The other one had burned, but as it did so, some portion of her had known there were other houses. Other Scarabae.

Malach was Scarabae.

He had trapped her.

She tried the door, which was locked, and then she waited for him to come back, for she sensed that he had gone away.

The day was in the window when he returned.

The window was not like the room. It was scarlet, amber, the blue of fire, the carnivorous rose of lions' mouths, hot and blind. Through it, dimly, she could see the lines of bars.

He opened the door and found her sitting on the bed, gazing at the window.

"Am I a prisoner?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Malach, I don't want to be a prisoner."

"Ruth, you have no choice."

"Why?" she said.

"You are a murderess."

"You killed that man."

"You killed Scarabae."

"I didn't mean to," she said slowly.

"You meant to."

"I was angry."

"You must learn," he said, "to use proper words. You do not kill your own from anger. It's fury, Ruth. It's pain."

"Then, from fury. From pain."

"Very well. Now you are punished."

"What will you do to me?" she said.

"We shall see."

"My dad," she said. She thought. She said, "My father, Adam. He hanged himself. Was it because—was it because I did those things?"

"What things?"

"You know."

"You must articulate. You must say what is true."

"Because I stabbed Anna and—the others."

"We can't ask him. He's dead."

"I killed ordinary people. I drank their blood," said Ruth. She yawned. "I burned their houses. That was Emma."

"You're a stupid little bitch," said Malach.

"No," said Ruth. "I'm evil."

Malach looked at her, and she at him.

"You're Scarabae," he said. "That is your name. Forget the rest. Forget epithets from horror films. Now, you shall meet my companions."

Ruth stirred. She looked frightened and then cold.

Malach called back beyond the door: "Enki. Oskar."

And they came, the two huge dogs with their coats of brindled snow, wolfhounds with the blood of mastiffs and perhaps even of wolves, stepping like princes, with amber eyes.

Ruth got up at once. She held out her hands and went toward them without hurry or hesitation. And they received her, sniffed at her fingers.

Their heads came to her breasts. She stroked the silky hair upon their hard stony skulls. She met their eyes and kissed their muzzles.

Lethargic scythes, the great tails wagged.

She stood between them, holding them against the two sides of her body.

"Oskar, Enki," he said, "enough."

And they slipped from her. Like sunlit smolders they were through the door and Ruth stood alone.

"What shall I do now?" Ruth said.

"You will be alone now."

"For how long?"

"Ah vous dis-je."

"I don't understand."

"You'll come to."

He went out and shut the door. The key turned.

After a moment Ruth ran to the door and banged on it violently.