I'd seen that look in her eyes before.

It was a look that consumed her entire body, caused her to quiver with the excitement of whatever secrets she was holding. There had been a time when I knew all of her secrets, but the look on her face that night made me doubt my omniscience.

It was a look of danger.

It was a look that put me in mind of the Saints from Medieval times who would have visions and visitations, their bodies possessed and trembling with rapture of spirit.

It was the look that tipped the scales, not so many moons ago, and made me commit her involuntarily to an institution.

Many saints were also patrons of mental asylums. This is a fact, although it is also a fact we no longer call them asylums.

I checked her out, of course, after a month. The treatments had done astoundingly little for her, and she got back into my car with her little carry on bag, even more imbued with power than she had been when she was checked in there. As we drove off, she unzipped the bag, unrolled the window and started tossing things out. A toothbrush. A comb. "Well, Harry. I hope you've learned your lesson this time." Little bottles of shampoo.

"And what lesson would that be, Samantha?" I asked, then added, "Would you mind? I don't particularly fancy getting pulled over for littering."

She didn't answer me, just continued flipping things out the window of the car until the bag was empty. A pair of reading glasses. A romance novel. "Oh, Harry," was all she said. She smiled at me. "I want you to know I don't hold a grudge. And I accept your sincere apology."

"Well, that's nice, but I didn't apologize. And I'm not exactly sure I should be bringing you home." I said, looking sideways at her but trying to keep my eyes on the road. Her bag was completely empty. She shook it upside down to be absolutely certain of its emptiness, and then she threw it out the window. A decisive finger, the nail of which gleamed with black lacquer, pressed the button to roll up the window.

"You silly boy," she laughed. She actually laughed. "If you don't want to bring me home, take me to a hotel. I could use a few days of room service. But bring me home first so I can get my stuff."

"Samantha," I'd sighed. "Of course I will bring you home. I'm just worried."

"I'm perfectly safe. A full team of doctors and therapists gave me a clean bill of mental health."

"I think they said something more along the lines of there was nothing else they could do for you since you were so bull headed in all of the different treatments."

"That's not exactly true. I'm not talking about killing anyone anymore. Homicidal ideation be gone!" She cheered and put her hands out before her, fingers splayed, like an evangelical minister.

"Doesn't mean you aren't thinking about it," I mumbled.

"You know me so well," she said. I could tell she had that look in her eye. It was calm and manic all at once. It was dangerous. It was bewilderingly beautiful.

And that was the same look she had when she met Miss Shaw at our party.

It was a look remarkably similar to the one that convinced me to marry her. Of course I knew without a doubt what a dangerous woman she was. Part of me thought I could keep closer tabs on her should we become man and wife. It was a way of placating her, though not in any way creating any submission in her. I harbored no disillusionment about her temperament. I thought of it as keeping my friend close and my enemy closer. She was both, afterall.

It's safe to say we never loved each other, at least not in any romantic way. Although I could easily appreciate that her beauty was breathtaking in many ways, I never found Samantha attractive. Or, perhaps I should say I was never attracted to Samantha. We'd grown fond of one another, and I'd nearly made peace with the knowledge that she would attempt to kill me once I outlived my usefulness.

Knowledge of her eventual murder of me led me to hire John. Well, that, and I needed someone to help with the numbers. They had started coming fast and furious once Samantha became the conduit.

I'd like to think our work changed her, even a little. I'd like to think she cared, even a small bit about the people we saved. I'd like to think that she enjoyed the work for more reason than simply that she was good at it. Actually, 'good' is an understatement. She was brilliant. And I'd like to think better of myself than to say I was jealous of her, that I begrudged her that genius. But that would be a lie.

I was beyond jealous.

I was almost to the brink of hating her, just a little, because the Machine chose her. I had created the damn thing, given it life and breath and purpose.

But it chose her.

And hate, after all, isn't really in my nature.

Anyway, I was content to imagine that she was changing, becoming more invested in the sanctity of human life, if not altruistic.

Back to the night of the party, the look. I could tell she was instantly smitten. She sensed damage and danger in others the way lions could sense prey lurking in even the darkest jungle. My lioness. My wife. And she was drawn to those qualities in others in ways that were mysterious, erotic. It was as though she fed on them, as though it fueled her fiery and insatiable hunger.

In the vein of keeping friends and enemies alike nearby, I decided to extend a job offer to Miss Shaw.

I read somewhere that scholars have deduced the saints who were most afflicted by their raptures and visitations were, more likely than not, having migraines. The visions and change in perception was likely a neurological alteration, the aura preceding a migraine headache. Can you imagine if modern medicine had been available to those poor women? Can you imagine all of the trouble and confusion it would have saved them. Modern day institutions are not palaces by any means, but can you imagine being a woman labeled "Insane" back in medieval times?

It's food for thought.

If only things with Samantha had been so simple.