He had just gotten home, had just put the key in the door. The house was dark and warm, with just the faintest scent of pine. The cleaning people had been there today. He wandered into his lounge, about to put on some music and relax when he heard a bitter voice come from the darkness:

"Judas."

Immediately his hand groped for the light switch and he flipped it on. There was Margaret, sitting in his chair, a cigarette in her hand.

She scowled and shook her head. "After all I've done for you. All my work to keep you alive and well. Now you go and betray me for a child."

His smile did not falter, even in the face of such jarring accusations. "Darling, you've misunderstood."

She scoffed, and put out the cigarette. "I understand perfectly. My gray hair and my wrinkles have turned you off. But I remember when the shoe was on the other foot: when I was the fresh young thing with the world at my fingertips, and you were a dry husk of a man grasping at pleasures that you had no right to. I gave you a new life. No matter what happens, Malcolm, you will always be in my debt."

He laughed so hard his head actually went backwards. "And you, dear Margaret? You don't think you owe any debt to me?" He walked towards her challengingly. You seem to have forgotten little Maggie White who waited tables in a dingy café on Lexington. It was I who made you what you are today."

It was her turn to laugh, bitterly. "And what am I, Malcolm? A lackey. Hired help. Your pimp, if you wish." She swept her hand back, as a doorman does when welcoming guests to a resort. "All I've done, I've done for love. And that's all gone now."

He quickly came and knelt in front of her. "The girl means nothing to me. She is like all the others before her, darling—just a means to an end. But she is different in one way. She's like me. Which means that once you feed me with her, you might never have to do it again."

Margaret looked down at him, then glanced away, unconvinced.

Malcolm put his hands on her shoulders. "You're right. You're right about it all. I would be nothing without you. I'd be a shell of a man, a mind vibrant and vital as ever inside of a withering, decaying body I couldn't escape from. You saved me from all that, and that's why my life belongs to you. You must believe that. You must stay with me!"

She looked at him again. "Then why did you ask to be alone with her?"

He sighed. "Because if she were alone, the job would be easy enough to do. But the man she's with…he has great power, darling. I can sense it. I have to break them apart if I'm to get what I want. I have to separate her from his protection."

Margaret sat up in the chair. "Then let's go now. Let's do it and get it over with."

His eyes widened. "He might still be with her. I don't think I…completely convinced her tonight."

Margaret showed a twinge of envy, but continued. "I have full faith in your abilities. If you love me, we'll go."

He sighed. "Very well." Taking her by the arm, they began to set out.

But Malcolm stopped in his tracks when he felt a presence. He looked around, narrowing his eyes.

"What's wrong?" Margaret asked.

"There's someone else here." Malcolm broke away from his lover and began to turn on the lights in the hallway and dining room.

Still nothing. But the presence lurked, and Malcolm felt dread settling into him. He didn't like this feeling of not being in control. He walked around the ground floor, wondering if they should check upstairs.

"Let's go, Malcolm!" Margaret insisted. Unconsciously she wrapped her arms around herself. She felt quite cold all of a sudden. The air seemed as chill and crisp as if she were in the Swiss Alps.

Malcolm felt it too. This was no natural occurrence, he was sure. He exhaled and saw his breath in faint white puffs. They had to get out of there.

He grabbed Margaret's hand and they headed for the door. Before they got there, a strong force seemed to take hold of them and throw them violently backwards. They both landed on their backs onto the floor with a gasp and a thud.

Malcolm jumped to his feet and helped Margaret up. Then they turned and saw him, partly shrouded in the darkness, his eyes glowing mischievously.

"Time for a hostile takeover," he purred to them.

CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC

Claire didn't know what to do. Should she stay, wait for Gabriel, try to explain everything? She wasn't going to Malcolm Everett's mansion; even with all his promises of explanations, his seductions, his flatteries, she didn't trust him. She knew there was something much larger going on, and she had a feeling she was being left out of a good deal of it.

Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. She put her shoes back on, and flung open the door, only to find Carlisle Janney standing in the doorway.

She gasped and stumbled backwards. He walked in to the room, stalking after her and his eyes clear and determined.

Again, she was paralyzed with fear. She couldn't bring herself to run, or to try to fight back. All she could do was…stare. And that's all he could do as well, it seemed.

Finally, after a minute's worth of tension, he spoke. "My last name isn't Janney. It's Daniels."

