"Vranphile, allow me to introduce you to my wife, Stephanie." The old man's wrinkled face was smiling, making him seem even more impossibly old. His worn, leathery hands held his wife's, which were small and creamy white. The contrast was startling.
         Vranphile arched an eyebrow at the unusual couple, and then smoothed it over with this most beatific smile. "And what a lovely wife she is," he said, and he meant it. Stephanie was truly something to behold; about middle height, with long, onyx colored and beautiful, entrancing curves. She stood beside her husband respectfully and without comment, but her hazel eyes stared beyond him and Vranphile, almost daringly.
         "How long have you been married?" Vranphile asked curiously. The other man had been within the ranks of the Council for many years, and not once had Vranphile heard anything about a wife.
         "Two days," the old man said, beaming. He was missing two teeth. "She was given to me by the Irving family...” he continued to speak, but Vranphile had tuned him out, instead focusing his attention on Stephanie. The woman was looking at just him now, her eyes challenging. He flashed her a wicked grin before turning to the old man who was still talking, oblivious to the fact that Vranphile had stopped listening.
         "You must be overjoyed," Vranphile interrupted lightly, and the man paused, grinning crookedly. "Say, why don't you tell me all about it over dinner?" he continued brightly, smiling warmly at both of them. Stephanie narrowed her eyes, but her husband nodded enthusiastically "I'll send word for you... around eight. Sounds good?"

---

         "Stephanie," came Vranphile's voice, soothingly. "Why did you kill your husband?"
         Stephanie was in the center of master bedroom, where the walls were decorated with her husband's gore. His mutilated corpse was thrown over the perfect sheets of their bed, unrecognizable. She stood in the midst of all the chaos, the subject of a bizarre and surreal painting, drenched with his blood.
         "He wanted me to touch him," Stephanie snarled, shaking with rage. "He actually thought I'd want to."
         "Your whole life you've been waiting for this," Vranphile said, approaching from the doorway. He seemed unconcerned with the remains that adorned the floor, and pressed forward, slowly, as if not frighten her. "Haven't you?"
         She turned to him with an icy glare that was so powerful that Vranphile had to stop, his blood running cold. For a minute, no one spoke... and then she smiled.