Euphoria. There was no other word for it. Breathless, senseless, happiness. It was the first time I could ever remember feeling this way. I could not even think about what had just happened; I felt like a child, worrying about a good dream evaporating with the morning mist. If I thought about it too much, maybe it would disappear forever!

When she slept, and I finally noticed, I carried her to her room and sat beside her bed, just contemplating the peaceful, yet exuberant expression on her face. Even when she slept, she possessed such an innate and beautiful life that watching her sleep was one of the most absorbing things I had ever seen. I wanted to touch her, to invite again that wonderful caress of the flesh which she had encouraged. The sensation was so strong as to almost make me forget the honor that I owed to her, but finally I conquered the feeling and left her to herself, making sure that she knew where I had gone.

I, for the moment, possessed too much energy that refused to remain at peace. I walked the streets of Paris from the Bois to the Bastille, several times, without feeling any diminishing in that boundless strength that flowed from the memory of her kiss. One kiss. In my whole life, thirty-seven years worth of aching, painful existence, one kiss was all I had to show for my relationships with human beings.

For the first time, I felt nothing but hope for the future. If I could just take care of the few loose ends that attended Christine's break from the old life, then there could be no obstacles in our way. The first of these loose ends was the torture and death of the de Chagny boy, which I looked forward to with unalloyed anticipation. The other, was Nadir. I was not sure whether to keep him alive, or kill him as well, but I supposed I could wait until I could ascertain how deeply his betrayal ran.

The way to assure myself of that, of course, was to pay him a visit. Gentleman that he was, he would have Chagny stay with him, at his house, not only for the sake of manners but also for the sake of security. Nadir knew how to face me in battle. Raoul, on his own, would be a far too easy target.

Nadir's apartment, which he had refused to allow me to pay for, was in a small neighborhood on the outskirts of the city. Nadir was not a highly social man, for he had no one to associate with. He had been exiled from his country for kindnesses shown to me—oh, nothing so dramatic as a formal exile—but he had been advised, for his own health, never to return to his country or his family again. I knew that the loss of his beloved wife and his young son weighed heavily on him, since neither of them could flee from the revolutionary Iran, but his misery, as could be imagined, made him easier for me to speak to and relate to. His loyalty to me, through all of these trials, was nothing short of amazing. I was reluctant to kill him, as he was probably the one friend I had ever really been able to rely upon throughout my life.

The walk to his house was quiet and peaceful. It was late, probably past 11, even though I did not verify that, and most of the houses were dark and silent. Here and there a child cried, or a party wound down, but it was a weeknight in Paris, and most people had jobs to attend to in the morning. To the few people who walked the streets, I was probably a husband with a late work shift, coming home to a sympathetic wife and a cold dinner. I clenched my fists.

But the living room of Nadir's apartment was still lit when I found myself there. I concealed myself on the other side of the street, losing myself in the shadows, as I am quite capable of doing, to observe the scene without risk.

De Chagny was spread out on the floor, in a heated argument with both Nadir and a young girl whose identity I could not, at the moment, figure out. I could not distinguish voices, but Raoul seemed to be violently opposing the quiet counsel of the other two. But I found all my curiosity as to their arguments ebbing away as I started at the blond-haired girl and tried to place who she was. She was far too young to be one of Nadir's…associates…and I had never seen her with de Chagny before. And yet, she was familiar.

A name came to me out of the blue. Meg Tabin.

This…complicated things.

I stayed only long enough to get a sense of how the house worked and who was staying where. There was nothing else I could do with such an inconvenient hiding spot. Later, if I wanted, I could go back and get a closer look at things, but quite frankly, at the moment I was a little too off balance to think clearly.

I cursed my shortsightedness, which seemed to be the one culprit in the matter at hand. Meg Tabin, Christine's best friend, perhaps, was now in a position to be incredibly irritating to me. And I could do nothing about it. I had never killed a woman, and Meg Tabin was not someone that I would care to begin with. I had only killed Christine's father because he was not worthy of the immense love that she bore him. Unfortunately, Meg was another matter entirely.

