to keep at the time. He had idolized her for as long as he could remember, dreaming of 
her by night and spending the days composing love poems of wild ineptitude to her. But 
things had changed, and he had learned, as he watched them change, that the greatest 
torments were often the subtlest. There had been times of late when he would have 
preferred a death by wild horses to the itch of suspicion that had so degraded his joy.
    Now, as he looked at her standing at the bottom of the stairs, it was impossible for 
him to even remember how good things had once been. All was doubt and dirt.
    One thing he was glad of: she looked troubled. Maybe that meant there was a 
confession in the air, indiscretions that she would pour out and that he would forgive 
her for in a welter of tears and understanding.
    "You look sad," he said.
    She hesitated, then said: "It's difficult, Rory."
    "What is?"
    She seemed to want to give up before she began.
    "What is?" he pressed.
    "I've so much to tell you."
    Her hand, he saw, was grasping the banister so tightly the knuckles burned white. 
"I'm listening," he said. He would love her again, if she'd just be honest with him. 
"Tell me," he said.
    "I think maybe...maybe it would be easier if I showed you..." she told him, and so 
saying, led him upstairs.
    
    2
    The wind that harried the streets was not warm, to judge by the way the pedestrians 
drew their collars up and their faces down. But Kirsty didn't feel the chill. Was it her 
invisible companion who kept the cold from her, cloaking her with that fire the Ancients 
had conjured to burn sinners in? Either that, or she was too frightened to feel anything.
    But then that wasn't how she felt; she wasn't frightened. The feeling in her gut was 
far more ambiguous. She had opened a door-the same door Rory's brother had opened-and now 
she was walking with demons. And at the end of her travels, she would have her revenge. 
She would find the thing that had torn her and tormented her, and make him feel the 
powerlessness that she had suffered. She would watch him squirm. More, she would enjoy 
it. Pain had made a sadist of her.
    As she made her way along Lodovico Street, she looked round for a sign of the 
Cenobite, but he was nowhere to be seen. Undaunted, she approached the house. She had no 
plan in mind: there were too many variables to be juggled. For one, would Julia be there? 
And if so, how involved in all of this was she? Impossible to believe that she could be 
an innocent bystander, but perhaps she had acted out of terror of Frank; the next few 
minutes might furnish the answers. She rang the bell, and waited.
    The door was answered by Julia. In her hand, a length of white lace.
    "Kirsty," she said, apparently unfazed by her appearance. "It's late..."
    "Where's Rory?" were Kirsty's first words. They hadn't been quite what she'd 
intended, but they came out unbidden.
    "He's here," Julia replied calmly, as if seeking to soothe a manic child. "Is there 
something wrong?"
    "I'd like to see him," Kirsty answered.
    "Rory?"
    "Yes..."
    She stepped over the threshold without waiting for an invitation. Julia made no 
objection, but closed the door behind her.
    Only now did Kirsty feel the chill. She stood in the hallway and shivered.
    "You look terrible," said Julia plainly.
    "I was here this afternoon," she blurted. "I saw what happened, Julia. I saw. "
    "What was there to see?" came the reply; her poise was unassailed.
    "You know."
    "Truly I don't."
    "I want to speak to Rory..."
    "Of course," came the reply. "But take care with him, will you? He's not feeling very 
well."
    She led Kirsty through to the dining room. Rory was sitting at the table; there was a 
glass of spirits at his hand, a bottle beside it. Laid across an adjacent chair was 
Julia's wedding dress. The sight of it prompted recognition of the lace swath in her 
hand: it was the bride's veil.
    Rory looked much the worse for wear. There was dried blood on his face, and at his 
hairline. The smile he offered was warm, but fatigued.
    "What happened...?" she asked him.
    "It's all right now, Kirsty," he said. His voice barely aspired to a whisper. "Julia 
told me everything...and it's all right."
    "No," she said, knowing that he couldn't possibly have the whole story.
    "You came here this afternoon."
    "That's right."
    "That was unfortunate."
    "You...you asked me..." She glanced at Julia, who was standing at the door, then back 
at Rory. "I did what I thought you wanted."
    "Yes. I know. I know. I'm only sorry you were dragged into this terrible business."
    "You know what your brother's done?" she said. "You know what he summoned?"
    "I know enough," Rory replied. "The point is, it's over now."
    "What do you mean?"
    "Whatever he did to you, I'll make amends-"
    "What do you mean, over?"
    "He's dead, Kirsty."
    ("...deliver him alive, and maybe we won't tear your soul apart.')
    "Dead?"
    "We destroyed him, Julia and I. It wasn't so difficult. He thought he could trust me, 
you see, thought that blood was thicker than water. Well it isn't. I wouldn't suffer a 
man like that to live..."
    She felt something twitch in her belly. Had the Cenobites got their hooks in her 
already, snagging the carpet of her bowels?
    "You've been so kind, Kirsty. Risking so much, coming back here..."
    (There was something at her shoulder. "Give me your souls " it said.)
    "I'll go to the authorities, when I feel a little stronger. Try and find a way to 
make them understand..."
    "You killed him?" she said.
    "Yes."
    "I don't believe it..." she muttered.
    "Take her upstairs," Rory said to Julia. "Show her."
    "Do you want to see?" Julia inquired.
    Kirsty nodded and followed.
    It was warmer on the landing than below, and the air greasy and gray, like filthy 
dishwater. The door to Frank's room was ajar. The thing that lay on the bare boards, in a