At first, Claire was confused. Then she repeated the name. "Daniels? Like the man who built the first Juneberry mansion?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he told her, "He's coming to get you. It doesn't matter that you didn't take his offer. My father always gets what he wants."

Claire gasped and walked backwards again, forgetting the bed was there and stumbling onto it. He followed her, now standing over her.

"It's time to make you see," he told her. Claire looked up and him and tried to scream, but no sound came out. His hands came to rest on the sides of her head, and she began to feel tired, very very tired…

It was a stately mansion, with a well-manicured lawn, fresh coats of paint, the porch and walkways always swept. A young boy played in the yard, the help looking on…

And then he was sneaking in to his father's study to see what sorts of treasures he could find. He pushed open the door, only to discover his father was already in there.

His father had a long sword in his hands, fatally sharp and shining when the sun hit it. And then, he watch as his father pointed the blade at himself, and pushed it with all his strength into his stomach.

He was so terrified he couldn't even scream. He was glued to the spot. His father doubled over, gasping for breath, but then he grabbed the handle of the sword and pulled it out as fast as he could. Then he straightened, and looked down at his stomach. His father was laughing. In terror, he ran away.

Later that day at dinner, his father seemed perfectly fine. He complimented his mother, chatted pleasantly with the help, offered to take him to get ice cream. He couldn't understand. How could his father stab himself mortally, and then enjoy a laid-back summer afternoon?

His father got older, but he never seemed to age like normal people. Instead his strength seemed to increase, his mind seemed to get sharper. But he still aged, and Carlisle kept expecting the inevitable loss of a parent.

But it didn't happen. And then, one day, his father introduced him to a young woman named Maggie White, who, he was told, had an incredible gift. She could manipulate the energy of life-force. She could drain it out of one person, and give it to another. His father even allowed him to watch Maggie in action one day. They picked up a young drifter, promised him shelter and a meal. Carlisle gripped the walls as he watched Maggie touch the sides of the boy's face while he screamed in pain.

He dropped to the ground, a dry husk. Maggie then brought her hands to his father's face, and Carlisle saw the winkles begin to smooth, the gray hair turn a lustrous chocolate brown again. The father looked younger than the son.

At first, his father could go years without needing to be "fed," as Maggie (now Margaret) called it. But then he needed it more and more—once a month. Carlisle couldn't stand it anymore.

Now, in his eighties, he picked up a paper and read about a mysterious couple that had helped several people during a terrible pile-up on a highway running through Tennessee. One of them, the girl, had jumped into a puddle of toxic waste and didn't burn her feet. If his father knew about this girl…

He needed to act quickly. He needed to find the girl's companion, and help him to plot his father's downfall.

Claire opened her eyes. She was lying on the bed, the old man looking down at her. She got up, her head feeling incredibly clear.

"He knew," she said in slow wonder. "Gabriel knew the entire time, didn't he?" she asked.

Carlisle nodded. "We had it all planned out. I knew what my father and Margaret would do, and he knew what you would do. It was a well-designed symphony."

Through his eyes, Claire saw herself with Gabriel at the diner in Tennessee. She could hear her voice:

"…He's a very good friend, that's all. Maybe one time something could have happened…but not now. My heart belongs to someone else."

And then Gabriel smirked and said, "Good. I'd hate to have to resort to my old ways because some guy didn't know his place."

She called him on it, and he relented and said he was just kidding. After they finished their meal, she excused herself to go to the restroom.

Carlisle was walking up behind Gabriel, but the latter already knew. "What do you want?" he had asked, not even bothering to turn his head.

"Your love's life is in danger," Carlisle said, still not showing himself. "My father is a crafty man. But together, we can defeat him."

Gabriel turned his head towards the sound of his voice, but still did not look behind him. "Why should I believe you?"

"You have the right to be distrustful," Carlisle reasoned. "But can you really afford to ignore my warning?"

Claire saw the look in Gabriel's eyes, watching them go from their customary hardened, unemotional gaze to one of love-induced fear. He couldn't afford to ignore this little old man. He'd just attained what he'd wanted all his life.

He sighed. "Your heartbeat and breathing are steady and even, which indicates to me that you're probably not lying," he said. "I will try to meet you tonight, after she's fallen asleep."

"No need," Carlisle said. "I have a power of my own. I'll see you in your dreams." The old man disappeared just as Claire returned.