Really, I was furious with myself. The idea that Christine's friend would not have come to help her was ludicrous. Of course, I had had no way of knowing that Meg even knew. But, unfortunately, as I had learned before, there was no way of predicting every eventuality, and this was just another situation that had to be dealt with in the matter of course. Exactly how I was going to deal with her was nothing that I cared to contemplate at this moment. I sighed. I was almost certain that Meg, as well as Raoul, would have to come to a sticky end.

It seemed unjust. I did so try to be fair, but sometimes there were circumstances that pushed me otherwise. I felt as I had as a child. Honestly, I didn't mean to…

I clamped down on those memories firmly. I had no place for them in my mind or in my heart. To admit such feelings was to invite disaster at the first opportunity. And now was most certainly not the time for mistakes. I would need the cold, calculating precision that I had become known for. Without it, I was a rank amateur, and slaughter would be my only refuge. There might be a way that I could get away from this situation without being caught between a rock and a hard place.

After all, Nadir did not know all my secrets.

I returned to the house very early that morning, having exhausted myself and my mind with relentless walking and thinking about the situation that lay at hand. From the way I had heard de Chagny speak, I could only assume that Christine had, in fact, gotten the address correct in her letter. And there was cause for even more alarm. He had, in fact, already managed to contact her, even though he had received no reply to his note. I felt fury rise up in me, fury against Nadir, against Raoul, and, most frighteningly of all, against Christine.

Why, oh why, I berated myself, could I just have refrained from my angry bloodlust in the case of that annoying boy? Had I just taken Christine and left, he might never have known where I was.

And Christine! Treacherous siren! After the multiple gifts I had given her, the respect, the freedom, the music…! And now she was betraying me by returning to that landlocked clod, after all I had offered her?

Anger very nearly carried me in a murderous rage to her room, where my hands would most certainly have broken her thin little neck, but my hands were on the doorknob when I realized how futile anger would be against her. After all, she was young, and inexperienced. I could allow her several faults. But I would not have her in possession of that letter. I would know what it was that he had to say to her.

I removed the little bottle of chloroform from my pocket and drenched my handkerchief with it. Not, of course, that I needed a handkerchief, myself, but it was a thing that every gentleman carried around. And if my handkerchief had another, important, use, then who was to complain? At all times, I had usually strived to be a gentleman.

She was sound asleep when she woke, and I might not have even bothered with the drug at all, but the idea of her awakening while I rummaged through her things was repugnant to me. I would not have her look at me with horror and fear. Not now, not when I was so close to winning her favorable regard.

She subsided into a deeper sleep with hardly a whisper. All of a sudden, her clenched fists relaxed and her breathing grew slower and steady. My heart ached for her as I saw her this helpless, this vulnerable. And I indulged myself this one time, lifting her comatose hand from the sheet and pressing the smooth skin against my lips. Even that small touch was enough to almost shatter my ironclad resolve, so I replaced it against the sheet very quickly, stepping away from her and beginning my search of her room.

Christine had touched very little in her bedroom. I knew she would not use it often; it was the room least like her. The bathroom would be likewise, an unlikely spot for a clandestine note from her lover. My hands clenched as my mind tortured me with this image, but I forced it from my mind and continued towards the study, which I had fashioned to be a perfect haven for her creative genius.

This room showed signs, at last, of human habitation. Some of the books had been switched around on her shelves, and some were already stacked either near the desk or on a coffee table beside the small sofa. Pride and Prejudice already looked well-thumbed, as it lay, with a bookmark stuck between the pages, half open and abandoned on the sofa.

I discovered the letter fairly quickly. Christine had been uncharacteristically careless with this precious bit of treachery…she had left it in an open drawer. But the room itself showed signs of a very disturbed mind. Things were left open and abandoned everywhere, and though she might be very forgetful, leaving drawers open and books spread was not her way at all.

My murderous anger almost made it impossible for me to read the note beyond the greeting. How dare he, how dare he call her that?

