Rome, May 1898
Little Fox,
How does it feel, knowing that doing your job—arriving to investigate these deaths—means you have already failed?
What’s the endgame? What have you learned besides adding another horror to your list? How many have you missed? How many are happening even as you read this letter?
The dead are beyond saving. Do you still believe vengeance is possible?
That pressing a bloodied thumb as hard as you can would ever balance the scales of justice?
Do you carry each body, each life, with you as a millstone around your neck, a constant dragging weight of failure?
Or do you see yourself as a gladiator in the Colosseum (you strode past without entering, all these wonders you bypass while chasing horrors), each fight bringing you closer to defying the odds and battling your way to glory?
I think not. You and I both know there is no glory in this work.
In Stockholm last month, a curl fell from your pins and caressed your cheek.
I longed to feel it, too. The curl. Your cheek.
You wore those elegant leather gloves you bought in Venice when Dávid made you take a long weekend there.
I hoped you’d drop one so I could slip my hand into it and luxuriate in the heat you left behind.
Even if it was just the memory of heat, I would take it.
Better yet, I would like to be the glove itself, sliding over your skin, surrounding you.
This dance of ours is becoming harder to bear. I didn’t leave you a letter in Sweden; it made me too angry, knowing the paper would touch you when I could not.
I am tired, but I cannot rest. I cannot stop. So much blood calling to me. I must answer.
Another, last question:
What will you do when you catch me? What do you think you’re chasing? I suspect even you do not know. Maybe, when you have an answer, I’ll let you find me.
Kind Regards,
Diavola