And for the next several nights, Gabriel dreamed of Carlisle Daniels, meeting in one fantasy construct or another. They designed and plotted the entire night, and Gabriel was surprised to find when he awakened how well-rested he felt. Claire had started teasing him that nothing—not loud noises or movement—could wake him. This surprised him; he had never really been able to sleep soundly before…

Claire blinked, then stared up the old man. "Why?" she asked in a soft voice. "Why didn't he tell me?"

Carlisle shrugged. "He was trying to protect you."

She stood up, boldly. "He's gone to face Malcolm, hasn't he? We need to go there." Without waiting an answer, she left the room.

GGGGGGGGGGGGGG

"How did you know?" Margaret cried out. Her immediate answer came in the form of a vase hurled at her head, that she missed narrowly. Malcolm flung her out of the way and dared to stand toe-to-toe with the reformed but still monstrously powerful Gabriel Gray.

"Your son told me," Gabriel told Malcolm.

The businessman's eyes widened. "Carlisle? He—he betrayed me?"

Gabriel shrugged, and with a point of a finger, sent Malcolm flying through the air to be pressed against the far wall, caught now in a vise-like telekinetic grip. He sputtered and kicked, knowing fully well it was futile but making the escape attempt nonetheless.

"Is that so hard to believe?" Gabriel asked in a low voice, walking slowly up to the struggling man. "Year after year, watching you swallow the life force from innocent young women, seeing you stay young and handsome while he's left to deal with the ravages of age." He now stood right in front of Malcolm, aiming his finger at his forehead as one aims a gun. "I'm surprised he hadn't done it earlier."

With that, Gabriel began his old technique of drawing a clean, even line across the cranium, hearing the familiar whine as if he were using a pneumatic drill.

"Margaret! Maaaarrrrrgreeeetttt!" he cried out, as the blood began to drip down his forehead and into his eyes.

Then came a terrible screeching, like the hounds of hell tearing into a new stained soul. Gabriel turned around to see the old woman running towards him, her peachy limbs turning into black spidery tendrils. Her feet now left the ground and she was flying at him like a voracious bird of prey.

Gabriel's mind promptly dropped Malcolm, heedless of the latter's healing factor kicking in and the flesh of his forehead now knitting itself back together. In a second she was upon him, a great web of destruction, wrapping him in her tendrils and draining the life from him. He fell back and screamed.

Malcolm laughed softly and got up, taking the opportunity to run for his life. Margaret would be fine; he was sure of it.

He made his way down to the basement to get to the garage, where the cars were parked. But as he opened the door to the garage, an unpleasant sight met his eyes. It was his son and his would-be meal, Claire Bennet.

She had her arms crossed in a undeservingly cocky manner. "Going somewhere?" she asked.

He smiled his flirtatious smile, which now only demonstrated his contempt for her. "As a matter of fact, dear, I am. And if you don't want to end up as food for the worms, you'd better stay out of my way." He began to make his way to his car, only to have her impede his path.

"Food for the worms? Now, now. You're the one who said you and I were alike. You must know, then, that I don't die very easily," she taunted.

He laughed accommodatingly at her taunt, then, without warning, punched her hard in the stomach. She doubled over and fell to the ground, groaning. Carlisle ran to her aid, only to get a swift left hook across the face from his father. He bent slightly, holding his jaw in his mouth and looking at his father with pure, unabashed hatred.

"You're such a disappointment, Carlisle," his father spat at him. "But what could I expect? You've always been jealous of me." He leaned down and pinched his son's withered cheek. "I should have allowed Margaret to suck the life out of you a long time ago. It would have been far kinder."

He straightened up and turned around, only to get the metal handle of a mop to his stomach, then his jaw. He fell back, groaning. He'd underestimated the little tart.

She stood over him now, holding the metal pole menacingly. "You might be indestructible like me, but that doesn't mean I can't incapacitate you." With that, she aimed the pole at his head, meaning to ram it into his skull so that he couldn't heal.

"You've got a bleak future ahead of you, my dear," he burst out. Curious, Claire stopped herself right before the tip of the mop hit his forehead.

Malcolm grinned wickedly and continued. "You know you can't die; don't you realize that that means you won't die? Ever? You'll age, of course, but you won't get the relief of death like those around you. Think of it. Watching your parents, your friends, your husband, your children all die around you." He indicated Carlisle, who was now standing behind Claire. "You think he was my only child? He's the only one I have left. You scorn me for the people I've killed, but it was the only way for me to continue a ruse that was the easiest to live with: to be a man too young to have experienced so much loss."

