Flawless white skin was visible in the ripples, round, rose-colored nipples sometimes breached the ever-moving water, only to pucker with the cold. A dark thatch of curls was stark against the alabaster white of her slim, long thighs. No tan lines were visible, no age spots dared darken her perfect complexion. Her hair, black as night, was caught with a bloodred clip and held atop her head.

Though her eyes were closed, he knew that she was aware of him. It was always so. Always had been. Theirs was a bond that started early in life only to grow and strengthen with time.

She’d known of his fascination with her even as a child. She had molded him into what he’d become. The process had been long, taken years, and yet, he suspected that Elizabeth had seen his weakness the first time she’d laid eyes upon him and had understood his needs. Though she’d been a child of seven, and he only five, she’d set about weaving her web upon him and he’d wanted her so desperately—still wanted her—he’d done everything she’d suggested.

Willingly.

Eagerly.

His IQ brushed genius.

Hers was higher.

A fact he never forgot.

Nor would she let him.

She allowed him his infidelities, encouraged him, even sometimes watched him, but she knew, they both knew, that he was hers. Forever bound to do her bidding. He hid little from her, but tonight he would have to tread lightly. He would not let it be known that Mathias, the weakling priest, was balking. He would not mention that Lucretia, the slut, was having second thoughts and confiding in Kristi Bentz, the cop’s daughter, who now claimed she could see danger before it was apparent, that she witnessed it in the color of their skin, as if the blood had drained from their bodies.

Prophetic?

He wondered…if she looked in a mirror, would she see her own pale image staring back at her?

But for now, he would forget.

For now, he would concentrate on Elizabeth.

Her eyelids raised just a fraction, enough that he saw reflections of the candles in the exposed slits but not enough that he could read any emotion that might betray her feelings. The room was cold, only a piece or two of furniture pushed into the corners, a small bed, a kerosene lamp upon a table, a few books, always the latest books about her namesake, stacked neatly on the table, mirrors abounding. He saw his own reflection in the looking glasses, refracted images that caught his every move.

“I thought you’d come tonight,” she said.

Was there any doubt?