“The years sneak up on you, don’t they? Wrinkles, and forgetfulness, and liver spots on the backs of your hands… But it doesn’t have to be that way. You have the skills, the training to do something about it, and you can be transformed.…”

Simon’s beauty in the dark room, Hoyt mewing beneath his hand.

“And then you see me from afar, and you wonder if you dare. Do you dare, Anthony? Of course you do. You are transformed, and Simon Gutmunsson is just a boy like any other boy, an exaggerated myth.… So you make your plans and place your ads and send your letters, and you’re thinking about it the whole time, aren’t you? What it would be like to dance beneath me in the warm-rushing shower of red…”

Hoyt whimpers, his body restricted by Simon’s entire length, his head pressed hard against the bars of the cage.

“I understand, Anthony, truly I do.” Simon brings his lips close to Hoyt’s ear, sharing the secret. “You’ve been searching out the glow, the spark, the lamp against the night, hoping to rekindle it in your own breast. The young have it, don’t they? Look at our lovely Emma—how she shines!”

He forces the man’s head around. When Hoyt’s panicked gaze falls on her, Emma lets out a sob.

“But Anthony, Anthony… all that gold is wasted on you. If you’re going to commit murder, Anthony, at least make it worth something. Something more than a midlife crisis.”

Hoyt recoils from Simon’s snarl, but Simon’s arms are iron.

“I killed for transcendence. But I don’t think you know what transcendence means. You probably don’t even know how to spell it. Look at me, Anthony. Do you think my mythology is undeserved? Did you really believe I didn’t understand the game? That I didn’t know who you were right from the start?”

Simon’s expression changes, and Emma cries out with the change. He removes his hand. Hoyt takes a gasping breath, opens his mouth to speak—

Simon crunches his teeth into Hoyt’s bottom lip like he’s eating an apple.

Hoyt screams.

Simon rips back his head, and the great flap of Hoyt’s lip comes with him, and he shakes his head, red droplets flying. He spits the meat onto the floor. Blood pours down; Simon’s mouth and chin are smeared with it, his eyes burning red.

“DID YOU REALLY THINK YOU WERE LIKE ME?”

Simon, rampant.

“WE’RE NOT EVEN THE SAME FUCKING SPECIES.”

Simon presses his hands on either side of Hoyt’s face, leans in again, and Emma looks up desperately at the ceiling. Can’t block out the screams.

Shivering, after a moment she sees Simon taking a knee beside her, his visage awful to behold and his eyes all aflame. A firefly, she thinks, a firefly in the dark.

“Dear Emma,” he says. “You’ll excuse me if I borrow this.”

A sharp sliding pain that makes her gag, and Simon holds the scalpel in his hand, the scalpel that was in her arm.