Slowly Claire brought the pole away from his head. She hadn't realized that her healing factor might make her immortal. And if that was so, that meant that everyone she loved would die and leave her, even Gabriel. She'd be alone—again. She was always alone.

Malcolm saw her let her guard down and he leapt to his feet, ready to take her on. He was stopped by several bullets going into his neck and chest. Claire cried out and huddled. It was Carlisle. He was holding a now-smoking pistol, looking down at his father's body.

He looked up at Claire. "Go help your love," he said. "Help him, and get out of here quickly. He'll be awake soon."

Claire looked at him with remorse. "But…" she began.

"Don't argue with me. Just go," he growled. Obediently, she made her way out of the garage.

When he was sure she was gone, he took the cordless phone sitting on the tool counter and dialed 9-1-1. When the dispatcher came on, he said, "I've just shot my grandson. Come and get us." He gave them the address, and, not waiting for the operator to say any more, hung up. With trembling hands he brought the gun to his chest and winced as he fired. He fell backwards onto the ground. His last action was to turn his head and look at his father, who now lay next to him, still dead. Then the life went out of his colorless eyes.

Claire heard the last shot, but just assumed Carlisle was putting the bullet into Malcolm to buy her more time. She got to the hallway to find Margaret wrapped around Gabriel, and him looking pale and weak. She was killing him.

She lunged at the older woman, trying to pry her tentacle-like arms from Gabriel's neck. When that didn't work, she punched her in the back of the head with all her might. Still no effect.

She was sure Gabriel had been trying to use his telekinesis to separate himself from her, but having no luck so far. But he was so powerful…surely there was some way.

Then it came to her. The image of her house burning down and exploding came to her mind.

"Gabriel! Nuclear!" she cried out, hoping he could hear her. "Go nuclear!"

He heard it. His eyes met hers and he smiled faintly. Then he concentrated all his energies, and soon, light began to radiate from his body. Claire shielded her eyes and stepped back, even though she knew she'd be fine.

The heat began to build, Gabriel's body blinding in its intensity. Margaret screamed and was thrown backwards by the radiation. She landed flat on her back, her black tentacles became arms again and she was knocked unconscious.

Gabriel turned to Claire. "Are you all right?" he asked.

She could find no words. She just nodded.

He looked around. "We need to get out of here." He was still fairly weak from Margaret's attack, so he put his arm around her shoulders and they began to walk away.

They were nearly to the door when Gabriel's ears picked up the sound of the barrel of a gun being cocked. Before he could react, Claire had gasped, stumbled, and fell to the ground. He looked behind him. Margaret was sitting up, pointing a now-smoking pistol.

Just then, the front door was broken and several police officers burst in, their guns aimed and trained. They instantly pounced on Margaret, who was still holding the gun, and one went to Claire, who was now lying face down.

Gabriel knew she'd be fine, she was just taken down. But the police would expect a wound like that to kill her, and they'd expect him to react as such. So as the dark-skinned officer walked to them, Gabriel knelt down next to her, shaking her. "Claire? Claire, come on. Honey, talk to me!" He gathered her in his arms and held her.

"I'm Detective Briggs, Tallahassee police department," the officer told Gabriel. "We need to find out what's happened." He pressed two fingers against Claire's neck and sighed. "I'm sorry, sir. She's dead."

Gabriel made his eyes widen and allowed a sob to escape his lips. "No! No, she's not dead. Come on, Claire!" He held her against him and cried, relieved that he had managed to squeeze real tears from his eyes. He was quite good at this; part of being an efficient killer had been simulating emotions.

They'd read Margaret her rights and slapped the cuffs on her, and now she walked calmly from the house. Before they were out of the building, she looked back and said, "Lieutenant Briggs?"

"Yes, Ms. Winstead?"

"Bring my purse, will you? I'm a wreck without my cigarettes."

The dark man groaned and motioned to one of his officers to comply with her wishes.

One of the officers carefully made his way to the garage, after searching the surrounding rooms. Cautiously he turned on the light and had his gun poised, only to find an old man dead on the floor, having apparently shot himself in the chest. There was blood coming from him, but there were also separate pools of blood a few feet away, and a trail leading out of the back door. Someone else had been there.

CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC

"And that's it?" Lieutenant Briggs asks me.