But I controlled myself impressively, reassuring myself that care and attention to details were all that were necessary to assuring that his handsome neck would not be long unbroken.

The rest of the note was fairly innocuous. At least that arrogant boy had not been too confident waving promises and assurances about. All he had told her was that I would not hurt her; and, it irritated me that he was completely correct. I would never hurt her, in my right mind, that is. The remembrance of just how much pain I could cause her when infuriated was shameful.

I debated with myself whether or not to let her keep the note. On the one hand, if I took it, she would know that I knew, and it might make her think twice about any future actions. On the other hand, if I took the letter, it would be letting her know that I had betrayed her trust and her property. It was a very tricky dilemma. For the present, I decided to leave it alone. I would merely have to watch both parties concerned to make sure that nothing more dangerous entered Christine's hands. I could not trust her completely yet, for she did not know her own mind.

Her drugged sleep would continue for several hours yet, hours that I could use to begin thinking over my next course of action. Nadir and the de Chagny boy had to be dealt with first, somehow keeping Meg Tabin away from it and frightening her sufficiently to make her return home.

There was so much to think about…

It was noon before I went to open Christine's door. Of course, I had taken breakfast up to her as usual, while she showered in the morning, but I had spent all the rest of the time thinking of my possible courses of action. At last I think I had arrived at a suitable conclusion.

Raoul would die first, and quickly. Nadir, with his wonderful Persian hospitality, would be forced to send Meg home. He could not, after all, risk her death as well. Nadir on his own was easy enough to deal with. He would try to kill me, of course, but he was old, and he was tired. He was no match for me in any case, and he did not have the motivation that I had.

I still longed to make Raoul's death painful and slow, but at the moment I was not exactly sure how I could go about that. At any point, I knew that I could kill him, but simply killing him would not assuage the glorious feeling of vengeance. The exact manner of his death had to be an artistic concern, first and foremost. In any case, it gave me something wonderfully pleasant to consider when I had nothing else to do.

Christine was in her study, facing the window, when I came in. The folded sheet of paper that she slipped between the pages of her book as she turned around wrenched at my heart, for I certainly knew what it was. It amazed me that despite her conflicting emotions, she managed still to put on a wonderful show.

She smiled at me, her manner a mixture of humility and shyness.

"I never got a chance to thank you," she said, tackling a difficult subject, "for yesterday, I mean. I guess…"

She ran out of words, and merely stood there, avoiding my eyes and puzzling out a way to say what she meant to say.

"I guess I never got a chance to say goodbye to her," she continued, "there was always so much to do and think about. After the funeral, life had to go on. And Daddy was so sad…"

There were tears shimmering in her eyes and her lips were shaking, but she turned her eyes on me with a renewed strength.

"I want to see him again."

How I wished that he had been worthy of her sight! If he were, then he would not be where he was right now, cold and dead in the ground.

Christine sighed, noticing the confusing denial in my eyes. "I just want to talk to him again. Please," she said, as if imploring her jailer, "please. If he can't find me, who knows what he'll think. I swear, I'll just tell him that I'm okay. I won't betray you, I would never!"

The vehemence of her last word almost convinced me that she would not betray me. How it wrenched at my heart that there was no way to grant her request!

Better to tell her quickly, and get it over with.

"He died, Christine."

Her eyes grew wider, and her mouth fell open, almost as if she wanted to question me, but the word never reached her lips.

"Another heart attack," I clarified gently, "it so often happens."

She looked at me, searching the depths of my eyes, and never had I been so terrified of someone finding the truth. I was actually nervous that she would see something there that would let her know that I was lying. I had always been secure in my abilities before, but she seemed capable of seeing through my flimsy excuses.

Her head wobbled, and wavered, and finally she nodded just before her chin sank to her chest and I could no longer see her face. She clutched her book to her chest and turned towards the window, shivering and tightening her arms until her knuckles turned white. She made no sound.

Suddenly she turned on me. "I want to go home." she declared, her eyes frighteningly dry and her voice intense with anger and tinged with hysteria. "I want to go home!"

