The soft sweep of her hair was arranged carefully against the pillow, and her head was tilted to emphasize the delicate curve of her cheekbone and pale column of her neck. Her arms were spread, almost as if ready to welcome her lover into her cold embrace. Her dark eyes, once so sharp, stared blankly into nothingness.

Next came roses, blood red and flawless. A simple note and a chilled bottle of champagne. Then opera, passionate and bold.

Angelus surveyed his work with satisfaction.

Death was his art, created with his own two hands, and he was still a master.

~end~