I smile and take the cigarette away from my mouth. "That's it. I hope you found my story interesting."

He crosses his arms. "So Malcolm Everett is fatally shot, walks away, and leaves you paying for the crimes he asked you to do?"

I shrug. "Yes. He'll probably live another one hundred years, make another million or so."

"And you're willing to rot in prison for murder?"

I smile. "Like I said in the beginning Lieutenant: I did what I did for love. You know, people think it's easy to be in love, but it's not…

Eluding the police was easy, of course. He made it to the morgue, and looked for her. He found the file marked, "Bennet, Claire." He rolled back the drawer, found her there lying on the slab.

"People go out on dates, have sex, and they think they're in love. They're not. Few people are ever in love. You have to be willing to do whatever it takes to keep them alive, and most people are too selfish to do that. But I wasn't. I loved with every fiber of my being…

Fortunately, they hadn't performed the autopsy on her. Gently he turned her over, and found that the gunshot wound had healed. But she still hadn't awakened. Then he had an idea. He put his mouth over hers, and blew into her lungs. He put one hand over her left side of her chest, and massaged. "Come on, Chief," he muttered. "It'll be easier for us to get out of here if I don't have to carry you." He massaged harder, and finally there was a chilling sound of a strangled cough, and she sprayed blood, eventually expelling the metal bullet. Finally, she breathed normally. She looked up at him, pain in her eyes.

"Everyone wants to live a meaningful life. And I did. You'll get your confession, and you'll try to put me away, but I'll never plead 'guilty.' I feel no guilt. Malcolm is alive, and free. That's all I care about."

Just then, an officer came into the questioning room.

"What the hell do you want? Can't you see I'm busy?" Briggs snapped.

"You're not going to believe this, Lieutenant," the young man said. "The girl—Claire Bennet—the one who was shot—she's gone from the morgue! Forensics just called."

Briggs waved him away, then slowly turned to his prisoner. "You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?" he asked quietly.

Margaret's smile was huge, looking unnatural in her aged face. "It was what I was waiting for," she beamed. "Now I can stop all this preaching. Love! Ha!"

She stood up, boldly. Briggs stood up as well, ready for combat. But he never got the chance, because it began to rain.

"Rain" wasn't quite the word. It began to melt, actually. The walls, the table, the chairs. Briggs, in panic, looked out the window, and realized that the walls outside were melting as well. He looked back at Margaret and saw that she was melting too, and the last thing to go was her audacious smile.

Several blocks away, the yellow Victorian mansion named Juneberry was melting too. The structure, right down to its molecules, was being stripped away. So too was Malcolm Everett's mansion. The mahogany furniture, the marble floors, the velvet drapes—all melting into non-existence.

Carlisle Daniels' body melted away as well. He was no longer alive, and now, it was as if he never had been…

And then Briggs was at his desk, finishing some paperwork. It had been an uneventful week this week, and so he'd taken the opportunity to complete some things he'd left unfinished. His wife had called just a few minutes ago, and he'd promised to be home soon. He had the next day and a half off, and he was going to spend the time with her.

GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

She hadn't said two words since they left Florida. She'd offered no input about where they should go, what they should do. He might as well have been traveling with a deaf-mute for all the communication they'd had.

They stopped at a farmer's market in South Carolina, and he went in and bought sandwiches, fruit and cookies for the two of them. She sat in the car, showing no interest in going in at all. He came back to the car, opened the passenger door, and thrust the bag at her. "Here," he said. "You might as well do something with her your mouth, since you're not using it for talking." Mechanically she took the bag from him, opened it, and began to eat.

Rolling his eyes at her attitude, he went around the car and got into the driver's side, slamming the door. He practically tore open the bag and ripped open the packaging to the sandwich, eating with vigor due to his anger rather than hunger.

She remained silent. Finally, Gabriel couldn't stand it anymore. He turned to her and snapped, "What's wrong with you? You're acting like a child."

Calmly Claire swallowed a bite of her sandwich and took her time turning to look at him. "Maybe that's because you treat me like one," she told him.

He glared at her in a mix of puzzlement and anger. "What are you talking about?"

Claire let out a deep breath and put down her food. "The whole time, even before we got to Florida, you were plotting with Carlisle Daniels. You knew about Malcolm Everett, you even knew about Margaret Winstead. You knew what they were planning. And you didn't tell me any of it. We're supposed to be partners," then, shooting him a cold look, added, "Sylar."