I shook my head. "I cannot let you, Christine."

Here the floodgates of her anger burst open. "You won't let me? I couldn't be with him when he died. Because of you! You could never understand what he meant to me! He was my life!" Dry sobs wracked her chest and nearly doubled her over with their intensity. She cried without tears for several minutes, but when she recovered herself, she glared at me with a cold-eyed intensity.

"I will go home."

I shook my head and smiled sadly.

And I was shocked to see that her intention did not falter.

The battle, then, was joined on both sides.

The sharp click of the key in the lock was less satisfying than it had ever been. If I listened at the door, I could hear her long, drawn out groans, and I felt as if I were imprisoning a wounded animal. I sighed. If I could do anything else, I truly would. I had gone too far, however, and now, the two of us must play the game to its finish. The five of us, rather. I had thought that I was in control of the game. But, as so often happens to the prideful, the best-laid plans come to naught. I could not control the human spirit. And I ought to have known that I could not control hers.

Remorse was replaced by anger and frustration. I had never been defeated by anyone before! I was certainly not in the mood to begin now. I could control them, and I would. My plans would still go through as I had intended them too. The mistakes I had made along the way—and I had made many—were inconsequential. The future was where the solution lay, and somehow—I regarded it again with childish faith—everything would turn out right.

The first step towards the solution was to kill that boy.

Night was my shadow, my cloak and my dagger. He would never see me come and no one would see me leave. Tonight would be his last sunset and he would never see another dawn. The time for games was over. Death guaranteed me safety, and, as I had foreseen, I would have to abandon artistry, but at this point, I did not care about the slaughter. Like a cornered animal, I would react violently, if that was all I could do. Then, it would be done.

Nadir's entire household was sleeping peacefully as I entered it, moving like a determined specter from the bedroom, where Meg slept, to the living room, where the golden boy and my former friend were resting.

For a moment, I stood poised above him, the 12-inch dagger in my hand reflecting the ambient light from the street and casting an eerie glow upon the doomed man's throat.

Then, with a motion almost too swift to be discernable by human eyes, I plunged the dagger through his windpipe.

The fountain of blood and the eruption of choked screams were beautiful. I wondered when I had lost touch with this simple yet elegant method of murder. Unfortunately, though, I was not in a position to admire my work. Nadir was up already, and, though he was confused and hazed with sleep, the sight of the young man choking on the floor and the shadow of a demon hovering over him was enough to snap anyone into action.

I ran past Meg in the hall, shoving her—admittedly roughly—against the wall as I made a run for the door, since, at that point, I knew that Nadir would shoot me in the back, if he had to. I was out in another moment, and the raised voices in the house convinced me that Nadir would rather call for an ambulance than try to catch me.

And indeed, I was merely four blocks down the street before an ambulance blazed past me and turned towards his quiet apartment. I smiled. Whether or not the boy lived or died, Meg would most certainly be out of the way. And even if he did, somehow, miraculously survive, he would never be the same. A replacement would be necessary for his vocal chords, his trachea, and he would most likely need new grafts for the ruined skin. But he would be lucky to survive the loss of blood on the way to the hospital.

A most profitable night all around.

When I returned to the house, I sent out calls to all my staff. I wanted to be out of this apartment as soon as possible. Perhaps one of my estates in Moscow or St. Petersburg would serve to elude the ineffable Nadir. There were some holdings of mine which were almost undetectable; linked to a different name and whatnot. Besides, Christine would be most anxious to receive further communications from a man who…was no longer accessible. Yes, a change in scene would be best all around.

The man on the other line asked no questions, unless he needed to reassure himself of my wishes. He, a trained senior member of my staff, knew well enough that questions in his line of employ were dangerous, to say the least.

How to introduce this change to Christine was troublesome. She was angry enough to fight me, in any situation, and her natural strength and sense of self made controlling her even more delicate. I was sure that I could threaten her enough to get her to obey me, but was that what I really wanted?

I was beginning to understand how difficult it would be for the two of us to be together.