he could identify anyone's brogue to a reasonable degree.
I can place any man within two miles in London. Sometimes I can place him within two streets.
He smiled to himself as he recited the quote in his mind. Then he turned his attention back to his subject.
"Not with any special intention, I assure you. May I?" he indicated the empty chair across from his subject. The man seated made a gesture of invite with one hand.
"By all means. And whose company do I have the pleasure of sharing?"
A brief hesitation. He toyed with the idea of presenting one of his many false names, but decided against it. The reaction would be highly illuminating, and something told him his latest interest cared little about moral apprehensions. He offered his hand, and it was felicitously clasped by a cool palm.
"Hannibal Lecter, M.D."
"...Really..." came the breathy reply, laced with amusement. The cold grip on his hand tightened for a moment, before it was released and withdrawn. "I am Lucien Lacroix."
"You've heard of me," Lecter said with a keen smile. Something unsettling sparkled behind his eyes, but Lacroix didn't seem apprehensive. Quite the contrary, he seemed pleased. The leisurely purr of his voice seemed to cover... no, enhance a deeper cruelty: one that was patient and effortless, instead of quick and impulsive.
My heart. A unique soul.
"Exploits of your particular nature, Dr. Lecter, hold highly..." Lacroix paused, a purported breath escaping his lips. "Entertaining value for one of my stature."
"Stature indeed," Lecter chuckled softly, tilting his head. Then the smile disappeared from his features, and they turned as cold and insidious as ever.
"I watched you kill someone tonight," the doctor continued. "Quite a curious thing, too. You drank her like she was a bottle of fine brut champagne. Blood tends to make one ill if one consumes too much of it, and yet you seem to have escaped the effects."
"That is true," came the cryptic answer. No denial of this claim, merely a subtle, sinister smile.
"You've killed before, I suspect. You knew who I was the moment you saw me. I would even venture so far as to say you let me see you kill that poor woman," Lecter pointed out. "I watched you weight her down. Drop her body in the lake. Did it remind you of swimming in the summer time of your youth? Perhaps those heady days when one first finds the hatred buried so deep that it almost never finds its way out. But it did on that night, didn't it? And many others. Do their souls taste like peach nectar, or just vinegar? Please, do tell."
"My summers of hatred are long since past. But you would know all about that, wouldn't you, Dr. Lecter. The consummation of souls has a unique flavour for each of us."A beat. Lacroix regarded him, his voice as disaffected as if he were discussing the weather. "Tell me what you expect out of this exchange. A prognosis? Or perhaps an early death."
"The nourishment of information. There are many different ways to consume souls, Mr. Lacroix."
"You might find your teeth aren't sharp enough for this one, good doctor."
"You're not afraid to answer. But you don't want to kill me. You very much believe yourself capable of it, but you would rather avoid it. Why?"
"Consider it a favour from a kindred spirit. Why kill you when it would lessen the world's diversity? The mortal flock becomes dull without its aberrations, its singular works of art."
"Its grand delusions?" Lecter prompted, folding his hands over the table.
"Its grand deconstructionists. You, widely considered to be a human monster for all that you do, but it's not the murder they're afraid of, not the gore, the violence, the inconvenient mess," Lacroix continued in his lazy drawl, tilting his head. "It's the fact that you can communicate with such startling clarity. It is a reflection, a frightening one, of what humanity can become. All the limits it can surpass."
"How astute. Are these notions part of your immortal paradox? That is what you seek to garner from your victims, is it not? Eternity?"
"I don't just kill so I can live forever, doctor," Lacroix leaned forward ever so slightly, his voice dropping to a low intoxicating rasp. "I've drunk the blood of Emperors. I breathed out their souls again like opiate smoke."
Lecter's eyes gleamed.
"Have you indeed. What will they say of you in the next century?" he breathed, delighted in this new level of delusion. How had such a specimen persisted without capture for so long?
"They will say a broken clock is right two times a day, doctor. For now, I will humour you," Lacroix said with an air of patience, but his blue eyes were completely emotionless. "If they manage to snare you, do let me know. We could have another... illuminating chat."
"It is ever so nice to have friends."
"Then I expect we shall see each other again sometime. But for now, I must bid you goodnight, doctor. I do hope you remember this encounter in your inevitable years to come."
"I never forget a face. It has been a pleasure."
Lacroix stood, gave a small perfunctory bow, and made a lazy exit out into the sparse crowd. Hannibal Lecter sat back in his chair, watched the people as they passed, chattering like budgies. He signaled the waitress, ordered a glass of his favourite Chianti. Then he sat back, savouring the sounds of the night.
---
Uniforms raced around, trying to avoid the neatly decapitated corpse lying spread eagled on the hotel bed. A woman missing a significant portion of her extremities and strips of muscle cut precisely from her calves was leaking small rivlets of blood onto the cheap cotton duvet. The occasional whoop of a siren interrupted Nick's focus on the task at hand, helped by the sibilant voice coming from the clock radio: "Tell me, gentle listener, what does your soul taste like?"
On the corpse, the word "eternity" was carved in Greek letters.