He looked her, shocked. "Why did you call me that?"

"Because you haven't really changed. You decided to change your name to Gabriel, telling me that you want to reform, and that you love me. But you have no respect for me or our partnership. In my eyes, you're still Sylar."

Gabriel groaned and sat back in the seat. "Claire, I didn't tell you what was happening because I was trying to protect you. Listen: in spite of your ability, you're still vulnerable. I just…didn't want you to do anything foolish. I kept you in the dark so I could have a level of…control." He internally winced when he said that. He knew that "control" would definitely sound negative, but he couldn't find a better word to use.

Claire barked out a bitter laugh. "Control? What do you I look like—one of those watches you used to fix? I have the right to make my own choices."

"Claire…I did what I did because I love you. Why can't you see that?"

She shuddered and looked out the window. "The first man I ever loved said the same thing to me," she said softly.

Gabriel stared at her, perplexed. There had been another man besides him? That caught him off guard.

When he didn't answer right away, Claire continued. "My father worked for the Company; you know that. He kept my mother in the dark for the very same reason: he wanted to "protect" her. Well, all his "protecting" eventually gave her a neurological disorder because he kept getting Caleb to wipe her memories. Instead of treating her like an equal and allowing her to make choices for herself, he made them for her, and it nearly cost her her life. He tried to do that to me as well; he was going to make me forget who I was." She now turned to look at him. "I promised myself I'd never let that happen to me again. That I would decide my own fate. But look what's happened. The second man I loved has done the very same thing to me."

Gabriel was silent for a long time. Then, he said, "I'm trying, you know. Caring for someone else…it's new to me. Before you, it was like doing mathematical equations. I knew the formulas, I did the calculations. I was always correct. But now…I make mistakes. It's unnerving to me, that feeling like I don't have control. Can you understand that?"

Claire took his hand in hers. "Yes, I do, but you need to have faith in me."

Gabriel nodded. "I do—I will." He let go of her hand and stared out of the window. "I still have a long way to go," he admitted.

Claire smiled. "That's why we've got a car. Oh," she said, suddenly remembering something.

"What's wrong?"

She scowled. "That soul-sucking bitch Margaret never paid me for my performance."

Gabriel smirked. Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out several hundred dollar bills. "Here. Spending money."

She took it from him and stared at him, anxious. "Where did you get this?"

He shrugged. "I had some shares of stock that I liquidated. It should keep us going for a while."

She smiled. "Someday, you and I will have honest jobs."

"We do have honest jobs, Chief," Gabriel said, starting the car and putting it into gear. "We're going to save the world. You don't get much more honest than that."

Claire frowned in reply. "You know those 'not for profit' jobs never pay well."

"Then we'll have to get day jobs," Gabriel told her, now pulling back onto the road. "I fix watches, and you sing."

"Yeah!" Claire exclaimed with an exuberance that Gabriel wasn't prepared for. "You could set up a shop, and I could stand outside and sing advertisements for it! 'Rock around the Clock Tonight'; 'As Time Goes By'; 'Time after Time'…"

"Ok, I get it."

" 'Time in a Bottle'; '3 am'; 'I'll be Watch-ing You'…"

"Enough!" Gabriel laughed. "I get it! Name one more song, and I'll leave you on the side of the road."

CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC

As the mustang drove away from the Farmer's Market, a slim older man stood by the apple stand and smiled. A faint gust of wind blew through his red hair. He turned to see Margaret Winstead walking up to him, and once she drew near, he took her hand and kissed it.

"You did wonderfully, my dear," he told her.

She frowned. " 'Wonderfully'? We accomplished nothing! Gray and Bennet got away."

He shook his head. "It was never our goal to capture them; merely to test the extent of our combined powers. I'm still very weak, unfortunately, but now I know I can hold my creations for days, not just minutes. And, those two now have lasting memories of what happened. For all they know, it was real."

Margaret sighed. "Yes. Yes, I know you're right. I just…hate waiting."

He put his arm around his servant. "I know, dear. But the best things in life are worth waiting for. Believe me, I know. Revenge is a meal that takes great preparation." He now looked her up and down closely. "Are you going to stay in this form? It has its appeal, to be sure, but I rather like your dark hair and dimples."

She smiled, and morphed back into Candice. "Whatever makes you happy," she cooed.

He smiled back, and arm and arm, they walked away, as the Farmer's Market lost shape and melted from existence.